His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

The second plane pulled up sharply, fired a parting burst at the 'gyro and cold-bloodedly bombed the crippled and falling companion. There was nothing left but a few drifting fragments by the time Ballister had pulled out of the flat circles.

"Now why did he do that?" wondered Kay.

"It wasn't a mercy-shot by any means," said Ballister. "They have their secrets, whoever they are. Put that in your notebook: they don't let themselves be taken alive."

"Sinister people," said Kay with a small shudder. "They tend to distress me."

3

Progress

They were ready to fire on the ship that overtook them above the south of France, but Kay held back Ballister's hand.

"I'm blowed," she declared, "if I've ever seen a ship as big and fancy as that one with a single-passenger rating on its side. Probably some rich coot who wants to talk to us."

It was a magnificent ship—big, enormously roomy, considering that its regulation number registered it as a single-seater. It had one of the biggest and latest engines, capable of five hundred and upwards, was amphibian, had auxiliary parachute packs and all the trimmings of a luxury liner.

Ballister tuned in on his wave. "Stop crowding me," he snapped.

"There's lots of air for you."

A familiar voice came back: "Sorry, old man. I didn't want to contact you until I was sure it was you. This is Gaffney speaking, by the by."

There was a good-humored chuckle.

"Oh—Sir Mallory!" exclaimed Ballister, aghast. "Sorry I barked at you.

How come you're following me—if you are?"

"I am, right enough. Don't worry—I feel like a vacation, same as you.

And—", a sinister note of strain crept into the baronet's voice—"I know when my life's in danger. There've been no less than three attacks on me before I decided to light out. Used this old crate—gift from the grateful Royal Academy and all that—to follow you; you left a decently marked trail over Europe. One—ah—one presumes you're heading for the Pyrenese Peoples' Republic?"

"Exactly. I won't hobble your ship, Sir Mallory. You go on ahead and I'll taxi in. It ought to be a few minutes ahead. Have they got a landing field?"

"The best. I was talking with that delegate chap of theirs—Rasonho—

tells me that once the traditionally anarchistic Basques got together they've worked miracles in a dozen years. Mountains rich in ores—loan from Germany—got smelters and all."

Ballister looked down and saw the landing field he had been promised.

It was a honey; hard-surfaced, triple-tracked, on a small scale perhaps the best in Europe.

"Set it down, Sir Mallory. I'll follow." The big plane landed with mechanical ease; Ballister cross-winded and touched Mother Earth again. He emerged with Kay to shake hands with the nobleman.

"Charmed to see you here!" exclaimed Sir Mallory. "But—?" He left the question unanswered.

Sternly Ballister explained: "This young lady, with the romantic misconceptions common to the gentlemen and ladies of the press assumed that I was going off on a secret mission for the Conference.

Naturally she could think of no simpler way to spy on me than to stow away in the tail of my 'gyro."

"And a lucky thing for him that I did," snapped Kay. She explained the dodge, the attack, and the happy ending. The baronet was fascinated and enraged.

"Who could it be?" he exploded. "Russia? Germany? Britain?"

"Dunno," said Ballister. "Whoever it is has lots on the ball—and a couple of blind spots."

Mechanics, burly, tall fellows, drove out to their planes in a sort of motorbike. "Speak English?" asked one, after sizing them up.

"Rather well," answered the nobleman with a grin. "We're by way of being unofficial delegates of goodwill from the Anti-War Conference at Oslo. Whom do you suggest we see?"

"Mayor—Pedro Marquesch. We attend to planes—drive you into city.

We are honored."

They stowed the planes into solidly built hangars, then loaded the visitors into the back of a big, new-style car. "Autos," the mechanic explained, "were import from Germany. We use not many—twenty among us, perhaps."

The car sped along a neat, narrow highway chiseled from the living rock of the Pyrenees. Their mechanic, with a sort of stolid pride in his people, pointed out the waterworks, the gasworks and a couple of outlying factories. With a smile at Sir Mallory he explained: "All smells to leeward of city. Not like London."

"After the Conference, my friend," said the noble, in a good humor,

"we'll strive to overstrip your very high degree of civilization."

The car was pulled up to a halt. The driver pointed proudly:

"Hydroelectric dam. Big power output. No smell. Two years old."

Ballister stared at the work. It wasn't as big as Dnieperstroy had been, but in its own way it was a work of genius, plain to see. Every block of concrete seemed to have a peculiar rightness about it; the solitary blockhouse that surmounted the turbine house seemed somehow to be perfectly situated.

"Masterly," said Ballister. Kay nodded soberly. The man smiled a little as he drove on.