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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hideout, by Fox B. Holden
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Hideout
+
+Author: Fox B. Holden
+
+Release Date: July 15, 2021 [eBook #65843]
+
+Language: English
+
+Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed
+             Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIDEOUT ***
+
+
+
+
+
+                                HIDEOUT
+
+                           By Fox B. Holden
+
+              When a man has a price on his head he runs
+             for his life. And if he's finally cornered he
+            may have only one door left open to him--Time!
+
+           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
+              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
+                               May 1952
+         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
+         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
+
+
+"Cap'n Cutlass! Earth merchantman three points starboard, oblique
+ecliptic eight degrees. Estimate speed 400,000, Marsbound. Your orders,
+sir?"
+
+Robbin Cutlass was angry. He wouldn't let this one go by. Not even
+with a million credits on his head. But damn it, one ship and one crew
+couldn't fight the whole Tri-Planet Entente Space Patrol alone. But
+that was how it had to be.
+
+"Track her down!" He switched over to all-stations. "All hands read
+this. Gunners to stations, oblique ecliptic eight, Earth reading three
+starboard, two torpedoes across her bow and stand alert to blow her!
+Boarders don your suits, man lock stations and stand by. Drive-room cut
+in your Raven converters, jet minus 177 ecliptic acute 3-5-2 and hold
+her steady as she blasts. Now wait."
+
+He checked in his own radar screen as a matter of routine.
+
+Twenty years ago when his father had given orders from this same
+control room things hadn't been like this. You knew, when the _Vulture_
+and a section of her fleet closed in to make the kill that nobody had
+the guts to try to stop you. Sure, Jeremy Cutlass had been a tough
+old duck--but even he wouldn't have been able to hold the fifty-ship
+buccaneer fleet together after the Patrol had gotten fully organized.
+Robbin remembered how it had been when he died--the whole fleet had
+hovered in double-echelon to each side of the _Vulture_, the faded
+sun-glow from Pluto glimmering shadow-like from its long, slender
+hulls--right at the very edge of the total darkness of Deep Space
+itself. And then the body of Jeremy Cutlass had been committed to the
+deep of Infinity.
+
+Those were the days when a man had friends--and now, all that Jeremy
+Cutlass had had, scattered as they'd been from one end of the Universe
+to the other--were either dead or sweating out their last days in the
+penal colonies of Earth or Mars. All except for old Doc Raven--and he'd
+be under lock and key too if the _Vulture_ hadn't been able to carry
+out Jeremy's dying command--to rescue him from the penal colony of
+Mars, regardless of the cost. The cost had been the last eleven ships
+of the fleet.
+
+It had been worth it, yes. Not just because the conniving old toad was
+probably the best scientist Mars had ever produced, but because--
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The intercom squealed frantically even as Cutlass saw what was
+happening in his own screen.
+
+"Cap'n Cutlass! It's a trap, sir! I'm tracking Patrol ships from all
+points--"
+
+There were at least 200 of them.
+
+Even the Raven drive couldn't keep the _Vulture_ from slewing, losing
+some of her precious speed as Cutlass tapped out an unprecedented
+ecliptic-deviation and trajectory-variation pattern on the master
+control console.
+
+A screen generator whined its overload as the Patrol ships got the
+_Vulture's_ range and pounded her with everything they had. This time,
+they were too many--and too fast.
+
+"Run!" Cutlass howled to the drive-room. "Godammit, _run_!"
+
+His eyes were hot and wet with the rage that rasped in his voice. No
+Cutlass that had ever buccaneered Space for four generations had ever
+given that command. But now the notorious _Vulture_, last of her kind
+in the Solar System, finally was forced to take to her jets or be
+torpedoed to cosmic dust like all the rest.
+
+Two screen generators went to hell and plastered the control room with
+jagged shards of smoking metal. There was a searing pain in Cutlass'
+shoulder, and blood trickled the length of his arm and along his
+fingers as he flipped the ship's inter-teleco switches. Just a glance
+told him they'd gotten through the screens--the jagged, gaping holes
+in the _Vulture's_ ripped flanks told him he didn't have a gunner or a
+radarman left alive.
+
+Damn them _damn them_....
+
+He choked on the acrid fumes of the burnt-out screen generators as he
+fumbled painfully into a space-suit. Old Doc had bragged to him once
+that a man could travel the system end to end and back in a Raven-built
+suit--with a certain amount of pirates' luck, of course. Well, the
+Patrol wasn't to have Robbin Cutlass alive--
+
+He was less than five thousand miles out when he saw the _Vulture_ die.
+It was a Viking's death--a great mass of blinding white flame which
+seemed to rip Space wide open for a silent, coruscating second--and
+then there was the cold darkness of any grave.
+
+Pluto glimmered eerily a hundred million miles ahead of him. And
+somewhere, a half-light-year beyond, was Doc's old freighter. Doc, with
+his well hidden laboratory, circling away the last years of his life in
+the quiet solitude of Deep Space--all that was left.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Barrel-chested and heavy-browed like his father, Robbin Cutlass stood
+there, his space-suit crumpled in a heap at his feet, and looked
+about him. Doc had explained it to him, but he still was not sure he
+understood.
+
+This was the freighter--or, more accurately, Doc Raven's great
+laboratory, suspension-built in the long, tapering mid-section of the
+battered, engineless ship which drifted silently in its dark, remote
+path around a pale sun. Only a scant five years ago Doc had been
+brought here following his costly Martian rescue, yet his equipment,
+which had been salvaged from a half-dozen hidden sanctuaries on as many
+different planets and brought here for him to assemble, had in that
+time grown to twice its original bulk. Sometimes Robbin thought of Doc
+as something less of a scientist and more of a wizard. It was often
+said, in the deadly seriousness that marked the spaceman's legends,
+that there is more to the Martian mind than a man of Earth might even
+dream of.
+
+The long banks of control consoles emitted a blue-green glow of their
+own, silhouetting as they did the rows of relays, grid-circuits and
+reactor-registers.
+
+Robbin did not know the little Martian scientist's source of power--but
+he knew that through this Colossus of engineering enough must pour to
+change the very courses of the planets in their paths, if Doc should
+will it.
+
+His eyes turned back for a second time to the metal cylinder, gleaming
+dully in the blue-green light of the consoles, which stood more than
+half the height of the long, narrow lab itself. Except that it was
+twice as high and a little more than twice the diameter it looked
+like nothing more complex than an old-fashioned hot-water heater.
+Yet through it, the bent old man had said, flowed the raw flux of
+space-time, tapped from the fabric of the Universe itself.
+
+"I'm not the guy for this job, Doc. You want somebody who's a
+scientific explorer or something. Right now, I've got to heist a new
+ship from someplace. I must be as hot as a two-credit rocket."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The echoes of his heavy voice were distorted strangely, and came back
+to him in half-sounds and whispers that had a hollowness of words that
+were spoken and had died a thousand years ago.
+
+"It wouldn't work, Robbin boy. The day of the _Vulture_ and her great
+legion is over," the old Martian said softly. The years in the penal
+colony had taken their toll, but his face still showed the intelligence
+that had once come close to conquering three worlds. "I could get
+you your ship within an hour with this--" he gestured toward the
+dully-glinting cylinder, "just as I plucked you from Space. But--in one
+other ship or with a fleet of one hundred, they'd have you by tomorrow
+or in a year from tomorrow. You've got to hide, Robbin. Believe an old
+man ... if I could devise an armor or a drive or a screen generator
+that would hide you from their tracks and torpedoes for the rest of
+your rebellious life I'd be at work on them this instant. But there is
+only one place left that I can hide you now--only one realm that they
+have not yet conquered. I grow old, Robbin, and they are catching up--"
+
+"You said you could hide me in--in Time, I guess you said. I don't
+know what you mean, Doc. You could tell me about space-warps and
+time-continua and all that for the next ten years, and--"
+
+"Space-time is like the very fabric of your tunic, Robbin." The answer
+came with the hint of a new excitement. "A set of slender threads in
+myriad numbers running in two dimensions, and another set running at
+right angles in another two. If they are the fabric of space-time, they
+comprise four simple dimensions--length and width, depth and time. You
+are--how tall? Six feet three inches. And, eleven inches through the
+chest, perhaps. Across the shoulders you measure twenty-three inches.
+And--you are thirty-three years old. Is that so difficult?"
+
+"That's not a new theory, Doc. That's been in the books for a hell of
+awhile."
+
+"Of course, Robbin. But--I have learned to _separate the threads_!"
+
+"Doc, you old madman, talk sense! Not that I don't appreciate what you
+did. I do. They had a track on me before I was half way to Pluto. But
+you had your eye on me as always--"
+
+"I owed you and your father that, boy. No man soon forgets the colony."
+
+"I know. And I realize that somehow you were able to use this hot-water
+tank here to pluck me out of Space--warp me from there to here, or
+whatever it is you said you did. Believe me I'm grateful. But this
+space-time stuff I don't understand. All I know is that there's a
+million-credit price on my head, and everywhere I look there's the
+Patrol. Everywhere. In a new ship, I could cruise Deep Space for awhile
+until I cooled off--"
+
+"When has a Cutlass ever cooled off, Robbin? As long as they have not
+seen you die with their own eyes...."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Robbin put a cigarette to his lips, smoked quietly for minutes. The
+little man seated behind the most fantastic master-control panel he had
+ever seen remained silent, waiting, expectant.
+
+"You really want me to give it a try, don't you, Doc?"
+
+The old man's eyes glittered, and Robbin knew it was all the answer
+that he'd get. What the hell. If it worked--maybe, back sometime else--
+
+"You're really pretty sure of this thing, ain't you, Doc?"
+
+Wordlessly, the old Martian rose from his bench, pressed a stud on the
+side of a bulky automatic cataloguing file. He returned with several
+objects that Robbin could only identify from his memory of the history
+tapes he'd studied as a boy.
+
+"I could say you've been capering in museums, Doc, but I guess I know
+better...." He turned the objects around in his hands. A 19th century
+Colt revolver. An ornate dagger from perhaps the scabbard of a Spanish
+nobleman who had lived and died a thousand years ago. A book of names
+and numbers--MANHATTAN TELEPHONE DIRECTORY--1967 was printed on its
+cover.
+
+"I warped Space to effect your rescue, Robbin. I can warp Time to hide
+you. The Patrol is growing in efficiency and in sheer numbers--there's
+no hiding place for you in Space, lad. None. Not even--here."
+
+Cutlass knew he was right. If they found him here, it'd be the colony
+again for Doc. He owed him too much, for his father as well as himself,
+to let that happen. And anywhere else, sooner or later--
+
+"I guess you win, Doc. But I've still got questions. I step into the
+cylinder--and then where'll I be? What'll I be? Suppose I don't like
+it where I end up? I'm sick of the sight of space police--or any other
+kind of police."
+
+"I'll place you on Earth, because you're native to it, Robbin, and have
+a knowledge of its history. And--I'll try to pick a time that suits a
+young fellow of your talents! And if you don't like it, you have only
+to use this--"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Cutlass fingered the small object, was fascinated as it glittered with
+all the blended colors of the sun despite the blue-green shadows that
+fell everywhere about it. It was the shape and size of an old-fashioned
+cigarette-lighter, and made of some hard, smooth metal that doubtless
+was of Doc's own forging. The only break in its smooth surface was a
+round, countersunk button colored like a ruby.
+
+"No matter where you find yourself in Space or Time," he heard Doc
+saying, "press the button--hold it down hard. And I'll know you're
+either bored or--" the withered old face smiled gently, "in trouble
+that you can't battle your way out of! I'll have you in another
+space-time within seconds."
+
+"You're a crazy old coot, Doc. You know that."
+
+"Don't you think it, boy! And there is no need to fear my--my death, in
+the interim. Depending upon the time-phase in which you find yourself,
+anywhere from ten to a hundred years in your continuum will mean
+perhaps a minute to an hour in mine. But--as to what you'd be--well...."
+
+"Go ahead! Tell me," Cutlass laughed. "As long as I'll be alive!"
+
+"It is actually impossible for me to answer you. I don't think I can
+change the blood in a man's veins. And the blood of pirates has coursed
+in yours through generations!"
+
+Cutlass laughed loudly, and it was a defiant, careless laugh that told
+the Universe and its entire white picket-fence society to go to blazing
+Hell.
+
+"OK, Doc! You win! You hide me good!"
+
+Cutlass belted the small signalling device around his body and stepped
+inside the cylinder. The dull black sheen of his tunic lent a peculiar
+matter-of-factness to the underacted drama, yet Cutlass knew it was as
+Doc said--hide out, or die.
+
+"Good hunting, Robbin Cutlass!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_A half-light-year beyond Pluto, floating at the edge of Deep Space
+in a creaking freighter hull that was disguised with the shades of
+night itself, a withered Martian scientist touched a series of relays
+with his short, reddish fingers. There was a gentle humming, the faint
+odor of ozone, and that was all. Robbin Cutlass, last of the Space
+buccaneers, had vanished completely._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A hot wind rushed across his face and there was the taste of salt on
+his lips. His head hurt as though he had been struck; how they had come
+upon the French merchant was puzzlingly hazy in his mind, but there was
+no doubt in it as to what course of action to take.
+
+"Two shots from your long-gun across her bow, Mr. Treach!"
+
+Cutlass glanced briefly upward as his colors were raised quickly to
+the tip of the spanker-gaff; then he watched with satisfaction as the
+captain of the merchantman laid his mainyard aback and hove to.
+
+In a moment he could lower a boat, and this time there'd better be
+something more aboard to his liking than a cargo of salt! If it were
+coffee that he could sell at Rio Medias, he would not sink her, and if
+it were gold, he'd spare her captain's life.
+
+Cutlass had parted his lips to shout an order to lower a boat when he
+stopped his voice in his throat. He could not remember ever having
+given chase after sail but what the fleeing prize, upon sighting his
+black flag, would simply heave-to and surrender. But a hint of screened
+movement at the edge of the merchantman's middle deck had caught the
+corner of his eye--
+
+"The Frenchman feigns surrender when his intention is to scuttle us!"
+Cutlass howled. "Mister Treach! Prepare a fitting answer to such an
+ill-planned deceit!"
+
+"Aye sir!"
+
+Cutlass watched his men as they scrambled to obey the first mate's
+order and brought their cannon to bear for a broadside. Some with
+laughs on their lips, all with sweat glistening from their scarred
+bodies, the gunners of the _Black Talon_ grasped the lanyards of their
+already-shotted guns even as the Frenchman opened fire.
+
+"Sink the lily-livered swine!" Cutlass bellowed, and drew his sword
+to flash it down in a glittering arc as the signal to fire. Half his
+starboard battery flamed in response to the merchantman's unsuccessful
+stratagem, then the other half as the first was reshotted. A ball
+from the Frenchman's battery tore away the brig's fore top gallantsail
+but Cutlass was warming to the fray and flashed the sword again in the
+burning rays of the hot West Indies sun.
+
+"The Frenchman shall strike his colors, Mr. Treach, and I'll shoot the
+man who fights as anything less than a devil!" he roared, a great laugh
+forming in his throat as the merchantman's volleys became increasingly
+ragged and her planking began to fly in splinters from beneath the very
+feet of her crew.
+
+For the Frenchman's cargo, whatever it was, Cutlass knew he cared but
+little. The _Talon's_ hold must be full to overflowing with jewels
+pillaged from the galleys of the Great Mogul--hard specie from the
+hulls of the East Indiamen--no, the plunder was for the satisfaction of
+the crew. But this--this, pure taste of revenge was for Robbin Cutlass!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Something stirred peculiarly in his mind--something that for the moment
+caught his breath from his lungs and left him shivering, then sent
+the blood racing hot through his body. There was an anger there--a
+long-smouldering anger for which he could not accurately account, but
+which was undeniable. His sword flashed again in the blaze of the sun.
+
+And once more he shivered.
+
+"Cap'n Cutlass sir! It's a trap!"
+
+His palm was suddenly cold and slippery on the corded hilt of the
+glittering blade in his hand.
+
+"Sail ho! Sail to stern sir!" the lookout was bellowing. "Three o' the
+King's men-o'-war!"
+
+Cutlass watched them as they bore down, shouted orders to the helmsman
+to bring the brig about. The cries of the drowning merchantman's crew
+were totally wasted on him as he prepared to meet the new menace.
+Ordinarily, so far as his hazy memory would account for him, there had
+never been much to fear from the Jamaica fleet. Now it seemed they had
+been especially enjoined in the Frenchman's aid for the sole purpose of
+taking his head for the 500-pound reward on it. Or perhaps the British
+King had added a couple of hundred--because for less, who was there who
+would dare bring the attack to Robbin Cutlass?
+
+The men-of-war, under a smart press of canvas and now within cannon
+range, were already lowering boats.
+
+"Mister Treach bring your muskets to bear!"
+
+"Aye, sir and the guns are reshotted!"
+
+"Keep your fire until I give the order to loose it, Mr. Treach! And
+strike the black flag--you shall hoist American colors in its place. We
+mistook the Frenchman for a Spaniard, d'ye hear?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Cutlass knew as he gave the order that the strategy was far too thin,
+but it would give heart to the crew until the English swarmed over the
+side. Had he kept his witless anger and secured the merchantman and her
+guns rattier than sunk her.... But it was too late to correct the error
+now--and if this were a premeditated trap, then the English were tardy,
+and had permitted their decoy to pay too high a price.
+
+There was the crack of musketry as the crew of the _Talon_ fought to
+turn the boats' advance, but it was answered with vicious accuracy from
+the decks of the men-of-war themselves. Then one of the King's ships
+tacked about, bringing her cannon to bear while her sister ships bore
+down on the brig.
+
+The _Talon's_ broadside was simultaneous with that of the gun-boat,
+but it was a matter of 40 guns to twelve. And even as the main top
+gallantmast was sheared and came tumbling crazily through the brig's
+already sagging top-rigging, the British war vessels had come alongside
+to both starboard and port.
+
+"All hands repel boarders!" Cutlass thundered, and armed his left hand
+with one of the pistols from the brace suspended bandolier-like from
+his neck.
+
+They were too many. Because of the nearness of her sisters, the
+cannonading ship had ceased firing and had brought about to join the
+boarding fight; and there could be no running. He, Cutlass, had never
+given the order to--
+
+He shook his head. This had happened before. Somehow it had happened
+before and yet of course that was impossible. It was his rage at the
+English and their price upon him that was addling his thoughts.
+
+And with half her rigging torn asunder, the _Talon_, a sorry sight now,
+could not run her own length.
+
+In seconds the _Talon's_ decks were slippery with blood from poop to
+forecastle; Cutlass drew and fired his pistols with his left hand as he
+crossed swords with his right--three of his attackers went down howling
+in agony, and the swordsman he had killed outright with a ball in the
+face had been replaced by two more.
+
+"We've come for your head, Robbin Cutlass!"
+
+"Then you'll parry this to get it!" Cutlass gritted savagely. The
+Englishman was a split-second late, and the corsair's sword split his
+throat from chin to collar-bone.
+
+But they were too many. _Was it to be ever so?_
+
+Desperately, blood coursing from a reopened old wound in his left
+shoulder which for some reason had never healed completely. Cutlass
+groped for the last of his pistols. His clawing fingers slipped on
+something hard at his waist. He must--must--
+
+_Press it!_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Far away, in another Space and in another Time, an old man's eyes
+glittered. There was the signal, but the chances were that young Robbin
+Cutlass hadn't given it from sheer boredom! Swiftly, his short, thick
+fingers flicked the breadth of a time-warp quadrant, altered the mass
+and continuum ratios as great banks of machinery seemed to float in
+their own blue-green glow and throbbed with the mighty power of the Sun
+itself._
+
+_But it was true, there were some things even science could not
+change...._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+His head hurt.
+
+The Kid and Gonzales rode at a walk beside him, and the Kid was
+complaining about the heat again. Gonzales told him to shut up unless
+he could think of a better way to make a living.
+
+Cutlass gestured with a nod of his head.
+
+"Up there," he said.
+
+The trio reined off the bend of the road and almost at a leisurely pace
+wended their way up the gentle rise of a hill a scant 50 yards distant.
+
+"They ain't many trees," the Kid grumbled.
+
+"Ain't gotta be," Cutlass said. "I steer you wrong yet?"
+
+"Reckon not."
+
+"Then button up and listen." Idly, he stretched out his right arm,
+half-leaned from his saddle, and plucked the square of weather-beaten
+paper from the trunk of a scrubby cottonwood. "Long as y'do what I
+say, you'll keep seein' these. Soon's you stop, they won't have to be
+printin' no more."
+
+"They raise the price a leetle," Gonzales said. "But they still don't
+draw our peectures worth a damn!"
+
+The rust-stained leaflet said that dead or alive, the person of one R.
+Cutlass, gambler, desperado, and stage robber, would bring the capturer
+the sum of $5,000 reward in gold. An additional $1,000 would be paid
+the capturer for either of his henchmen alive, $500 dead.
+
+"How soon's it due?" the Kid asked. He brushed sweat from his forehead
+and from the inside band of his Stetson, and loosened each of his new
+Colts in their holsters.
+
+Cutlass didn't answer, but he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
+studied it for a moment. He wondered what name the initials engraved
+inside its case stood for, gave the stem a twist and replaced it.
+
+"That's the best wan you ever get, eh boss?"
+
+"OK, Chico. You get started. And keep those guns where they belong
+until the Kid an' me draw ours, savvy? Last time you got that greasy
+trigger finger of yours in an itch an' we had t'go killin' t'get the
+stuff. Law in these parts ain't about to forget the racket of six-guns
+when they hear it, and I ain't of a mood for runnin' to hide again."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Cutlass crumpled the reward poster and threw it from him. It was
+getting so in the whole state of Texas you couldn't draw a breath
+but what the law heard you and came tossing lead. Some said a kid
+named Bonny got a kick out of seeing his pictures strewn all over the
+landscape. Maybe. But it made Cutlass boil inside.
+
+Gonzales was on his way back to the long bend in the road. Cutlass
+watched him detachedly as he turned his bronc loose, then sprawled full
+length and face down in the road so the Wells Fargo drivers couldn't
+miss him. The big splotch of red paint on the back of his shirt was
+visible even from where Cutlass and the Kid waited.
+
+The Kid shifted uneasily in his saddle.
+
+"Relax," Cutlass said. "Five minutes maybe. That ain't long to sweat."
+
+Five minutes for a Dallas to Fort Worth payroll shipment that was
+supposed to be worth a hundred thousand. Travelling just like any
+other stage, if you could believe Toady. So as not to draw attention:
+Just two drivers, a couple of rifles, and maybe two or three regular
+passengers.
+
+Hell. Gonzales and the Kid could have the hundred thousand. He had his
+pile. Robbin Cutlass couldn't remember where the rest of it had come
+from exactly--the watch with the initials that weren't his had puzzled
+him some. But he knew more by instinct than by memory how he'd got it,
+and that he had plenty more junk like it stashed in a bank safe-deposit
+box in--yeah, Abilene, what the hell was the matter with him.
+
+Sure, he had his pile. But it makes a man sore as hell when all the tin
+badges in Texas gang together just to hunt him down like a coyote and
+then hold up his hide for every gawk to hoot at. Who the hell did they
+think they were to give Robbin Cutlass any back-talk? When the Wells
+Fargo rig slowed up to have a look at Chico, noise or no noise, by
+God....
+
+The Kid heard it when he did, took his hands from his moist gun butts
+in a play at nonchalance and adjusted the black kerchief over his thin
+nose.
+
+Cutlass didn't say anything until the stage had come tearing hell for
+leather around the long bend, started spurting little plumes of dust
+from under its iron-rimmed wheels as it ground to a halt. One of the
+drivers started getting down.
+
+"OK," Cutlass said.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Only it wasn't OK. Even before they'd covered half the fifty yards,
+Cutlass saw the driver who had gotten down to go over for a look at
+Chico pull out his Colt and deliberately gunwhip the possum-playing
+Mexican across the head. Then he flopped flat on his belly and the
+doors of the stage slammed open even as the other driver was dropping
+from his perch, Winchester coming up as his boots slammed dust from the
+road.
+
+Two full squads of U.S. cavalry were firing even before the Kid had
+been able to get his guns out. He went down with five holes in him
+before he could cry out. Cutlass was already out of his saddle and
+choking on sand. Before his first Colt was empty three soldiers and one
+of the drivers were dead.
+
+But they were too damn many--
+
+Cutlass cursed through the dust in his teeth and lunged for the
+Winchester still holstered on his pony's flank. The animal screamed as
+a slug tore through one of its legs but Cutlass had half emptied the
+Winchester's clip before the big corporal had got a slug through the
+pony's head and put it out of its misery.
+
+There were two quick pains in his right arm, so he had to aim and fire
+the rifle with his left, pump the best he could with his right. There
+wasn't any getting away.
+
+"Yer all through, Cutlass! Stand up and toss yer guns down or we'll
+save the state the cost of a trial!"
+
+"Start savin', blue-coat!"
+
+Cutlass groped at his belt to claw another handful of cartridges from
+it. His bleeding fingers felt a hard, square object. Something stirred
+somewhere deep inside his boiling brain. He was supposed to--_press it_!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Far away, in another Space and in another Time, a smile spread slowly
+across an old man's wrinkled face. No, you couldn't change the blood in
+a man's veins! But perhaps--_
+
+_Swiftly, his short thumby fingers played over a row of relays...._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Cutlass swallowed the aspirin, picked up his brief-case and met his man
+in the spacious lobby.
+
+"Sorry to've kept you waiting, Prescott! Hope you didn't have a late
+deadline to make?"
+
+"No, sir, that's quite all right. Believe me, I'm pleased to have an
+opportunity for an interview with you at any time of day or night!
+You've made the best copy coming out of this town in many a column,
+sir!"
+
+"Well, thank you, Mr. Prescott. I believe in speaking freely to the
+press--"
+
+"I've a cab waiting right outside, sir."
+
+"Suppose we take my car? A little more privacy, I think--"
+
+Prescott followed the immaculately attired Cutlass through the
+Statler's front doors to the sleek black limousine waiting at the curb.
+Its engine was idled to an inaudible purr, and the tonneau door was
+opened by a uniformed chauffeur as they approached. Cutlass nodded
+politely to a couple of alert Secret Service men. The Law. Friends now,
+of course.
+
+Within soundless seconds the luxurious vehicle had pulled into
+Washington traffic, and it was Cutlass who opened the conversation.
+
+"I thought perhaps you could better obtain what you'd like in somewhat
+more pleasant surroundings, Mr. Prescott. I've a little place just
+outside the city--prefer it, I assure you, to the Embassy room!" They
+both laughed, Prescott a little self-consciously, wondering just what
+kind of a write-up Cutlass was expecting. As if he didn't know....
+
+"Well sir, if I could get a little background to what happened on the
+floor this morning, before I attempt to go into too much detail....
+Your new tax bill--I understand there was rather, well--some rather
+spirited opposition this morning--"
+
+Cutlass laughed easily. "To be expected, Mr. Prescott. They thought my
+last one was too much to take, but it went through! As this one shall.
+I can assure you of that."
+
+"I see." Prescott made a brief notation. "What reaction do you expect
+from the corporations? If, that is, the President--"
+
+"Oh, they've a powerful lobby of course. But, my boy--and of course
+this is off the record--it's simply a matter of putting the pressu--er,
+persuasion in the right places. The corporations will--I think they'll
+come around all right."
+
+Prescott added to his notes.
+
+"Is this new tax bill, Senator, to be your last for this session, or do
+you contemplate--"
+
+Cutlass' chuckle was as velvety as the silent roll of the limousine's
+white-walled tires.
+
+"My dear young man," he murmured, "I can't answer that question for the
+record. It depends to such a large extent on the many--rather personal
+considerations involved. But of course for a political reporter that
+should hardly be news."
+
+Mentally, Prescott ground his teeth. "_No, it's never been news,
+Senator_," he raged silently. "_You--you goddamned old pirate!_"
+
+In another Space, in another Time, an old man waited for a third signal.
+
+But it never came.
+
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+<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hideout, by Fox B. Holden</p>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
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+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+
+<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Hideout</p>
+  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Fox B. Holden</p>
+<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 15, 2021 [eBook #65843]</p>
+<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p>
+  <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</p>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIDEOUT ***</div>
+
+<div class="titlepage">
+
+<h1>HIDEOUT</h1>
+
+<h2>By Fox B. Holden</h2>
+
+<p>When a man has a price on his head he runs<br />
+for his life. And if he's finally cornered he<br />
+may have only one door left open to him&mdash;Time!</p>
+
+<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br />
+Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy<br />
+May 1952<br />
+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br />
+the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<p>"Cap'n Cutlass! Earth merchantman three points starboard, oblique
+ecliptic eight degrees. Estimate speed 400,000, Marsbound. Your orders,
+sir?"</p>
+
+<p>Robbin Cutlass was angry. He wouldn't let this one go by. Not even
+with a million credits on his head. But damn it, one ship and one crew
+couldn't fight the whole Tri-Planet Entente Space Patrol alone. But
+that was how it had to be.</p>
+
+<p>"Track her down!" He switched over to all-stations. "All hands read
+this. Gunners to stations, oblique ecliptic eight, Earth reading three
+starboard, two torpedoes across her bow and stand alert to blow her!
+Boarders don your suits, man lock stations and stand by. Drive-room cut
+in your Raven converters, jet minus 177 ecliptic acute 3-5-2 and hold
+her steady as she blasts. Now wait."</p>
+
+<p>He checked in his own radar screen as a matter of routine.</p>
+
+<p>Twenty years ago when his father had given orders from this same
+control room things hadn't been like this. You knew, when the <i>Vulture</i>
+and a section of her fleet closed in to make the kill that nobody had
+the guts to try to stop you. Sure, Jeremy Cutlass had been a tough
+old duck&mdash;but even he wouldn't have been able to hold the fifty-ship
+buccaneer fleet together after the Patrol had gotten fully organized.
+Robbin remembered how it had been when he died&mdash;the whole fleet had
+hovered in double-echelon to each side of the <i>Vulture</i>, the faded
+sun-glow from Pluto glimmering shadow-like from its long, slender
+hulls&mdash;right at the very edge of the total darkness of Deep Space
+itself. And then the body of Jeremy Cutlass had been committed to the
+deep of Infinity.</p>
+
+<p>Those were the days when a man had friends&mdash;and now, all that Jeremy
+Cutlass had had, scattered as they'd been from one end of the Universe
+to the other&mdash;were either dead or sweating out their last days in the
+penal colonies of Earth or Mars. All except for old Doc Raven&mdash;and he'd
+be under lock and key too if the <i>Vulture</i> hadn't been able to carry
+out Jeremy's dying command&mdash;to rescue him from the penal colony of
+Mars, regardless of the cost. The cost had been the last eleven ships
+of the fleet.</p>
+
+<p>It had been worth it, yes. Not just because the conniving old toad was
+probably the best scientist Mars had ever produced, but because&mdash;</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>The intercom squealed frantically even as Cutlass saw what was
+happening in his own screen.</p>
+
+<p>"Cap'n Cutlass! It's a trap, sir! I'm tracking Patrol ships from all
+points&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>There were at least 200 of them.</p>
+
+<p>Even the Raven drive couldn't keep the <i>Vulture</i> from slewing, losing
+some of her precious speed as Cutlass tapped out an unprecedented
+ecliptic-deviation and trajectory-variation pattern on the master
+control console.</p>
+
+<p>A screen generator whined its overload as the Patrol ships got the
+<i>Vulture's</i> range and pounded her with everything they had. This time,
+they were too many&mdash;and too fast.</p>
+
+<p>"Run!" Cutlass howled to the drive-room. "Godammit, <i>run</i>!"</p>
+
+<p>His eyes were hot and wet with the rage that rasped in his voice. No
+Cutlass that had ever buccaneered Space for four generations had ever
+given that command. But now the notorious <i>Vulture</i>, last of her kind
+in the Solar System, finally was forced to take to her jets or be
+torpedoed to cosmic dust like all the rest.</p>
+
+<p>Two screen generators went to hell and plastered the control room with
+jagged shards of smoking metal. There was a searing pain in Cutlass'
+shoulder, and blood trickled the length of his arm and along his
+fingers as he flipped the ship's inter-teleco switches. Just a glance
+told him they'd gotten through the screens&mdash;the jagged, gaping holes
+in the <i>Vulture's</i> ripped flanks told him he didn't have a gunner or a
+radarman left alive.</p>
+
+<p>Damn them <i>damn them</i>....</p>
+
+<p>He choked on the acrid fumes of the burnt-out screen generators as he
+fumbled painfully into a space-suit. Old Doc had bragged to him once
+that a man could travel the system end to end and back in a Raven-built
+suit&mdash;with a certain amount of pirates' luck, of course. Well, the
+Patrol wasn't to have Robbin Cutlass alive&mdash;</p>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="figcenter">
+  <img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<p>He was less than five thousand miles out when he saw the <i>Vulture</i> die.
+It was a Viking's death&mdash;a great mass of blinding white flame which
+seemed to rip Space wide open for a silent, coruscating second&mdash;and
+then there was the cold darkness of any grave.</p>
+
+<p>Pluto glimmered eerily a hundred million miles ahead of him. And
+somewhere, a half-light-year beyond, was Doc's old freighter. Doc, with
+his well hidden laboratory, circling away the last years of his life in
+the quiet solitude of Deep Space&mdash;all that was left.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Barrel-chested and heavy-browed like his father, Robbin Cutlass stood
+there, his space-suit crumpled in a heap at his feet, and looked
+about him. Doc had explained it to him, but he still was not sure he
+understood.</p>
+
+<p>This was the freighter&mdash;or, more accurately, Doc Raven's great
+laboratory, suspension-built in the long, tapering mid-section of the
+battered, engineless ship which drifted silently in its dark, remote
+path around a pale sun. Only a scant five years ago Doc had been
+brought here following his costly Martian rescue, yet his equipment,
+which had been salvaged from a half-dozen hidden sanctuaries on as many
+different planets and brought here for him to assemble, had in that
+time grown to twice its original bulk. Sometimes Robbin thought of Doc
+as something less of a scientist and more of a wizard. It was often
+said, in the deadly seriousness that marked the spaceman's legends,
+that there is more to the Martian mind than a man of Earth might even
+dream of.</p>
+
+<p>The long banks of control consoles emitted a blue-green glow of their
+own, silhouetting as they did the rows of relays, grid-circuits and
+reactor-registers.</p>
+
+<p>Robbin did not know the little Martian scientist's source of power&mdash;but
+he knew that through this Colossus of engineering enough must pour to
+change the very courses of the planets in their paths, if Doc should
+will it.</p>
+
+<p>His eyes turned back for a second time to the metal cylinder, gleaming
+dully in the blue-green light of the consoles, which stood more than
+half the height of the long, narrow lab itself. Except that it was
+twice as high and a little more than twice the diameter it looked
+like nothing more complex than an old-fashioned hot-water heater.
+Yet through it, the bent old man had said, flowed the raw flux of
+space-time, tapped from the fabric of the Universe itself.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm not the guy for this job, Doc. You want somebody who's a
+scientific explorer or something. Right now, I've got to heist a new
+ship from someplace. I must be as hot as a two-credit rocket."</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>The echoes of his heavy voice were distorted strangely, and came back
+to him in half-sounds and whispers that had a hollowness of words that
+were spoken and had died a thousand years ago.</p>
+
+<p>"It wouldn't work, Robbin boy. The day of the <i>Vulture</i> and her great
+legion is over," the old Martian said softly. The years in the penal
+colony had taken their toll, but his face still showed the intelligence
+that had once come close to conquering three worlds. "I could get
+you your ship within an hour with this&mdash;" he gestured toward the
+dully-glinting cylinder, "just as I plucked you from Space. But&mdash;in one
+other ship or with a fleet of one hundred, they'd have you by tomorrow
+or in a year from tomorrow. You've got to hide, Robbin. Believe an old
+man ... if I could devise an armor or a drive or a screen generator
+that would hide you from their tracks and torpedoes for the rest of
+your rebellious life I'd be at work on them this instant. But there is
+only one place left that I can hide you now&mdash;only one realm that they
+have not yet conquered. I grow old, Robbin, and they are catching up&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You said you could hide me in&mdash;in Time, I guess you said. I don't
+know what you mean, Doc. You could tell me about space-warps and
+time-continua and all that for the next ten years, and&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Space-time is like the very fabric of your tunic, Robbin." The answer
+came with the hint of a new excitement. "A set of slender threads in
+myriad numbers running in two dimensions, and another set running at
+right angles in another two. If they are the fabric of space-time, they
+comprise four simple dimensions&mdash;length and width, depth and time. You
+are&mdash;how tall? Six feet three inches. And, eleven inches through the
+chest, perhaps. Across the shoulders you measure twenty-three inches.
+And&mdash;you are thirty-three years old. Is that so difficult?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's not a new theory, Doc. That's been in the books for a hell of
+awhile."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course, Robbin. But&mdash;I have learned to <i>separate the threads</i>!"</p>
+
+<p>"Doc, you old madman, talk sense! Not that I don't appreciate what you
+did. I do. They had a track on me before I was half way to Pluto. But
+you had your eye on me as always&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I owed you and your father that, boy. No man soon forgets the colony."</p>
+
+<p>"I know. And I realize that somehow you were able to use this hot-water
+tank here to pluck me out of Space&mdash;warp me from there to here, or
+whatever it is you said you did. Believe me I'm grateful. But this
+space-time stuff I don't understand. All I know is that there's a
+million-credit price on my head, and everywhere I look there's the
+Patrol. Everywhere. In a new ship, I could cruise Deep Space for awhile
+until I cooled off&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"When has a Cutlass ever cooled off, Robbin? As long as they have not
+seen you die with their own eyes...."</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Robbin put a cigarette to his lips, smoked quietly for minutes. The
+little man seated behind the most fantastic master-control panel he had
+ever seen remained silent, waiting, expectant.</p>
+
+<p>"You really want me to give it a try, don't you, Doc?"</p>
+
+<p>The old man's eyes glittered, and Robbin knew it was all the answer
+that he'd get. What the hell. If it worked&mdash;maybe, back sometime else&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"You're really pretty sure of this thing, ain't you, Doc?"</p>
+
+<p>Wordlessly, the old Martian rose from his bench, pressed a stud on the
+side of a bulky automatic cataloguing file. He returned with several
+objects that Robbin could only identify from his memory of the history
+tapes he'd studied as a boy.</p>
+
+<p>"I could say you've been capering in museums, Doc, but I guess I know
+better...." He turned the objects around in his hands. A 19th century
+Colt revolver. An ornate dagger from perhaps the scabbard of a Spanish
+nobleman who had lived and died a thousand years ago. A book of names
+and numbers&mdash;MANHATTAN TELEPHONE DIRECTORY&mdash;1967 was printed on its
+cover.</p>
+
+<p>"I warped Space to effect your rescue, Robbin. I can warp Time to hide
+you. The Patrol is growing in efficiency and in sheer numbers&mdash;there's
+no hiding place for you in Space, lad. None. Not even&mdash;here."</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass knew he was right. If they found him here, it'd be the colony
+again for Doc. He owed him too much, for his father as well as himself,
+to let that happen. And anywhere else, sooner or later&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"I guess you win, Doc. But I've still got questions. I step into the
+cylinder&mdash;and then where'll I be? What'll I be? Suppose I don't like
+it where I end up? I'm sick of the sight of space police&mdash;or any other
+kind of police."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll place you on Earth, because you're native to it, Robbin, and have
+a knowledge of its history. And&mdash;I'll try to pick a time that suits a
+young fellow of your talents! And if you don't like it, you have only
+to use this&mdash;"</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Cutlass fingered the small object, was fascinated as it glittered with
+all the blended colors of the sun despite the blue-green shadows that
+fell everywhere about it. It was the shape and size of an old-fashioned
+cigarette-lighter, and made of some hard, smooth metal that doubtless
+was of Doc's own forging. The only break in its smooth surface was a
+round, countersunk button colored like a ruby.</p>
+
+<p>"No matter where you find yourself in Space or Time," he heard Doc
+saying, "press the button&mdash;hold it down hard. And I'll know you're
+either bored or&mdash;" the withered old face smiled gently, "in trouble
+that you can't battle your way out of! I'll have you in another
+space-time within seconds."</p>
+
+<p>"You're a crazy old coot, Doc. You know that."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you think it, boy! And there is no need to fear my&mdash;my death, in
+the interim. Depending upon the time-phase in which you find yourself,
+anywhere from ten to a hundred years in your continuum will mean
+perhaps a minute to an hour in mine. But&mdash;as to what you'd be&mdash;well...."</p>
+
+<p>"Go ahead! Tell me," Cutlass laughed. "As long as I'll be alive!"</p>
+
+<p>"It is actually impossible for me to answer you. I don't think I can
+change the blood in a man's veins. And the blood of pirates has coursed
+in yours through generations!"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass laughed loudly, and it was a defiant, careless laugh that told
+the Universe and its entire white picket-fence society to go to blazing
+Hell.</p>
+
+<p>"OK, Doc! You win! You hide me good!"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass belted the small signalling device around his body and stepped
+inside the cylinder. The dull black sheen of his tunic lent a peculiar
+matter-of-factness to the underacted drama, yet Cutlass knew it was as
+Doc said&mdash;hide out, or die.</p>
+
+<p>"Good hunting, Robbin Cutlass!"</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p><i>A half-light-year beyond Pluto, floating at the edge of Deep Space
+in a creaking freighter hull that was disguised with the shades of
+night itself, a withered Martian scientist touched a series of relays
+with his short, reddish fingers. There was a gentle humming, the faint
+odor of ozone, and that was all. Robbin Cutlass, last of the Space
+buccaneers, had vanished completely.</i></p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>A hot wind rushed across his face and there was the taste of salt on
+his lips. His head hurt as though he had been struck; how they had come
+upon the French merchant was puzzlingly hazy in his mind, but there was
+no doubt in it as to what course of action to take.</p>
+
+<p>"Two shots from your long-gun across her bow, Mr. Treach!"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass glanced briefly upward as his colors were raised quickly to
+the tip of the spanker-gaff; then he watched with satisfaction as the
+captain of the merchantman laid his mainyard aback and hove to.</p>
+
+<p>In a moment he could lower a boat, and this time there'd better be
+something more aboard to his liking than a cargo of salt! If it were
+coffee that he could sell at Rio Medias, he would not sink her, and if
+it were gold, he'd spare her captain's life.</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass had parted his lips to shout an order to lower a boat when he
+stopped his voice in his throat. He could not remember ever having
+given chase after sail but what the fleeing prize, upon sighting his
+black flag, would simply heave-to and surrender. But a hint of screened
+movement at the edge of the merchantman's middle deck had caught the
+corner of his eye&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"The Frenchman feigns surrender when his intention is to scuttle us!"
+Cutlass howled. "Mister Treach! Prepare a fitting answer to such an
+ill-planned deceit!"</p>
+
+<p>"Aye sir!"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass watched his men as they scrambled to obey the first mate's
+order and brought their cannon to bear for a broadside. Some with
+laughs on their lips, all with sweat glistening from their scarred
+bodies, the gunners of the <i>Black Talon</i> grasped the lanyards of their
+already-shotted guns even as the Frenchman opened fire.</p>
+
+<p>"Sink the lily-livered swine!" Cutlass bellowed, and drew his sword
+to flash it down in a glittering arc as the signal to fire. Half his
+starboard battery flamed in response to the merchantman's unsuccessful
+stratagem, then the other half as the first was reshotted. A ball
+from the Frenchman's battery tore away the brig's fore top gallantsail
+but Cutlass was warming to the fray and flashed the sword again in the
+burning rays of the hot West Indies sun.</p>
+
+<p>"The Frenchman shall strike his colors, Mr. Treach, and I'll shoot the
+man who fights as anything less than a devil!" he roared, a great laugh
+forming in his throat as the merchantman's volleys became increasingly
+ragged and her planking began to fly in splinters from beneath the very
+feet of her crew.</p>
+
+<p>For the Frenchman's cargo, whatever it was, Cutlass knew he cared but
+little. The <i>Talon's</i> hold must be full to overflowing with jewels
+pillaged from the galleys of the Great Mogul&mdash;hard specie from the
+hulls of the East Indiamen&mdash;no, the plunder was for the satisfaction of
+the crew. But this&mdash;this, pure taste of revenge was for Robbin Cutlass!</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Something stirred peculiarly in his mind&mdash;something that for the moment
+caught his breath from his lungs and left him shivering, then sent
+the blood racing hot through his body. There was an anger there&mdash;a
+long-smouldering anger for which he could not accurately account, but
+which was undeniable. His sword flashed again in the blaze of the sun.</p>
+
+<p>And once more he shivered.</p>
+
+<p>"Cap'n Cutlass sir! It's a trap!"</p>
+
+<p>His palm was suddenly cold and slippery on the corded hilt of the
+glittering blade in his hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Sail ho! Sail to stern sir!" the lookout was bellowing. "Three o' the
+King's men-o'-war!"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass watched them as they bore down, shouted orders to the helmsman
+to bring the brig about. The cries of the drowning merchantman's crew
+were totally wasted on him as he prepared to meet the new menace.
+Ordinarily, so far as his hazy memory would account for him, there had
+never been much to fear from the Jamaica fleet. Now it seemed they had
+been especially enjoined in the Frenchman's aid for the sole purpose of
+taking his head for the 500-pound reward on it. Or perhaps the British
+King had added a couple of hundred&mdash;because for less, who was there who
+would dare bring the attack to Robbin Cutlass?</p>
+
+<p>The men-of-war, under a smart press of canvas and now within cannon
+range, were already lowering boats.</p>
+
+<p>"Mister Treach bring your muskets to bear!"</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, sir and the guns are reshotted!"</p>
+
+<p>"Keep your fire until I give the order to loose it, Mr. Treach! And
+strike the black flag&mdash;you shall hoist American colors in its place. We
+mistook the Frenchman for a Spaniard, d'ye hear?"</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Cutlass knew as he gave the order that the strategy was far too thin,
+but it would give heart to the crew until the English swarmed over the
+side. Had he kept his witless anger and secured the merchantman and her
+guns rattier than sunk her.... But it was too late to correct the error
+now&mdash;and if this were a premeditated trap, then the English were tardy,
+and had permitted their decoy to pay too high a price.</p>
+
+<p>There was the crack of musketry as the crew of the <i>Talon</i> fought to
+turn the boats' advance, but it was answered with vicious accuracy from
+the decks of the men-of-war themselves. Then one of the King's ships
+tacked about, bringing her cannon to bear while her sister ships bore
+down on the brig.</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Talon's</i> broadside was simultaneous with that of the gun-boat,
+but it was a matter of 40 guns to twelve. And even as the main top
+gallantmast was sheared and came tumbling crazily through the brig's
+already sagging top-rigging, the British war vessels had come alongside
+to both starboard and port.</p>
+
+<p>"All hands repel boarders!" Cutlass thundered, and armed his left hand
+with one of the pistols from the brace suspended bandolier-like from
+his neck.</p>
+
+<p>They were too many. Because of the nearness of her sisters, the
+cannonading ship had ceased firing and had brought about to join the
+boarding fight; and there could be no running. He, Cutlass, had never
+given the order to&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>He shook his head. This had happened before. Somehow it had happened
+before and yet of course that was impossible. It was his rage at the
+English and their price upon him that was addling his thoughts.</p>
+
+<p>And with half her rigging torn asunder, the <i>Talon</i>, a sorry sight now,
+could not run her own length.</p>
+
+<p>In seconds the <i>Talon's</i> decks were slippery with blood from poop to
+forecastle; Cutlass drew and fired his pistols with his left hand as he
+crossed swords with his right&mdash;three of his attackers went down howling
+in agony, and the swordsman he had killed outright with a ball in the
+face had been replaced by two more.</p>
+
+<p>"We've come for your head, Robbin Cutlass!"</p>
+
+<p>"Then you'll parry this to get it!" Cutlass gritted savagely. The
+Englishman was a split-second late, and the corsair's sword split his
+throat from chin to collar-bone.</p>
+
+<p>But they were too many. <i>Was it to be ever so?</i></p>
+
+<p>Desperately, blood coursing from a reopened old wound in his left
+shoulder which for some reason had never healed completely. Cutlass
+groped for the last of his pistols. His clawing fingers slipped on
+something hard at his waist. He must&mdash;must&mdash;</p>
+
+<p><i>Press it!</i></p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p><i>Far away, in another Space and in another Time, an old man's eyes
+glittered. There was the signal, but the chances were that young Robbin
+Cutlass hadn't given it from sheer boredom! Swiftly, his short, thick
+fingers flicked the breadth of a time-warp quadrant, altered the mass
+and continuum ratios as great banks of machinery seemed to float in
+their own blue-green glow and throbbed with the mighty power of the Sun
+itself.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>But it was true, there were some things even science could not
+change....</i></p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>His head hurt.</p>
+
+<p>The Kid and Gonzales rode at a walk beside him, and the Kid was
+complaining about the heat again. Gonzales told him to shut up unless
+he could think of a better way to make a living.</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass gestured with a nod of his head.</p>
+
+<p>"Up there," he said.</p>
+
+<p>The trio reined off the bend of the road and almost at a leisurely pace
+wended their way up the gentle rise of a hill a scant 50 yards distant.</p>
+
+<p>"They ain't many trees," the Kid grumbled.</p>
+
+<p>"Ain't gotta be," Cutlass said. "I steer you wrong yet?"</p>
+
+<p>"Reckon not."</p>
+
+<p>"Then button up and listen." Idly, he stretched out his right arm,
+half-leaned from his saddle, and plucked the square of weather-beaten
+paper from the trunk of a scrubby cottonwood. "Long as y'do what I
+say, you'll keep seein' these. Soon's you stop, they won't have to be
+printin' no more."</p>
+
+<p>"They raise the price a leetle," Gonzales said. "But they still don't
+draw our peectures worth a damn!"</p>
+
+<p>The rust-stained leaflet said that dead or alive, the person of one R.
+Cutlass, gambler, desperado, and stage robber, would bring the capturer
+the sum of $5,000 reward in gold. An additional $1,000 would be paid
+the capturer for either of his henchmen alive, $500 dead.</p>
+
+<p>"How soon's it due?" the Kid asked. He brushed sweat from his forehead
+and from the inside band of his Stetson, and loosened each of his new
+Colts in their holsters.</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass didn't answer, but he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
+studied it for a moment. He wondered what name the initials engraved
+inside its case stood for, gave the stem a twist and replaced it.</p>
+
+<p>"That's the best wan you ever get, eh boss?"</p>
+
+<p>"OK, Chico. You get started. And keep those guns where they belong
+until the Kid an' me draw ours, savvy? Last time you got that greasy
+trigger finger of yours in an itch an' we had t'go killin' t'get the
+stuff. Law in these parts ain't about to forget the racket of six-guns
+when they hear it, and I ain't of a mood for runnin' to hide again."</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Cutlass crumpled the reward poster and threw it from him. It was
+getting so in the whole state of Texas you couldn't draw a breath
+but what the law heard you and came tossing lead. Some said a kid
+named Bonny got a kick out of seeing his pictures strewn all over the
+landscape. Maybe. But it made Cutlass boil inside.</p>
+
+<p>Gonzales was on his way back to the long bend in the road. Cutlass
+watched him detachedly as he turned his bronc loose, then sprawled full
+length and face down in the road so the Wells Fargo drivers couldn't
+miss him. The big splotch of red paint on the back of his shirt was
+visible even from where Cutlass and the Kid waited.</p>
+
+<p>The Kid shifted uneasily in his saddle.</p>
+
+<p>"Relax," Cutlass said. "Five minutes maybe. That ain't long to sweat."</p>
+
+<p>Five minutes for a Dallas to Fort Worth payroll shipment that was
+supposed to be worth a hundred thousand. Travelling just like any
+other stage, if you could believe Toady. So as not to draw attention:
+Just two drivers, a couple of rifles, and maybe two or three regular
+passengers.</p>
+
+<p>Hell. Gonzales and the Kid could have the hundred thousand. He had his
+pile. Robbin Cutlass couldn't remember where the rest of it had come
+from exactly&mdash;the watch with the initials that weren't his had puzzled
+him some. But he knew more by instinct than by memory how he'd got it,
+and that he had plenty more junk like it stashed in a bank safe-deposit
+box in&mdash;yeah, Abilene, what the hell was the matter with him.</p>
+
+<p>Sure, he had his pile. But it makes a man sore as hell when all the tin
+badges in Texas gang together just to hunt him down like a coyote and
+then hold up his hide for every gawk to hoot at. Who the hell did they
+think they were to give Robbin Cutlass any back-talk? When the Wells
+Fargo rig slowed up to have a look at Chico, noise or no noise, by
+God....</p>
+
+<p>The Kid heard it when he did, took his hands from his moist gun butts
+in a play at nonchalance and adjusted the black kerchief over his thin
+nose.</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass didn't say anything until the stage had come tearing hell for
+leather around the long bend, started spurting little plumes of dust
+from under its iron-rimmed wheels as it ground to a halt. One of the
+drivers started getting down.</p>
+
+<p>"OK," Cutlass said.</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Only it wasn't OK. Even before they'd covered half the fifty yards,
+Cutlass saw the driver who had gotten down to go over for a look at
+Chico pull out his Colt and deliberately gunwhip the possum-playing
+Mexican across the head. Then he flopped flat on his belly and the
+doors of the stage slammed open even as the other driver was dropping
+from his perch, Winchester coming up as his boots slammed dust from the
+road.</p>
+
+<p>Two full squads of U.S. cavalry were firing even before the Kid had
+been able to get his guns out. He went down with five holes in him
+before he could cry out. Cutlass was already out of his saddle and
+choking on sand. Before his first Colt was empty three soldiers and one
+of the drivers were dead.</p>
+
+<p>But they were too damn many&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass cursed through the dust in his teeth and lunged for the
+Winchester still holstered on his pony's flank. The animal screamed as
+a slug tore through one of its legs but Cutlass had half emptied the
+Winchester's clip before the big corporal had got a slug through the
+pony's head and put it out of its misery.</p>
+
+<p>There were two quick pains in his right arm, so he had to aim and fire
+the rifle with his left, pump the best he could with his right. There
+wasn't any getting away.</p>
+
+<p>"Yer all through, Cutlass! Stand up and toss yer guns down or we'll
+save the state the cost of a trial!"</p>
+
+<p>"Start savin', blue-coat!"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass groped at his belt to claw another handful of cartridges from
+it. His bleeding fingers felt a hard, square object. Something stirred
+somewhere deep inside his boiling brain. He was supposed to&mdash;<i>press it</i>!</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p><i>Far away, in another Space and in another Time, a smile spread slowly
+across an old man's wrinkled face. No, you couldn't change the blood in
+a man's veins! But perhaps&mdash;</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Swiftly, his short thumby fingers played over a row of relays....</i></p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Cutlass swallowed the aspirin, picked up his brief-case and met his man
+in the spacious lobby.</p>
+
+<p>"Sorry to've kept you waiting, Prescott! Hope you didn't have a late
+deadline to make?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir, that's quite all right. Believe me, I'm pleased to have an
+opportunity for an interview with you at any time of day or night!
+You've made the best copy coming out of this town in many a column,
+sir!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, thank you, Mr. Prescott. I believe in speaking freely to the
+press&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I've a cab waiting right outside, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Suppose we take my car? A little more privacy, I think&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Prescott followed the immaculately attired Cutlass through the
+Statler's front doors to the sleek black limousine waiting at the curb.
+Its engine was idled to an inaudible purr, and the tonneau door was
+opened by a uniformed chauffeur as they approached. Cutlass nodded
+politely to a couple of alert Secret Service men. The Law. Friends now,
+of course.</p>
+
+<p>Within soundless seconds the luxurious vehicle had pulled into
+Washington traffic, and it was Cutlass who opened the conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"I thought perhaps you could better obtain what you'd like in somewhat
+more pleasant surroundings, Mr. Prescott. I've a little place just
+outside the city&mdash;prefer it, I assure you, to the Embassy room!" They
+both laughed, Prescott a little self-consciously, wondering just what
+kind of a write-up Cutlass was expecting. As if he didn't know....</p>
+
+<p>"Well sir, if I could get a little background to what happened on the
+floor this morning, before I attempt to go into too much detail....
+Your new tax bill&mdash;I understand there was rather, well&mdash;some rather
+spirited opposition this morning&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass laughed easily. "To be expected, Mr. Prescott. They thought my
+last one was too much to take, but it went through! As this one shall.
+I can assure you of that."</p>
+
+<p>"I see." Prescott made a brief notation. "What reaction do you expect
+from the corporations? If, that is, the President&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, they've a powerful lobby of course. But, my boy&mdash;and of course
+this is off the record&mdash;it's simply a matter of putting the pressu&mdash;er,
+persuasion in the right places. The corporations will&mdash;I think they'll
+come around all right."</p>
+
+<p>Prescott added to his notes.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this new tax bill, Senator, to be your last for this session, or do
+you contemplate&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Cutlass' chuckle was as velvety as the silent roll of the limousine's
+white-walled tires.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear young man," he murmured, "I can't answer that question for the
+record. It depends to such a large extent on the many&mdash;rather personal
+considerations involved. But of course for a political reporter that
+should hardly be news."</p>
+
+<p>Mentally, Prescott ground his teeth. "<i>No, it's never been news,
+Senator</i>," he raged silently. "<i>You&mdash;you goddamned old pirate!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>In another Space, in another Time, an old man waited for a third signal.</p>
+
+<p>But it never came.</p>
+
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author	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-22 21:00:27 -0800
committer	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-22 21:00:27 -0800
commit	a0b2cabbc92cb032e086974b8fee4219466f538e (patch)
tree	b64bbc038eba38a574b68955a1050bdd0580cab1