A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 113: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

110 A. MERRITT’S FANTASY blast of another titanic-loaded rocket shell. The violent detonation jarred the roof, made Dr. Bull bite his tongue. His hands were shaking, and he felt ill. His own exposed position terrified him, but he had to see what was going on. He dropped on his knees, peered through the red blades of the potted Martian bayonet lilies. Beyond the ragged shell-crater, he saw the rocket squad. Two crouched men run- ning with their deadly bright projectiles. Another with the flimsy-looking firing scaffold. The corporal silently gesturing. They wore the plain silver of the fortress garrisons. Traitors! They stopped on a green, swiftly mounted and loaded the tripod. Dr. Bull wanted to stand up and scream a warning to Carstairs. But fear chained him, until the intense blue needle of an iron-beam stabbed from the edge of a sand trap. The shattering, deafening explosion left a black pit where the green had been. Nothing was left of the rocket squad. The ton-gunner checked the pursuit. Carstairs, with a little group of men, came running along the walk from green num- ber one. He left a rifleman in a clump of flaming hibiscus. Dr. Bull stumbled into the elevator, dropped to meet him at the tower's entrance. “Treason, sir,” the lean young officer answered Dr. Bull’s voiceless question. He was muddy and panting, and red showed through a torn silver sleeve. “General Berg tried to arrest me and dis- arm the Special Planeteers. Before we smelled a rat, he had the port surrounded. And eleven of the Specials held the ar- senal and the control tower. Berg tried to buy us. Nothing to do but fight our way out, sir. Lost sixteen, sir. That leaves thirteen men, fit for duty. Your orders, sir?” Dr. breath. : “Good work, Lieutenant,” he _ said Bull swallowed and caught his hoarsely. “We'll hold the tower. I don’t think they’ll shell it, because they want TAU intact. It was planned for defense. The windows are lamanite. Steel shutters, with gun ports. An arsenal in the base- ment—here’s the key.” Dr. Bull dropped the key. Carstairs picked it up, with steady, red-dripping fingers. “Very good, sir. I'll put men at the windows, and on the roof.” Muddy, breathless men came in by twos and threes. One had a shoulder wound. Another limped. The thirteenth never came. Dr. Bull returned to the roof with Carstairs and four riflemen. The of- ficer walked out to station his men on the parapeted terrace. “They'll have us surrounded.” he warned. “Keep your heads down, and shoot anything that moves. We can hold them off until—”’ Dr. Bull heard the thin whine of a bul- let, and the young lieutenant dropped be- side the scarlet lilies. The hole in his forehead seemed very small, but it took no professional skill to tell that he was dead. Stunned, Dr. Bull peered stupidly after the diminishing hum—probably the bullet still exceeded the planetoid’s velocity of escape; it would fly on, forever, across the black gulf of space. He was sick and lonely. He had de- pended on the loyal, fearless efficiency of Carstairs. The loss left him staggered, helpless. In that moment, he realized the utter ruthlessness of the Iron Watch, the full desperation of the situation. “Keep your heads down.” In a dull stupid voice, he repeated the dead man’s words. “Shoot anything that moves. We can hold them off, until—”’ Until what? Suddenly Dr. Bull became aware of his own exposed position, and retreated toward the observatory dome. Until night fell, perhaps, and the enemy assaulted by darkness? Until another an) (C 6)(0)©) <S (C(O)