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  After passing through an inner court they entered a tastefully furnished room. Mataal looked from Everson to Scoobey.

  "Would you care for a refreshment?"

  "Just take us to Goldstein," demanded Everson impatiently.

  Mataal smiled with forbearance and led them into a small immaculate room in which there was a low wooden bed. A young man lay there with his eyes wide open. He did not move when they entered. He did absolutely nothing.

  It was Goldstein.

  From the doorway, Mataal said softly: "Of course he is not an Eppanian, no more than you two are Eppanians!"

  2/ THE MUTANT AND THE GLADIATOR

  Like a clown from a country circus, the young mutant lay on the bed in front of Everson. His synthetically elongated ears protruded at an extreme angle from his head. His yellow skin was pale. Apparently Goldstein hadn't taken any trouble to keep his natural skin tone from showing through. His wig was now only a wrinkled bale of hair strands.

  These impressions shocked Everson so much that Mataal's remark only registered with him when Scoobey glanced at Goldstein and uttered a half-stifled curse. Everson felt his stomach muscles tighten. Who was this Mataal who was able to solve every problem and see through everything with such apparent ease? Could he himself be a telepath? Did he possess other paranormal powers—which could perhaps explain his incredible triumphs in the arena?

  "Who else knows it?" he asked grimly.

  Mataal made a gesture of rejection with his hands. "I am no gossip or babbler of tales. Only I know it."

  Everson realized that there was only one remaining alternative. Since Mataal knew their identity, in order to keep him from spreading it around they would have to take him to the guppy. Not only that—Mataal would have to accompany them back to the Earth. With his knowledge he represented an incalculable danger. If he should fall into the hands of enemy agents he'd be forced to babble out everything he knew in a matter of seconds. But Perry Rhodan placed a top priority on keeping the Solar Empire's agent assignments a secret.

  "Mataal," began Everson after collecting himself, "there is much that I would have to explain to you. You wouldn't understand it. Relatively speaking, your horizon is too limited to be able to absorb it all. We come from another solar system at the edge of the galaxy. I can only assure you that we are here for a good purpose."

  "I know Goldstein," said Mataal. "Now I know you. That's enough. I trust you.

  Everson turned to the mutant again.

  "He's like a dead man," observed Scoobey grimly.

  The colonel felt a surge of sympathy for the young agent. He admired this breed of men who maintained their lonely vigils light-years from their home planet and pursued their missions for the sake of the survival and further development of their species.

  He went to the head of the bed where the youngster would have to see him. Goldstein's eyes seemed to be focused into a far distance where they saw imaginary things which were apparently beyond his understanding.

  "Goldstein," Everson called to him. "This is Marcus Everson. Beside me is Walt Scoobey. Do you recognize us?"

  "Yes." The telepath responded in a broken voice and for a moment his eyes came back to the reality of the room. He was like a stringless puppet that one had to lift up in order to reanimate. There was something about him that convinced Everson the man was not too happy about their being here. There was a silent sort of protest in his manner—an unexpressed but detectable rejection. It was a changed and alien Goldstein who lay there.

  "What's wrong with you, boy?" Everson asked.

  "It's nothing," said the mutant softly. "It's really nothing."

  Everson looked quickly at Mataal. The Eppanian stood nearby looking at Goldstein almost apathetically. His dark eyes were half closed. It was so still in the room that Everson could hear the breathing of the others. Perhaps Goldstein was afraid and did not wish to speak while Mataal was in the room.

  "Would you leave us alone for a moment?" he asked. Silently the gladiator left the room. Everson heard him call one of the servants to him, once he was outside. But he could not yet figure what the Eppanian's intentions might be.

  "Well?" he asked, turning back to Goldstein. "Do you want to talk now?"

  "Everything is in order here," Goldstein suddenly assured him. He seemed to make a strenuous effort to put strength into his voice. "There is not the slightest indication anywhere that this planet is being visited by another race capable of interstellar space travel. There are no alien agents on Eppan. With few exceptions the natives here are harmless to the point of decadence. I'd never believe they were capable of developing a technical civilization. In all confidence I'm sure we can return to Earth."

  "Did you tell Mataal that we are not Eppanians?" interjected Scoobey.

  "He's very sharp. Besides, I think he smells a piece of business."

  Everson decided that this was not a precise answer to a direct question. Aloud, he asked, "what makes you so psyched out? Are you sick or something? Is this some sort of local phenomenon that's common to the natives?"

  "No," replied Goldstein bluntly. "I'm not sick. What makes you think so?"

  Lying there thin and pale, he looked and sounded like a person debilitated by a long illness. It was only with an apparent effort that he kept his words coherent. "I don't know what it is. Most likely something to do with the climate."

  Everson was familiar with the short succession of summer and winter on Eppan but could that be the reason for Goldstein's metamorphosis? Scoobey's perplexed expression confirmed that his first officer was as much at sea as he was. Whatever had happened to this youngster on Eppan, he had to be brought back to Earth as quickly as possible. In Terrania the specialists would quickly determine what was the matter with Goldstein.

  During his long years of service, Everson had acquired a sure instinct for impending catastrophe and that instinct was ringing alarm bells now. He had to get the mutant out of these surroundings. "Mataal!" he called sharply.

  The Eppanian's complete composure when he returned made an impression on Everson. He regretted that he was not equipped with telepathic faculties which would give him an insight into this man's thoughts.

  "We're going to bring Goldstein to our spaceship," he announced. "We're going home."

  The slitted eyes glittered coldly. Everson felt like a dumbly blinking animal in the arena who had been delivered up to the murderous swordblade of this cold-blooded mystery of a man.

  "I'll escort you out of the city," offered the Eppanian courteously.

  Everson pulled himself together. He answered coldly: "Just one step farther than that, sonny. You will come with us to our planet."

  Mataal laughed indifferently but spoke only one word: "No!"

  "Turn around!" ordered Everson.

  Mataal saw Scoobey standing behind him. The first officer had his paralysis gun trained on him.

  "We have two alternatives," explained Everson. "We can paralyze you with this weapon—or kill you. Don't forget that we're ready for anything right now. Our people are involved in a cosmic gamble in which the slightest mistake can mean our destruction. Our mission is far too important for us to consider individuals when it comes to a showdown. You'd better understand that—and quickly."

  In the ensuing silence, Everson marveled at the alien. He had received these words with the same unshakable calmness that he had demonstrated in the arena.

  "You have played your hand," said Mataal, indicating Scoobey. "Now it's my turn. Of course you can kill me but in that case you would not be able to leave this house alive. When you sent me outside so that you could talk privately to Goldstein I informed my servant staff that my guests would leave the house only under my escort. Do you understand? If you cripple me with that weapon you'll have another problem on your hands. If you'll pardon a small egotism, how could you hope to reach your spaceship with the inert body of the most popular man in town? And if you neither kill me nor paralyze me, then you'll have to consider that I'll declare to
the first passerby that I'm going with you under compulsion."

  He smiled. His self-assuredness was disconcerting. When he continued, his voice took on a mocking undertone. "Anyway, it's better for you if you remain anonymous. If you use this weapon, there's no way to keep people from becoming suspicious of you. Our most modern weapon here is a crossbow."

  The man's marked intelligence, his confident perspective of the situation and his logical handling of it could wreck their entire mission. A primitive barbarian—by Earthly standards—had demonstrated his ability to oppose them.

  "OK!" interjected Scoobey. "We'll take our chances." He pressed the barrel of his weapon into Mataal's back. "You will lead the way. We'll give you directions. If you let even a peep out of you I'll use this on you. We'll explain to the people in the streets that we are your friends and that the fight in the arena has so exhausted you that you've had a breakdown. We, your friends, are taking you to a famous physician who is with us here in the city. Alright, Mataal, let's go!"

  Unresistingly the Eppanian strode to the door. Scoobey followed him with a determined expression on his face.

  Everson looked back at Goldstein, who still remained lying motionlessly on the bed. "Come on, man!" he urged him. "Get a move on!"

  Listlessly, Goldstein groped his way out of the primitive bed. He looked awful. His eyes were in deep hollows and he wasn't able to straighten himself up.

  "Pull yourself together," Everson snapped at him. But immediately he regretted his words. He was convinced that Goldstein was doing the best he could.

  As they exited the room they noticed one of the servants standing near the door. From the man's expression they could assume they were not being threatened by him. Nevertheless, Everson breathed a sigh of relief once he had left the house.

  • • •

  It happened just before they reached the edge of town. Mataal was several steps in front of Goldstein and Scoobey while Everson walked somewhat apart from them and to the side. Suddenly a carriage-like vehicle came toward them. The Eppanian who crouched within the oval cart sought to drive his unkempt animal to a faster pace, with a clucking of his tongue and the tip of his whip. When the contraption reached Mataal he gave a hoarse shout and made a desperate jump behind the wheels.

  Everson heard Scoobey's wild curse. He ran around the cart in order to shove Mataal into his companion's field of fire but the driver raised up and swung his whip at Everson, catching him directly across his back. The colonel recoiled under the fury of the lash.

  Meanwhile, Mataal had succeeded in jumping inside the cart. Scoobey, who could not shoot for fear of hitting Everson, jumped in behind him. Again the driver brought his whip into play. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man who fought in silent stubbornness. With each blow he wielded his lips parted, showing the brown stumps of his teeth.

  Scoobey ducked under a haymaker from Mataal and got his arms around the arena champion's legs. Everson got up again, breathing hard. A rod of fire seemed to be lying across his back, burning its way deeply into his flesh. He grabbed the driver's raised arm and pushed it back. The man lost his balance and fell with Everson to the ground, raising a swirl of dust that came bitingly into Everson's eyes. He prayed fervently that no other Eppanians would appear at this moment. His antagonist was comparatively small and not too much of a challenge.

  "Hurry, sir!" he heard Scoobey panting. "This one's getting away!"

  Mataal pressed the smaller officer back over the wagon rail and threw him out. Everson knocked his opponent away with a heavy blow and threw himself onto Mataal, who was preparing to climb into the driver's seat so as to get the draft animal in motion. He charged the Eppanian wildly and knocked him back, causing the other to strike his head hard against the wooden backboard. He saw Scoobey kneeling in the dust with the paralysis gun in his hand. Red circles danced in front of his eyes. His body was flooded with pain. "Walt—the animal!" he yelled with an effort. "Aim at the animal!"

  The already-moving vehicle slowed its pace as Scoobey aimed and fired. The effect of the shot stunned the animal and Mataal as well and both sank down unconscious. Another shot put the driver out of the action also.

  "We'll have to carry Mataal," said Everson, rubbing his injured head. "The driver can stay where he is. It'll be some time till he comes to. He won't be able to tell much."

  Scoobey nodded but he frowned. "The kid!" he exclaimed.

  Everson looked back. Goldstein stood in the same spot as before. He had not taken the least part in the battle.

  3/ "DEATH IS ON BOARD!"

  The whispering of the electronic equipment grew to a distinct roar. Everson opened his eyes and attempted to penetrate the semidarkness.

  He was aware of having been disturbed in his sleep by an indefinable sound. It was a noise out of harmony with the usually monotonous humming and clicking of the machinery on board a guppy. He was amazed to note that his heart was pounding practically in his throat. He shook his head as though to clear it of this indefinable agitation and he switched on the lights.

  The small room was furnished in functional simplicity. Everson had expected that the illumination would help to dispel his feeling of uneasiness but in this he was deceived. He dressed himself and left the cabin. Guppy No. K-262 had been fondly dubbed Fauna by its crew members. It was now in free fall.

  His hands slid effortlessly along the companionway railings that led up to the control room as he felt his nervousness beginning to subside. Most of the 15-crew were off duty in their cabins just now but before the next transition all that would quickly change because then all hands would be required at their posts.

  Scoobey, a communications man, and Cadet Ramirez were on the command bridge of the control central when he came in.

  "Hello, sir!" Scoobey greeted him. "How come you didn't finish your sack time?" It was a legitimate question because the first officer was able to handle the present routine tasks without any help.

  "I want to talk to Mataal and Goldstein," replied Everson, more or less inventing an answer. "Maybe the

  kid is better now." Scoobey grinned and was about to make a reply when suddenly one of the cabin doors banged open in the passageway below them. A lean, dark-haired technician named Gerald Finney looked up at them with a troubled expression.

  Everson leaned over the bridge railing. "What's the matter with you, Finney?"

  On Finney's forehead was a small, well-healed scar that appeared to gleam up at Everson in the shape of a triangle. "I don't know," the spaceman stuttered. It was obvious that he was trying to cover up something.

  "What are you doing running around during your rest period?" asked Everson harshly.

  "I—I was thirsty," answered the technician hastily and he swallowed hard as though to back up his story.

  "Come up here!" ordered the colonel. Finney hastened to comply. When he reached the bridge, Everson looked at him sharply. And then he saw it—Finney was afraid! "Alright, now what really happened?" Finney's eyes focused on a spot in space at which he might stare without arousing suspicion. Everson noticed that his lips trembled when he spoke.

  "I had a bad dream," Finney blurted out. "Don't think it's the space squeebies or something, sir. You know I've got plenty of flight time in the Big Vac—I mean, my IVO's sir." He was referring to his rating credits for Interstellar Void Orientation. "It was just a lousy nightmare."

  "What did you dream?" persisted Everson stubbornly. He was thinking of only a few minutes before when he had lain in his own bed with a pounding heart. "It's too childish, sir," replied Finney. "I thought... I mean, it was like somebody... well, somebody was standing beside me."

  Everson heard the communications man snicker. "Do you often have such—hallucinations?" he asked.

  Finney emphatically shook his head in denial. "That was the first time, sir."

  "I want you to have Dr. Morton look you over," said Everson conclusively. "And don't fail to let me know if the same kind of thing should happen again."

  "B
ut I'm not sick," protested Finney. "After all, a dream isn't a sickness. What am I supposed to do with Dr. Morton?"

  "Just carry out my orders," Everson demanded. "Now go!"

  Finney departed from the bridge, obviously unhappy about his assignment. Pensively, Everson followed him with his gaze until Scoobey poked into his field of awareness, standing beside him. "Don't think I'm a tin jesus martinet or something," he said, noting the disapproval in Scoobey's expression.

  "I didn't ask you for your reasons," answered the first officer gravely.

  "Do you know why I'm standing up here with you now, Walt? I had exactly the same nightmare that made Finney pop his poxy (Come unglued). Also I heard a funny noise. It was—alien—something not in the normal range of ship sounds we're accustomed to."

  Scoobey returned an uneasy smile. The colonel was not one to chase after mental phantoms. His spaceflight experience as well as his human qualities and undaunted courage during his extensive years of service had made him a model of leadership in the eyes of the Terranian cadets. Nevertheless, Scoobey was convinced that Everson had made a lopsided assessment of the present situation. Even if two men had the same kind of nightmare at the same time, it could only be coincidence.

  Everson had been startled out of his sleep only a few moments prior to Finney. Disconcertedly, Scoobey stared down off the bridge. Finney's cabin was much closer than Everson's!

  But now that was ridiculous. The circular passage around the inner hull of the K-262 had been under continuous observation. If anybody had been paying Finney an unscheduled visit, he would have been seen. Scoobey's brows knit together. He must not let Everson's story get to him and make him nervous, too. After all, it could be that the colonel's fight on Eppan had shaken him up a bit more than he cared to let on. Scoobey was not able to suppress the suspicion that perhaps the specialized Arkonide rejuvenation treatments Everson had undergone might only be keeping his body young. On the other hand, his mind could be entering a stage of doddering senility.

  "We'll have to keep our eyes and ears open." Everson's voice interrupted his train of thought. "To see if any similar occurrences are repeated. Ask the men about their dreams, even though they won't understand what you're talking about."