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  "He's completely paralyzed. Mataal insists that the lad wasn't with him."

  Fashong appeared on the command bridge and joined the other crewmen who were already assembled there. Everson waited until everybody was present. The ship's doctor came last. Among the regulation uniforms his hopelessly rumpled suit was an unusual contrast. Everson was aware of the expectant looks of his crewmen.

  "I presume that each of you has been briefed on what happened to us on Eppan," the colonel began calmly. "You all know Goldstein's current condition. Dr. Morton can fill you in as to details. We were forced to take an Eppanian native on board the guppy, whom I could not present to you yet because of psychological reasons. You have to imagine, if you will, all the new impressions this man is being exposed to. He might become incapacitated by an overly abrupt confrontation with our civilization. So that's why I took all the precautions, which I know very well might be interpreted as secret melodrama by some people."

  He paused in order to permit the rising murmur of comment to subside. "Now I'd like to inform you that our technician, Mr. Finney, had a dream a few hours ago, in which somebody came into his cabin. Granted, that's not so unusual. However, the strange part of it is that I also had a similar experience at just about the same time."

  Embarrassed, Finney stared at the deck.

  Everson broke up the ensuing comments. "Quiet!" he said. "There's more I have to tell you. I have just found Ramirez in his cabin. He is completely paralyzed."

  Everson hadn't expected that this news would cause an uproar, nor was he wrong. On the contrary, there was a complete silence. The astronauts stared at him as though also awaiting an answer to the mystery.

  "We have to put Ramirez under quarantine," explained Dr. Morton. "With the exception of myself, nobody is allowed to see him unless by my expressed permission. I'm asking all of you to watch

  yourselves. The slightest sign of any symptom of sickness must be reported to me at once."

  "I'll bet this has something to do with that alien," said Zimmerman.

  There was a threatening undertone in his voice which alerted Everson. Zimmerman was a sturdy and taciturn type with an angular face cut into planes of stubborn hardness. His thin lips and crooked nose gave him an almost brutal appearance. As he spoke, his grey eyes seemed to glare almost maliciously.

  An ominous murmur of agreement was heard among the men. Although it was still only an incipient indication of resentment against the presence of Mataal on board, nevertheless it seemed clear that any further manifestations of this mystery could generate an angry rebellion against the Eppanian.

  Everson smiled imperceptibly but with a tiny frown as he turned to Zimmerman. "You know how thoroughly our specialists have examined the world of Eppan. It is absolutely out of the question that Ramirez' illness has any connection with Mataal."

  But Zimmerman intuitively sensed the support he was getting from the other crewmen around him. "Ramirez was always hanging around that alien," he persisted, stubbornly.

  Everson could have controlled him with a simple command but this might easily arouse more suspicion and doubt. Perhaps a little psychology would clear up the situation. "Zimmerman," he said with a mocking grin, "is that frightened sound I hear the chattering of your knee bones?"

  A general wave of chuckling and laughter greeted his words. Zimmerman reddened in anger. Yet any further remarks from him on the subject might well give the impression that he was actually afraid. Everson knew that this was only a temporary victory for the purpose of gaining time. Should further incidents related to the mystery occur, this general state of unrest would worsen.

  Now Honda Inoshiro stepped forward. He was simultaneously their Japanese Navigator and the master chessplayer on board. "Do you believe there may be some connection between Goldstein's ailment and Ramirez' present sickness?"

  "I can't tell you that yet," Dr. Morton answered him. "But it's not impossible."

  "Now get back to your stations," ordered Everson. "And I want you to follow Dr. Morton's instructions to the letter!" He turned to Scoobey. "Have Landi set up a telecom connection with Earth. I want to report to Rhodan what's going on around here."

  About one hour later, Scoobey appeared in Everson's cabin.

  "What are you trying to do?" snapped the colonel harshly. "Get in some track training? What's wrong with the intercom?"

  Scoobey did not smile. He seemed troubled and depressed. "We haven't been able to transmit any radio messages to Earth," he announced.

  "That's not possible," retorted Everson. "It's brand new equipment and it's been checked out thoroughly. There's no chance it could break down on us at this stage."

  His First Officer repeated himself like a machine: "We have not been able to transmit, sir."

  In spite of a gloomy foreboding, Everson persisted: "Can't Landi isolate the trouble?"

  "No way," answered Scoobey disconsolately. "You know he's an expert and if anybody could make a fault isolation, he could." He seemed to be on the verge of saying something else but apparently decided to remain silent.

  Everson looked at him sharply. "What else, Walt? Speak up!"

  Scoobey spilled it out: "Sir—that transmitter had to be tampered with deliberately to make it go off the air. I believe it's sabotage."

  "You believe what ...!?" exclaimed Everson in a half-whisper.

  "I believe that somebody on board the Fauna is trying to keep us from contacting Earth. They want to keep Terrania from knowing what's going on here."

  "And who do you have in mind?"

  "Mataal!"

  Everson thought: Maybe—but the hooker is that the Eppanian doesn't know beans about advanced technical equipment. Aloud he said: "You have to find positive proof of that, Walt."

  4/ THE RAVINGS OF A MADMAN

  The long-drawn out human cry echoed lingeringly throughout the ship.

  Everson swept the open book before him clear off the table. His chair clattered backwards onto the deck. In two long strides he was out of his cabin and he was joined by other startled crewmen as they burst from their own quarters. Up on the bridge of the Control Central the astronauts on duty had left their stations and now hung over the railing like so many giant birds of a feather, craning their necks to see what the matter was. Everson was trying to figure from what direction the cry had emerged when he crashed into Finney.

  "What the heck's happening, sir," asked the technician. "Over here, sir!" a voice called out from a point farther along the catwalk.

  Everson ran forward, followed by Finney.

  The one who had called to him was Poul Weiss, a technician. He was standing in the open doorway leading into Stanford's cabin, his face showing a bloodless pallor while he mumbled incoherently. The more impassive Chinese, Fashong, was standing near him and now signaled to Everson, pointing wordlessly inside toward Stanford.

  As Everson entered the room he saw that the 28-year-old biologist was sitting collapsed in his chair. In his hand were several playing cards. George Stanford had not been playing alone. His partner lay on the deck nearby. It was Gordon Short, Navigator, 46 years old. His face was twisted into an unnatural grimace that was like a supernatural mask.

  Weiss pushed past Everson and took the playing cards from Short's rigid grasp. Almost all hands had shown up by now and were crowding around the door or into the room. Weiss held the cards up to Everson. There was a mockery in his voice. "Just look at the beautiful hand the lucky stiff was holding!" he blurted out. "Yessir, gents, a real set of cards!" He opened his fingers and let the cards fall to the deck, significantly.

  Everson pushed Weiss aside. He wished desperately that he could think of something by way of explanation to the men. He felt their grim surveillance as they stood there looking at him.

  He finally turned and faced them in all frankness. "They're still both alive," he said, somewhat helplessly.

  No one answered. Finally Dr. Morton broke through the wall of silent onlookers.

  "Let me through!" he shou
ted excitedly as he pushed beyond them into the cabin.

  "He wants to hoist another yellow flag for his quarantine," said somebody scornfully.

  Was it Weiss? Or Wolkov? Maybe Sternal? Everson was unable to decide.

  "He don't have that many flags!" came another snide remark.

  Everson turned to the Second Navigator, Werner Sternal. "Give the doctor a hand here," he ordered.

  The man obeyed. He and Morton lifted Stanford onto the bunk.

  "It will be best to take Short out of here," suggested the physician. "It makes me a little nervous to have two afflicted men together in the same room."

  "Good!" Everson agreed. "Sternal can give you a hand with your work, Doc." He raised his voice for the others. "Now we have 3 men to replace, so some of the work is going to double up. Two of you men will be needed for the next transition hop, which is coming up shortly. If each of us leans a little harder on the wheel I know we'll get there. I'm confident that no man is going to lose his nerve because after all none of these men are dead. I'm sure Dr. Morton will be able to cure them of their paralysis. It's senseless to draw any hasty conclusions. Now I want you men to discipline yourselves and keep a stiff backbone at all times because you're going to have to realize that any sitdown around here is only going to make things worse. In view of the situation I'll expect all of you to keep your eyes open. From here on, the ship's radio com will remain in constant operation. Landi is going to double his efforts to get through a signal to Earth. If we succeed in reaching Terrania with a message, Rhodan will send us a ship to assist us."

  Zimmerman pushed his way to the front of the crowd. In his eyes was a look of open rebellion. "We demand that Mataal be placed under guard immediately," he said. "We know he's the one behind all this."

  "We will lay hands on no one around here without proof," retorted Everson glacially. "Naturally, I'll have a word with the Eppanian."

  Zimmerman did not seem inclined to be satisfied with this information but he drew back before

  Everson's stern gaze. The colonel knew that even Scoobey suspected the gladiator. But, he asked himself, how could an alien be clever enough to move about in the guppy without being seen and not only paralyze three men but also knock out the telecom installation? Everson could not deny that a finger of suspicion did point in Mataal's direction—yet it just seemed illogical to express the fact. If there was any connection at all between the malfunction of the transmitter and the paralysis of the men, there would have to be somebody else at work here. But no matter how penetratingly the colonel probed the matter in his mind he could not imagine who the perpetrator might be. He regretted the fact that Goldstein was out of the action. The telepath would have been able to probe the thoughts of the others. Everson was reminded again of Goldstein's strange assertion that he had brought Death on board with him. Was it really just delirious praffle or was there more behind that statement than met the eye? Whom had Goldstein brought on board with him—even though indirectly—if it had not been Mataal?

  Now as before, Everson was forced to consider the possibility of some mysterious sickness which Doc Morton would pin down sooner or later.

  "We really should place Mataal under guard," said Scoobey, interrupting his train of thought, "even if it's only to keep the peace around here. That is my recommendation, sir."

  "I'll think it over," replied the Commander.

  "What's our plan of action, sir, if still more men get hit?" persisted Scoobey. "I mean, how would we carry out the second transition?"

  Undoubtedly this was the most vital issue—if it should actually come to that. With any less than 10 astronauts it was practically impossible to operate the Fauna. Admittedly, when in free fall the ship could even be handled by one man, but the major task of making a hyperjump could only be achieved through the coordinated action of a full crew—or at least more than 9 or 10 men. The failure of the space telecom system was a worse handicap than Everson had wanted to admit. It was not possible for them to ask the Earth for help. Cut off completely like this, they were the helpless victims of fate.

  "That we must avoid at all costs," was Everson's answer.

  But how, nobody knew.

  • • •

  When the colonel returned to his cabin, he saw Goldstein sitting at his work table. Everson overlooked the obvious infraction of regulations. The young man snickered as though he were irrational.

  "What do you want, Goldstein?" inquired Everson uneasily. "You know you shouldn't leave your room. Dr. Morton has diagnosed you as sick—you shouldn't be running around." He spoke to him as he might have to an impudent child.

  The thin mutant waved his hand carelessly. "Morton thinks I'm crazy," he said, while pointing significantly to his head. When Everson was about to deny this, he added: "Naturally, so do you."

  "All you need is rest, son. Everything will be set straight again when we get back to the Earth."

  "The Earth?" Goldstein smiled his amusement. "You don't really believe we'll ever see the Earth again, do you?"

  There it was again—that certain sense of threatening danger. "What do you really know?" he asked the telepath.

  Goldstein's fingers clenched inward. His eyes were wild and unkempt strands of hair dangled on his forehead. "Why do you keep questioning me!?" he yelled out suddenly. "I didn't come here to answer questions!"

  Everson admonished: "Get hold of yourself, Goldstein. Did someone perhaps send you to me?"

  Goldstein's hands wandered aimlessly across the desk top. "I'm afraid!" he cried out. His entire face had broken out with drops of sweat. The veins in his neck were swollen as if ready to burst. "I'm afraid that it will come again, like it did on Eppan. It will come again and it will kill me." He broke into an uncontrolled fit of sobbing.

  "What are you talking about, son?" asked the colonel urgently.

  Goldstein trembled as though under an attack of fever. Something terrible was going on inside of him. "It was in me, deep down inside! Then it waited and watched. And if I talk it will come again, do you understand? It's just sitting there somewhere, waiting in ambush to get me. Is it inside of you, sir? Yes, it can be there, too, and..." He seemed to collapse across the desk.

  Though shaken, Everson remained silent. Some kind of horrible experience had gotten the mutant into this state. Could this madman's ravings be taken seriously at all? Was he speaking factually? Were these the mutterings of a maniac? Or was there a little bit of both in his wild story? The responsibility for the ship weighed heavily on Everson. Upon his decisions would depend whether or not they were to reach the Earth safely. He knew how helpless he was at the moment. However, he must never reveal his helplessness to the others. Above all, Goldstein must be prevented from babbling his insanities to the crew.

  "On your feet, Goldstein," he said. "I'll take you back." The mutant staggered upward feebly and Everson had to support him. Outside, the colonel noted that all cabin doors in his range of vision stood open. He'd have to make an exception in the case of Goldstein and Mataal, insisting that they keep their doors closed, since it was best to isolate them as much as possible. He pushed Goldstein along the ramp. They passed Finney's cabin. The dark-haired technician lay on his bunk and looked out at them. He saw Goldstein's limp figure supported in Everson's arms and his lips parted as though to express his concern. But the colonel hurried onward and finally they reached Goldstein's quarters.

  "The ship's com is in continuous operation," Everson told him. "If you don't feel well you can put in a call to Dr. Morton."

  The mutant did not seem to understand him in the least. He swayed across the deck to his bunk. Everson closed the door. He recognized the fact that there was nothing he could do—except to wait.

  • • •

  Ralph Zimmerman, Second Com Officer on board the guppy, looked up at the chronometer that was on the bulkhead wall directly above him. In a few minutes his duty watch would be ended. First Com Officer Marlo Landi would be taking over for him. So far Landi had sought in vain
to find the trouble with the malfunctioning transmitter.

  Zimmerman noticed that Walt Scoobey was sitting all hunched over in his pilot seat. The First Officer's eyes were heavily bloodshot. The recent events on board had placed a heavy burden on him. Zimmerman cursed under his breath. Had Everson gone blind? Couldn't he see that all these incidents had happened since the presence of the Eppanian on the ship?

  For Zimmerman it was an open and shut case. Mataal was behind it all. He had to stop this underhanded alien from doing any more harm. He'd have to do something on his own. He might even be the next on Mataal's list but he wasn't going to let him get that far. Zimmerman knew he'd have his opportunity in the next few minutes. There were only a few men up here on the bridge. He looked down at the catwalk below. One thing dangerous to his plan was the constantly open ship's communication system. His hands moved with a practiced familiarity across the master keyboard of the intercom in front of him. In a few minutes when Landi relieved him, either one of two things could happen. Either the First Com Officer would immediately return to his repair work or he would get involved in a routine checkout again. Zimmerman decided to take the risk. He set the main intercom switch at a neutral position. The ship's com was now deactivated.

  He heard the footsteps of the change of watch on the aluminium companionway. Scoobey relinquished the pilot seat to Everson. The two officers exchanged a few words that Zimmerman couldn't catch. Landi was the last to arrive. He moved at once to the telecom system.

  Zimmerman grinned at Landi, who was already lost in a wilderness of wires and transistors. He stretched and yawned like a man who was happy to be at the end of his shift. Nobody watched him go when he slowly left the bridge.

  He remembered one time during his school-days when he had gone to thrash the top student in the next grade above him because he had slandered him behind his back. He had run through the long hallway while his footsteps echoed away into the empty classrooms. It was just at lunchtime, he remembered. His quarry was leaning against the base of a pillar with several of his friends and was idly munching on a sandwich. He was a chubby, red-cheeked fellow with a pair of quick, mousy eyes that seemed to regard his opponent with lofty condescension. After the bloody scuffle, Zimmerman had received a severe scolding.