The Horror Page 5

  He smiled at the recollection as he reached the catwalk. He saw that he would have to go by three open cabins which would probably be occupied. Once he had gotten past them he would have arrived at his goal: Mataal. At the first door he was lucky. Constantin Wolkov lay on his bunk, sleeping with his mouth open. The next cabin was empty. No doubt Delacour was with one of his buddies involved in a game of chess. Zimmerman nodded with satisfaction and continued onward. Now all he had to do was just get past the final hurdle without any trouble.

  "Hello, Ralf!" Werner Sternal called out to him when he was almost past the door.

  Zimmerman stopped. He forced himself to look into the other's cabin guilelessly while thinking desperately how he could fool him as quickly as possible. Zimmerman's appearance seemed to be a break in the monotony that Sternal welcomed. But Zimmerman was wondering how long it would be

  before Everson took note of the fact that the intercom system was off the air.

  "Come on in," Sternal invited him.

  He searched the Navigator's greenish eyes for the slightest spark of suspicion but Sternal was actually looking for some company.

  Defensively he stretched both of his arms. "Gosh, I'm dog tired," he said, excusing himself. "I thought I'd go stretch out for awhile."

  "You losing the wind in your sails, Ralf?" asked Sternal with a sympathetic smile. "Your port is still halfway around the ramp!"

  This was the critical moment, thought Zimmerman. "The Commander ordered me to check all the doors," he replied. He put a note of complaint in his voice to show he wasn't happy about the extra assignment. "All of them are standing open."

  "All but my neighbor’s," returned Sternal sarcastically. Zimmerman saw with relief that he had put Sternal at his ease. Without showing any haste, he continued onward. There was nobody to be seen. He stopped in front of Mataal's cabin. He listened. Then he yanked the latch open.

  It was completely dark inside. The Eppanian must have turned off the lights. In the light of the passageway that came into the room, Zimmerman thought he could make out the shadowy outlines of a figure on the bed. He moved into the room and closed the door behind him. Pitch darkness surrounded him. He remained where he was for the moment. He ran his tongue over lips that had become dry with the strain of his mounting excitement. Then he groped his way forward. Why didn't the Eppanian move? Was he asleep? A wave of rage and hatred came over him, clouding his reason. He was filled with a blind urge to destroy.

  "Mataal!" he said threateningly. "Show yourself!"

  "What do you want?" The words rang out of the darkness in cumbersome Arkonese.

  Zimmerman guided himself toward the voice. The sound of it spurred him, driving him forward wildly. The one obsession that he must destroy this Eppanian made him throw caution to the winds. Gritting his teeth in rage, he groped ahead for the hated quarry.

  Unexpectedly the lights flashed on. For a moment Zimmerman was blinded but his attitude left no doubt as to his intentions. Mataal leapt from the bed and braced his back against the wall. His dark eyes glittered alertly. "Get out of here!" he said coldly.

  Marshaling his lumberjack strength, Zimmerman hurled himself forward in order to press the Eppanian against the wall. He crashed into it but with empty hands.

  He took a couple of swift blows to the kidneys and gasped in pain. Before he had even turned himself on he found his whole plan endangered. Desperately he charged the other, getting a deadlock around his legs and both of them crashed to the deck. Zimmerman got on top of his opponent and sought to choke him but Mataal brought his legs up and sent him sailing. He instinctively caught the other's foot, however, and struggled to kick back. They broke and both men jumped to their feet.

  Zimmerman realized that he had underestimated his antagonist. He raised his fists and charged at him.

  The yellow face before him remained utterly composed. Zimmerman's wild haymaker expended itself harmlessly against Mataal's raised arms. Then a counterblow slammed him clear across the room. Zimmerman saw red. Again he charged.

  The cabin door flew open and he halted his attack.

  It was the colonel. His face was grave and weary. He held a paralyzer aimed at Zimmerman, who looked at him defiantly. The communications man's body pained him in various places. He was breathing heavily.

  "You poor fool," said Everson pityingly. "Mataal could have killed you any time he pleased. What ever put this crazy idea into your mind?"

  Hatefully, Zimmerman pointed to the Eppanian. "He's at the bottom of everything that's happened! Until he came on board we weren't having any trouble at all!"

  Everson replaced the weapon in his pocket. "You told me that before," he reminded him, "But you have no proof. You wanted to kill this man merely on the basis of a suspicion. You know what that means. It's the end of your career and on Earth you'll go before a court martial."

  Zimmerman yelled at him bitterly. "Then I hope you're the next customer your buddy here decides to take care of! If you ask me, you don't want to admit what's going on here!"

  "Go to your quarters, Zimmerman!" ordered Everson roughly.

  Zimmerman limped out of the cabin. Everson looked thoughtfully at Mataal, who had sat down on the edge of his bunk.

  "I'm grateful for your interference," said the Eppanian.

  "I believe I'm indebted to you," countered Everson. "You might have killed him easily. His action was totally irresponsible and he will have to take the consequences, once he's back on Earth. Of course there is some possibility that he's right. Mataal, do you have anything to do with my men who have become paralyzed?"

  "What purpose would it serve to protest my innocence? You'd only continue to suspect me," argued the extraterrestrial.

  "Yes," admitted Everson, "you're probably right These incidents could also have come about without premeditation. Do you know of any disease or ailment on Eppan that could produce such symptoms?"

  "I have already explained to Dr. Morton that we know of no such sickness."

  "We can only hope," said Everson, "that no more of the men will be affected by it."

  But he was to be bitterly deceived in this vain hope. Because the next victim was Henry Delacour.

  5/ THE THING FROM THE WALL

  "Check!" said Delacour triumphantly. He placed his bishop diagonally in a position to block Inoshiro's king.

  The eyelids of the diminutive Japanese lifted perceptibly. He sat at the playing board like a miniature Buddha. "You play very well," he said courteously. "But I should warn you that in four moves you'll be in check-mate."

  Delacour stared at the board. From his point of view his pieces had a better freedom of movement than those of his opponent. Inoshiro moved a knight in front of Delacour's king and simultaneously brought a castle into danger that had previously been protected by another knight.

  "Apparently you have a point," admitted Delacour reluctantly. "Honda, you're an old fox. But one of these days I'm going to make you sweat." He moved his king to safety, only to note that the next move by Inoshiro's queen would get him into further difficulty. "OK, I give up," he said resignedly. As the Japanese only chuckled and began to put the playing pieces away, Delacour stood up and looked peevishly at his watch. "I still have 3 hours to go, so maybe I'll catch some sleep." He gave his small opponent a pat on the shoulder and left the cabin.

  Henry Delacour was a medium-sized man with red hair. Like the majority of red-headed people, the shape of his head was distinctive as were his acquiline features. He had a sharp mind which was very seldom influenced by emotions. Of a somewhat reserved and reticent nature, the Japanese was the only one with whom he had established a tacit friendship.

  When he arrived in his quarters he immediately retired to rest. Placing his hands behind his head, he mentally reviewed the game with Inoshiro and attempted to figure out where his basic mistake had occurred.

  It was then that something emerged from the wall near his bed!

  Almost any other man would have been gripped with shock and i
t was only Delacour's intellectual sangfroid that rescued him temporarily from a similar reaction This in spite of the fact that his heart almost stopped beating. It seemed as if the thin metal of the wall had become transparent, or non-existant, in the place where the Thing came through.

  Delacour made a lightning swift move and pressed the call button of the permanently operating ship's intercom. "Sir!" he cried out sharply. "This is Delacour. Something is coming through the wall here. Hurry!" Fear clutched at his voice and seemed to shut it off.

  "Hang on!" came Everson's instant answer.

  Transfixed, Delacour could only stare at the Thing. It had detached itself completely from the wall now, a scintillating transparent shadow without apparent substance. What could it be? Delacour had never seen anything like it before in his life. Panic finally gripped him. He wanted to yell, to bellow aloud in his horror, even to breathe—but his lips remained silent.

  The incredible apparition was already on top of him.

  • • •

  The three men came in together. On their faces was a mixture of anger and barely suppressed fear. Everson looked up at them. There were shadows under his eyes and his lanky figure seemed to have lost some of its military posture. "Well?" he asked.

  Finney appointed himself as the spokesman but Sternal and Weiss were obviously in agreement.

  "Delacour was victim number four," said the technician. "Now we have definite proof that somebody on board is responsible for paralyzing the men. Delacour saw something before it got to him. What are you going to do about it, sir?"

  "It could just be possible that Delacour was having hallucinations," retorted Everson. "Sternal, you were the one who fell down on your job. You were assigned to keep an eye on Mataal but you let Zimmerman get to him and you only told me about it when you saw that Zimmerman's plan wasn't going to pay off."

  Sternal appeared to be flabbergasted. "I thought I was only supposed to see that Mataal stayed in his room.

  Before Everson could answer, Poul Weiss entered the argument. "A few minutes before Delacour put in that distress call he was with Inoshiro. They were playing chess, and Honda was anything but under the impression that Delacour was delirious. He would have had to notice any change in him at the time."

  "Alright," said Everson calmly, "let's suppose that some member of the crew wants to put each of us out of commission, one at a time. What would be the object? If more men are knocked out we won't be able to make any transition jumps—and that would be as bad for the perpetrator as it would be for the rest of us."

  "The guilty one doesn't necessarily have to be a crew member," interjected Finney.

  Everson shook his head stubbornly. "Oh no, gentlemen! You're making things easy for yourselves. I see that you want to get after the Eppanian again. Sternal wasn't able to prove that Mataal was wandering around in the Fauna without an escort or supervision."

  Finney spoke up. "Delacour claimed that something came through the wall into his room. So Mataal doesn't have to go by any normal route when he wants to move around in the ship."

  "You must be joking," said the colonel. "The next thing you'll be telling me is that the Eppanian walks up and down the walls. Your imagination is running away with you—or is it fear?"

  Everson knew only too well that it was fear. The feeling that any one of them could be next in line to be found lying helpless and paralyzed in his room. But it was also the fear of reducing the personnel on board, which was synonymous with being unable to make a transition jump. And then, too, there was the ever-growing sense of helplessness resulting from the malfunction of the telecom equipment. For the commander of the outfit there was still another problem: to maintain calm and order. A general panic would only make things worse.

  Sternal asked permission to speak. "We wanted to propose something to you," he said. "We have an idea of how we can prevent anyone's being jumped on when they're alone."

  "Keep talking," said Everson.

  "We suggest that starting right now all hands stay in the Control Central. There's enough room in that area. Let nobody go anywhere in the ship alone. If it's necessary to go to other parts of the ship, at least two men should go together. That way we can keep up a group surveillance. Naturally this includes Mataal and Goldstein. We've already talked to Dr. Morton and he's agreed that the ones who have been paralyzed can also be brought to the bridge."

  Everson considered. It was a very good idea. But what would come of it if they were all in a bunch and still more of these incidents occurred? With all of them crowded into a tight space together, each one watching the other, with nerves at the breaking point—anything could happen. But Everson knew that he would have to go along with it.

  Faced with a number of undesirable alternatives, he could only choose the best of them. The men expected him to take some kind of action. Their disillusionment would be all the greater, however, if the plan should fail. Under no circumstances could he let these spacemen lounge around with nothing to do. They had to be occupied in order to divert their thoughts. But this was not the greatest problem that faced Everson. The latter was simply stated: he had to bring the ship back to Earth!

  "You may go," he said. "Your proposal is a good one." He waited until they had gone and then he leaned toward the intercom microphone. "Attention!" he called out. "This is the Commander speaking. Starting immediately, special security measures will be in effect. All hands report to the bridge. Dr. Morton will take charge of the disabled men accordingly. No one will be permitted to go anywhere alone on ship board. This order applies to Mr. Scoobey as well as to myself. Since the Eppanian will also be with us I want you to remember that this man is from a race of people who are far behind us in their development. The alien is under a great enough psychological strain as it is and I don't want it to be worsened by any unnecessary actions on your part. Dr. Morton and two off-duty astronauts will bring Goldstein and the other disabled men up onto the bridge. I am depending on you to remain calm and orderly because from this moment on I'll have to take top disciplinary measures against any insubordination. You have 10 minutes in which to carry out these orders. Thank you."

  When he emerged from his cabin he met Scoobey on the circular ramp.

  "Do you think that was a good idea?" asked the first officer.

  Everson made room for Weiss and Finney to get by as they carried the paralyzed figure of Short along the cat-walk. "Well, what do you think?" he answered with a counter-question.

  Scoobey's brown eyes peered up at him. "You're waiting too long before making the second transition, sir," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Under normal circumstances it would be behind us already. What do you think will happen if we stay around here much longer in this deserted corner of the universe?"

  Everson was vexed by the indecisiveness that had come over him. Was it actually a desire to await the development of further events that had hindered him from ordering preparations for the second hyperjump? Or had he simply become an inflexible and unresponsive old man who could be rocked off his orbit by the slightest incident? Wasn't it true that his present actions were the result of instigations by the crew? Even now, if he gave the order to go into transition, it would be traceable to the fact that Scoobey—not he—had been the causative factor.

  Everson stared at his hands. They were firm, suntanned and finely veined. They were steady, completely devoid of any trembling. With these hands he had guided the K-262 over light-years of distance in perfect safety. Was all that behind him now? Was he standing here at the end of his prime, a used up, hollowed-out old spacer who lost his legs at the slightest jolt in the old deck-plates? Was he really that helpless? No, old boy, thought Everson. No more than anybody else on board.

  Aloud he said: "We will carry out the second transition. We can't wait any longer."

  "Very good, sir," replied Scoobey, satisfied.

  When the two of them reached the bridge they found that Dr. Morton had just completed his transportation of his patients. He appea
red to be just about exhausted. The men who were standing about in the area were peculiarly silent. Perplexed, Everson's gaze swept the ailing men who lay on the gallery deck. The physician had covered them so that only their faces were visible. The colonel realized at once what had produced the heavy silence among the crewmen. The number of paralyzed victims had been increased by one.

  He had just caught a glimpse of the powerful, angular face but in the same instant he knew who was lying there: Ralf Zimmerman.

  Dr. Morton's voice came to him as though through a heavy veil: "It must have happened just before your announcement. Fashong found him like that. Same condition as the others."

  This was the 5th victim—only a few hours after Delacour. Everson looked at Mataal, who crouched in the farthest corner. The Eppanian's dark eyes met his gaze steadily but there was nothing there but the dumb defiance of a beast in captivity.

  Slowly, Everson moved to his control seat. No one spoke. A few men softly cleared their throats. The humming of the equipment filled the bridge area. The astronauts went silently to their places. Goldstein tittered inanely. It was a signal.

  "Make preparations for the second hypertransition," Everson ordered.

  Deft hands operated the console switches at various posts. Voices rang out now and indicator lights began to flicker. Once more the moods of fear, panic, horror and anger were overcome. A breath of courage and confidence pervaded the small group of men. Only the five paralyzed victims and the mutant, Goldstein, who lay on the deck muttering incoherently to himself, gave an indication that there would be a revisitation of what had gone before.

  The fear, the anger, the panic and the horror.

  6/ AND THEN THERE WERE 9!

  Marcus Everson, Commander of the K-262, brushed the back of his hand across his sweat-dampened brow. His vague sense of uneasiness had passed away, replaced by a feeling of deep satisfaction. The swing-arm of his pilot's seat swung over next to Scoobey.