The Horror Read online

  The thought burst was so strong that Goldstein was shaken by it. He collected himself swiftly and strained to make out what else was going on in the other's now—swirling thought patterns. There were separate fragments: ...with mental force... why shouldn't he also be able to handle telekiness? ...would explain a lot... but if I think of it he'll notice it... have to tell Everson at once...

  Goldstein could hesitate no longer. The Japanese had his suspicions aroused and was about to inform Everson about them. The mutant did not have time to paralyze Inoshiro. That would have required a careful probing into the corresponding nerve centers.

  Goldstein's gaze fastened upon a writing stand that was on the Navigation desk and he concentrated on a penzel. For the mutant the plastic device was nothing more than a collection of uncomplex molecules which he could easily manipulate. In a flash he regrouped the molecular structure and compacted it into a cubical missile.

  Inoshiro was looking over at him. His excitement was obvious. Goldstein proceeded in an icy calm. Before the lips of the Japanese could utter a cry of alarm, the mutant accelerated the totally reformed pen and brought it against Inoshiro's forehead with the force of a hammer blow.

  With a groan, the diminutive Asiatic sank unconscious to the deck. The other men hurried over to him. Goldstein was careful to make his improvised weapon glide away to one side. While the spacemen concerned themselves with the wounded victim and lifted him up to have a look at him, the mutant returned the missile to its original form and sent it back to the desk again.

  "Doc," he heard Everson saying, "you'd better have a look at his forehead."

  Dr. Morton and Everson were bent over looking at Inoshiro in flabbergasted amazement. The physician turned the Asiatic's face up to the light.

  "He's only unconscious," he said. "It looks like somebody's hit him with a crowbar or something."

  In complete bewilderment, Everson looked at the ship's doctor. "But that's impossible," he said. "Nobody was having any words with him. There must be another explanation."

  "Maybe he bumped against something," suggested Weiss.

  Goldstein didn't pay any more attention to them. The Japanese would not remain unconscious for long. But there was a way of prolonging his present state. Goldstein sank back on his makeshift bed. Now he had time to put the Asiatic out of action like the other paralyzed men who lay beside him. He was breathing under a new tension of excitement. Who was there to stop him? He'd sweep them all out of his way—Everson, Rhodan, the other mutants—anybody who stood in his path. Then he, Goldstein, would stand up against the weaker ones and the course of human development would take the direction that he had in his mind.

  Goldstein had very definite ideas about his future. Of course there was a certain sense of uneasiness that slumbered deep within him, which somehow he could not explain.

  8/ PHANTOM ENEMY

  Somewhere in his youth, Everson had seen an educational film in which the members of a primitive race of people irrigated their land by using a thin and shaggy donkey to operate a pump while being driven endlessly in a circle with its eyes blindfolded. While the defenseless animal clopped its weary path through the noonday heat, mercilessly plagued by insects, the natives lounged in the shade beside a brook.

  Even at that early age, Everson had sensed a resentment in himself against this treatment of the animal. Now as he sat slouched wearily in his pilot's chair, his face grey and sunken from lack of sleep, he had a much deeper insight into the torments of the donkey. His own situation had much in common with the quadruped he had seen in the film. He, too, moved in circles; his eyes seemed to be blindfolded, preventing him from seeing the truth.

  His hands slowly turned the glass of ice-cold refreshment which Dr. Morton had given him to lift his spirits.

  Inoshiro had not regained consciousness. He had gone into the same mysterious state of paralysis as the other patients. The episode had finally gotten to Sternal. Just a few minutes ago he had broken down in front of everyone left in the Control Central, sinking silently to the deck like a marionette without the support of its strings.

  But weren't they all lust puppets here in the power of the invisible enemy who manoeuvred them as he pleased? Everson looked at the 4 men who still remained to him. One of them had to be a criminal.

  Perhaps Dr. Morton? The physician was an expert who could easily have caused such a condition of paralysis in the men. But Everson was in the dark as to 'how' he might have done it. Or was Fashong the guilty one? This alert and keen-minded Chinese who always wore the same expression of Oriental inscrutability—what reason would he have had to do a thing like this? Poul Weiss? Everson shook his head. He could not believe that he could have had anything to do with the situation. No more than Scoobey who sat there in his chair with half-closed eyes, dreaming into nothingness.

  As for Mataal, he was under the influence of Dr. Morton's injection. It would be purposeless to give him another shot because the Eppanian was completely blameless. All other crew members were paralyzed—except Goldstein! But the poor kid was out of his head.

  So the probability of putting a finger on the guilty one did not have very good odds. Or was something else on board? Everson recalled Goldstein's delirious ravings. Wasn't the mutant just fantasizing when he claimed that he had 'sneaked' Death itself on board the ship? Were such statements merely the dark forebodings of a paranormally sensitive person or was there actually some unknown alien enemy here?

  Everson got up from his seat, aware of being watched by distrustful eyes. He must appear to be under as much suspicion for the others as they were to him.

  The colonel slowly approached Goldstein. The telepath's eyes were closed but his breathing was rapid as though he were under some kind of tension.

  Everson bent down over him. "Goldstein!" he called softly. "Can you hear me?"

  The mutant's eyes snapped open suddenly and they stared up at Everson, shining with a fevered intensity.

  "Calm yourself, boy," said Everson. "I just want to talk to you."

  Goldstein rose up with a start and looked around at the paralyzed men. He turned over and supported himself on his elbows. "There they lie," he said, shuddering. He gesticulated with a nervously tense index finger. "We'll all be lying there like that—all of us!"

  "Why don't you tell me more about it?" Everson urged him.

  Goldstein suddenly took hold of him in fear. The Commander shook him gently to clear his mind and reassure him. "We're being watched!" said the telepath in a whining tone of voice. His eyes wandered about. "He will kill me if I say anything."

  "Nobody is going to kill you! Who are you talking about? Tell me who is watching us—just talk—speak up, Goldstein!" These last words he had almost shouted.

  Goldstein grinned foolishly. For a moment Everson had the strange feeling that he was missing something very important and decisive. He couldn't centralize his thoughts; they seemed to flee as though someone had wiped them Out with an eraser.

  "It's Dr. Morton." Goldstein's voice was like that of a child who was enlarging upon something

  overheard from grownups. "Dr. Morton is going to kill me," he shrieked discordantly. Everson turned from the mutant. Dr. Morton blanched suddenly and got up from his seat, his blue eyes searching Everson gravely. The colonel drew his paralysis weapon.

  "You're crazy!" yelled the physician. "Goldstein is not in his right mind—are you going to believe him?"

  "He's a telepath," said Everson. "Maybe he's flipped but he can still read thoughts—and he suspects you, Doc. You're the only man on board who could do this to us because you have the knowledge to be able to create such a condition in these men. And besides, you haven't been paralyzed yet."

  The bearded medico took a few steps backwards. His arm raised up as he pointed accusingly at Everson. "Now I see through it all!" he shouted. "You are the culprit! Oh this is real clever, alright. If you eliminate me there will be no one else to stand in your way." He appealed to Scoobey and Weiss. "He's behin
d it all, believe me!" Determinedly, Everson raised his gun.

  "Stop him!" roared the doctor, super-indignant. "Stop him before it's too late. Don't you see what a fiendish game he's playing with us?"

  Later, Everson was unable to explain what induced him to shoot. Morton staggered and fell to the deck. "He's only paralyzed," said Everson tonelessly. "Get him out of the way."

  "He did not appear to have a guilty conscience, sir," observed Fashong quietly.

  "Not as guilty as I should be feeling, is that what you mean?" inquired Everson.

  "It's completely senseless for us to keep on suspecting each other," replied the Chinese calmly. "We should face the fact that we've been beaten and if we try to make contact with our antagonist with that in mind, he may well reveal himself."

  "Only an insane person can be our opponent," said Everson. "He blocked out the final transition jump and in so doing he sentenced himself to death along with the rest of us."

  Since Mataal had finally recovered from the effects of the injection, Everson helped him to his feet. The Eppanian looked around at the increased number of victims. "Your situation apparently hasn't gotten any better," he said, not without sarcasm. "Am I still the number one suspect?"

  Everson shook his head negatively. "I still think my suggestion is valid," continued Fashong stubbornly. "We should make contact with our phantom enemy because we don't have any choice in the matter. So let's surrender."

  Everson snapped at him: "I'm the one who will decide the time and place for surrender, if it comes to that. But our 'friend' is only going to show himself when he decides to do so.

  Scoobey who had remained silent for a long time now came up from his chair. He spoke like a man who had thoroughly examined a problem and arrived at the best possible solution. "I have another plan, sir," he said. "We destroy the ship." He waited to see if anybody had any comment. As no one spoke, he continued: "We will cause the Fauna to self-destruct in empty space. Commander Everson will be able to confirm that this is possible. Of course this would mean that all of us will die with the guppy—but it would also include the enemy. This is the only way we can flush him out. He would have to do something if he didn't want to be destroyed along with the rest of us. His carefully followed strategy would have to be abandoned, Above all, he would have to give up the idea of knocking us out, one by one, because my plan won't give him that much time. So that way we'll force our unknown enemy to lay his cards on the table."

  "I'm with you!" cried Weiss with a surge of emotion. Fashong was cautious. "That sounds a bit final. Your suggestion leaves us no alternative but to die, or—well, that 'or' part has me stumped, I'll admit."

  "In any case I'm against destroying the ship," said Everson. "We still have a chance to help ourselves by other means."

  In two steps, Scoobey was beside Mataal. He raised the other's arm on high. "Doesn't he also have a right to decide what's to happen to us? His life is threatened as much as ours. So give him the opportunity to express his own view. That's the least we can do."

  "Alright," said Everson, "I'll ask him." Whereupon he described the issue to the Eppanian in his own language.

  "Destroy the ship!" demanded Mataal. "You can't ever force an enemy by standing still and doing nothing." His teeth flashed as his yellow face hardened with grim decision. Everson was certain that Mataal looked upon their unknown foe as some sort of monster that could be conquered in the arena with a sword.

  He turned to his First Officer. "You win," he said. "Mataal is on your side. Nevertheless, we'll ask Dr. Morton. He'll be coming to, sooner or later."

  Scoobey walked over to the physician and pushed him with his toe. The older man appeared to be fully paralyzed like the rest. "You're not going to have much luck there, sir," he said tonelessly. "Here's another proof that we can't wait any longer. Do you want to wait until we're all lying here stiff as boards?"

  Everson felt a rising urge to fight something with his bare fists. "Morton's condition throws suspicion on me, he admitted. "So on that basis I'll buy your proposition!"

  Scoobey smiled. "Very well," he said, satisfied. "You know what has to be done, sir. We can't do it from up here. We have to go down to the propulsion section. I suggest that we lock up the Control Central and leave here at once."

  Four above-average intelligent Terranians and one Eppanian all looked at each other. A tacit mutual agreement was in their eyes. Scoobey led the way.

  They did not get very far. They were confronted with an unbelievable spectacle: the companionway stairs—the only route into the rest of the ship—disappeared before them. They became somehow

  attenuated, then transparent, then just an outline, before they vanished completely.

  "It looks like we've rubbed the enemy the wrong way," observed Weiss in a dry tone of voice as he looked down over the railing.

  For the moment they had no other way of leaving the control bridge. It had become their prison, as though they had already been delivered into the hands of their merciless opponent.

  A ghastly outburst of laughter tore them from their thoughts. In startled amazement, they turned to see that it was Goldstein who was laughing so deliriously.

  "Somebody better give him a shot," suggested Scoobey.

  "He'll calm down again," said Everson. "I'm sure it's just a temporary attack."

  What was left for them, he pondered wearily—what other avenue could they take? He felt completely depleted. Hollowed out and without any inner substance remaining to him, he stood there facing the enemy, whoever he might be. The others hadn't fared any better—except for the Eppanian. Since all that had happened was beyond his comprehension, he remained unaffected.

  Everson stared at the place where the aluminium steps of the companionway ladder had been but moments before. Tensely he wondered at it. How or by what means could anyone explain such a disappearance?

  Was there any chance left for them at all?

  • • •

  Goldstein slowly recovered from his extreme state of exhaustion. The effort it had cost him to disintegrate the stairway in a short length of time had drained him almost to the limit. But he could not let this opportunity for a demonstration of his power slip by without using it to his advantage. That was all that mattered. He had to convince Everson that he was invincible. The morale of this small group had to be shattered, piece by piece. Goldstein was now convinced that he would succeed.

  He heard Poul Weiss offering a suggestion. "If we tied all these blankets together we could let ourselves down to the catwalk."

  "No use," countered Everson. "If we make any kind of a ladder at all it will suffer the same fate as the stairs."

  Fashong spoke up: "I'd like to remind you of my suggestion, sir."

  Once we know who the culprit is, it'll be easier for us to take him by surprise, thought the astronaut. Why doesn't Everson go along with that?

  Goldstein followed these thoughts effortlessly. He would knock out the Chinese as the next man on his list. The Asiatic's iron self-control and his ability to come up with shrewd considerations even in a situation like this could be a big help to Everson, which Goldstein did not like at all.

  "What do you think I'm going to do, Fashong?" asked Everson. "Just announce over the ship com that I'm ready to negotiate? It doesn't seem to me that our adversary had to talk to us at all."

  "What I have to say now may sound a bit presumptuous," replied Fashong. "But I've noticed a certain pattern in the enemy's modus operandi. He started by knocking out the men he seemed to consider the least important and then he slowly worked up into the more strategic type of personnel. We four—excluding Mataal, naturally—constitute the top command echelon of the guppy. Certainly that can't be just a coincidence."

  No doubt about it, reflected Goldstein—the Chinese was on the verge of discovering the truth. He had stuck to the trail like a bloodhound. Goldstein almost felt a certain sympathy for Fashong, who was struggling valiantly to find a solution without the help of paranormal fa
culties.

  "So?" said the colonel. "Where do you go from there?" Fashong continued: "Ordinarily you'd think that the logical sequence would be to take care of the top command first so that he could eliminate any resistance from that quarter. But if he doesn't take that route it means he has special plans for those who are left or he wants to put pressure on them. He wants to make them surrender. So why don't we do what this mystery phantom wants us to do, sir?"

  Everson's voice rose slightly as he answered: "No matter what happens, I will never surrender."

  The navigator went to his work desk. He scribbled several sentences on a piece of paper and handed it to the Commander.

  Goldstein could easily follow the thought in Everson's mind as he read: We could only appear to surrender. Then we play for keeps.

  Everson crumpled the note. His tall figure leaned over the microphone. "We are ready to negotiate," he said slowly. "Whoever the enemy may be, he can reveal himself now so that we may come to terms."

  Goldstein tittered scornfully. His paranormal powers came into action. The Penzel on the navigation desk moved as though held in a ghostly hand. Carefully, Goldstein guided the note he had written through the Control Central. It floated slowly toward Everson.

  "Sir!" yelled Weiss. "Look at that!"

  Everson snatched the piece of paper out of the air. Aloud, he read the single sentence that was written there. "Go to the devil!"

  Fashong appeared to be satisfied. "I would say that is a typically human expression."

  Goldstein knew that he didn't have much time. He dared not hesitate as long as he had in Inoshiro's case. Carefully he probed the brain of the Chinese. A slight modification of certain nerve channels would suffice.

  "Oh, great!" growled Everson sarcastically. "That's a big help!"

  Fashong spoke rapidly: "There is only one conclusion we can draw from the facts at hand."