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Title: The Great Green Blight
Author: Robert Emmett McDowell
Illustrator: C. A. Murphy
Release date: November 18, 2020 [eBook #63807]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT
GREEN BLIGHT ***
The Great Green Blight
By EMMETT McDOWELL
The Empire of Earth was crumbling. Space-liners fell
prey to savage phantom crews. A weird, green wave
of terror engulfed the Universe. Enslavement of the
Empire was near, and only a handful of men could halt
the final blow ... a handful of men who could not
act—for a single movement would mean their death.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Somewhere aboard the Super Space Liner, Jupiter, a resonant gong
sounded three times. Norman Saint Clair started, glanced uneasily
about the magnificent lounge. A gray fear gnawed at his vitals. With
a sinking heart, he watched the crowd, who had come to see off the
passengers, hurry out the port. This was his last chance to get off the
ship.
"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.
Norman Saint Clair spun around, recognized a Universal Lines
steward, grinned embarrassedly.
"First trip?" asked the yellow-clad steward.
The young man nodded.
"I wouldn't be too uneasy, sir. We'll pick up our escort this side of the
moon. A full ship of the line, sir. We're carrying radium, you know.
They wouldn't dare attack a ship of the line. May I see your book,
sir?"
Norman Saint Clair fumbled in his wallet, handed the steward his
book. Since Terra's ships had begun to disappear on the Earth to
Jupiter run, the Terrestial Intelligence Service required them of
everyone traveling through space. It contained his photograph, a
three-dimensional likeness showing a gaunt likeable face crowned by
short, crisp blond hair, a photostatic copy of his birth certificate, his
description, nationality, business, fingerprints, history.
Satisfied, the steward said: "This way, sir," and led him to an
acceleration chair at the after end of the lounge. "Strap yourself in,
sir. We start in a few moments."
The young man eased his lank, six-foot-two frame into the seat,
nervously fastened the belt. In spite of the steward's words, he was
not reassured. Ship after ship had vanished into the blue. Nor had
the vaunted Terrestial Navy or the T.I.S. been able to discover any
trace of them thereafter. Somewhere beyond the orbit of Mars their
radios crackled and blanked out. Space opened and swallowed them.
It was unprecedented. Never before in the history of space travel had
anything remotely like it occurred.
His eyes roved among the few passengers strapped in their chairs.
They were subdued. The sailing, unlike the gay hectic affairs before
the coming of the terror, was grim, quiet. No one, he realized, was
making the trip unless it was unavoidable.
With a touch of panic, he considered demanding to be set back on
Terra while there was yet time, but a stubborn streak made him hold
to his course. It was the same stubborn streak which had led him to
book passage aboard the Jupiter in spite of the terror. A hundred
times he had regretted accepting the post of Lecturer on Ancient
History at distant Ganymede. He loved the quiet sanctuary of his
library with its collection of twentieth century authors. He had no
ambition to exchange his secure academic life for the uncertainty of a
crude, rowdy frontier. But the post had offered a good salary, much
better than he could expect on Earth for years.
A party of Colonial Guards swaggering across the lounge drew his
attention. They were a hard-faced lot, recruited from Earth's far-flung
frontiers. They constituted, he knew, a special armed guard, traveling
aboard the Jupiter at the company's request. Universal was taking no
risk with the precious cargo of radium.
From the Colonial Guards his eyes strayed across to the occupant of
the seat next to his. A girl. He stared, lost in admiration. He'd never
seen a creature so beautiful. Her black curly hair framed a pale oval
face. Her eyes were blue, her features delicate, chiseled. She was, he
realized with a start, regarding him with a mixture of amusement and
solicitude.
"First trip?" the girl asked, liking the frank scholarly face of the young
man.
He nodded.
"Just relax in your chair," she advised him. "The acceleration's pretty
fierce at first."
A second gong advised them the port was sealed. Several passengers
hurried into the lounge, flung themselves into acceleration chairs. A
voice, coming over the public address system, announced: "Strap
yourselves in carefully. Acceleration begins in three minutes." Twice
more the warning was repeated.
Norman Saint Clair's pulse beat rapidly. He felt frightened. Then a
faint hum made itself felt rather than heard.
The girl said, "Listen, the engines."
He thought they sounded like the hum of bees on a warm summer
day. He shivered, feeling that cold knife of fear slide into his vitals.
A giant hand slammed him in the chest, thrust him deep into the
folds of the acceleration chair. His breath was driven from his lungs.
He gasped, strained for air painfully. The die was cast, he realized
bitterly. There could be no turning back now. They were off.
In a few minutes the pressure slackened. He could turn his head. The
girl, he saw, had uncoupled her safety and was rising. He followed
her example, stood up unsteadily. The artificial gravity, two-thirds
that on Earth, was in effect. It gave him a light giddy sensation. He
didn't think he was going to enjoy the voyage.
"Isn't it delightful?" said the girl. "It always makes me feel positively
sylph-like."
Now that she was standing he could see how slim was her waist, how
full her hips, how long her legs. She stirred some atavistic sense in
him. A vein throbbed in his throat. I'm reacting like an animal, he
thought. Disgusting.
The girl held out her hand, said, "I'm Jennifer Scott. I'm going home
to Ganymede."
He took her hand, introduced himself. "I've been employed to lecture
on Ancient History at the Ganymede Seminar."
Jennifer clapped her hands. "Grand. Papa is commandant of the
military post. The fort is only a short distance from the Seminar. We'll
be neighbors. You'll love Ganymede. It's so wild and primitive."
"No doubt," he replied dryly.
Jennifer glanced at her watch, said, "It's time for lunch. I'm ravenous.
Shall we try the saloon or the grill." She seemed to have assumed
proprietorship of him. He rather liked it. He said, "Let's try the dining
saloon."
As he piloted her across the lounge, he observed again how few
people had booked passage. The fear returned, squeezed at his
stomach. He said:
"Do you think it was wise to make the crossing at a time like this?"
"What?" said Jennifer. "Oh. You mean the terror. No, I suppose it
wasn't, and papa will be frantic. He sent me a spaceogram absolutely
forbidding me to return. But I was fed up."
"Fed up?"
"Yes, fed up with Earth and their dull stuffy ways," said the girl
passionately. "They're dead. They've forgotten how to play, or fight or
make love."
Norman Saint Clair was shocked. People who went to the Colonies,
he had always supposed, were driven to some such drastic step by
the force of circumstance—economic, possibly, as was his case. This
view came as a revelation, an unpleasant one.
"Anyway," continued the girl; "we're off. It's too late now."
They fell in behind a fat Earth woman, entered the passage which led
to the dining saloon. He started to ask the girl what she had found so
unpleasant about Earth, when the fat woman stopped, said: "Oh, my
God!" Then she began to scream. The screams lifted the hair right off
Norman Saint Clair's neck.
Jennifer cried, "What is it? What happened?"
Hesitantly, he peered over the screaming woman's shoulder, saw a
man stretched on the deck. He lay on his stomach, his head on one
side, disclosing a pale classical profile. He appeared young, little older
than Norman himself.
"I don't know," the young man replied. "Someone's hurt, I think."
He forced himself to push past the fat woman, kneel at the
unconscious man's side. What he saw made him sick. He looked
away. A gout of blood had spurted from the man's neck, dyed the
green fiberon carpet scarlet. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.
Several passengers, alarmed by the Earth woman's screams, dashed
into the passage.
"What's wrong?"
"Something happened?"
"Dead!" the fat woman gasped. "My God, I almost stepped on him!"
She burst into strangling sobs.
A yellow-clad steward appeared. He couldn't see the body because of
the press. "What's the trouble, sir?"
Norman stared at him. "Murder," he said in a shocked voice. "This
man has been murdered. His throat's cut."
"Murder!" repeated the steward. "I'll get the captain." He scuttled off
down the corridor. The fat woman went into hysterics.
"Who could have done it?" breathed Jennifer. "Why?"
Norman Saint Clair shook his head. He rose from his knees, feeling
weak, shaken. He had never seen a dead man before.
"Here," said a man brusquely. "I'm a doctor. Let me see that man."
He shouldered to the front, knelt beside the body. Norman Saint Clair
relinquished his place with relief.
"Powerful man did that," the doctor pointed out. "Almost cut his head
off."
With a gulp Norman looked away.
"Here!" ejaculated the doctor. "Look at this!"
Curiosity dragged his eyes back. The doctor had rolled the body over,
turned back the lapel of the dark gray business suit. Norman saw a
small green disk pinned to the underside of the lapel. It was about
the size of a dime and died out to represent one of Earth's
hemispheres. Three letters in raised silver stood out on the green
surface. "T.I.S." he made out.
"An agent of the Terrestial Intelligence Service," breathed Norman.
The doctor rose, drew a handkerchief, wiped his hands. He was a tall
man, almost as tall as Norman, with gray hair. His brown eyes sought
the young man's. "He must have been working on the terror."
Norman nodded, thought that it didn't require any brilliant deduction
to guess that. Ninety percent of the T.I.S. force was trying to solve it.
The entire resources of the Empire were being drawn upon to
uncover the solution. Vital trade was at a standstill, and last week the
Nebulae, a crack luxury liner, had disappeared between Earth and
Mars with the Martian ambassador aboard. The incident had very
nearly severed diplomatic relations between the two worlds.
The doctor bit his lip, frowned, "I wish the Captain would get here,"
he said. He glanced anxiously at the gaping crowd, discovered the
blue-eyed, black-haired girl by Norman's side.
"Jennifer!" the doctor exclaimed.
"Hello, Doctor Pequod. I didn't want to interrupt your examination."
The doctor's frown deepened. "Jennifer, what's your father thinking
to let you travel at a time like this? He should realize it's dangerous."
"He doesn't know," replied Jennifer simply. "Doctor, this is Mr. Saint
Clair. He's going to lecture in the Ganymede Seminar."
Norman shook hands automatically. Although he refused to look at
the body his mind persisted in picturing it. He said, "Doctor, do you
realize there's a killer loose among us?"
"What do you take me for? A simpleton?" snorted the doctor.
"But Doctor," put in Jennifer; "if he was working on the terror, he
must have discovered something. Else, why should they have killed
him?"
"I'd thought of that," interrupted Norman. "Do you suppose we're
headed for the same fate as those other ships? We're carrying
radium."
"Nonsense," grunted the doctor. "That agent might have been on the
trail of smugglers, anything. Oh, here comes the Captain."
The Captain, a brusque little man who appeared to be in his fifties,
glanced briefly at the body, said: "Who found it?"
Several passengers pointed out Norman.
"I?" said Norman in haste. "I didn't find it. That—that...." He flung his
eyes over the crowd in search of the fat woman, but she had been
carried to her stateroom. He took a breath, began again. "Miss Scott
and I were going to lunch. We were right behind an Earth woman.
She saw the body first."
"You didn't see anyone enter or leave this passage?"
He emphatically shook his head.
"Steward!" called the Captain, turning away. "Get this body into the
meat box."
"Yes, sir." The steward started to go for help.
"Here! Wait a moment. Clear these people out first."
Norman said to Jennifer, "Let's get out." More than anything else, he
wanted to get away from that body. His voyage to Ganymede was
turning out even worse than he had anticipated.
"Not you," said the Captain. "I want to see your book."
Norman could feel the eyes of everyone on him as he handed it over.
The Captain examined it, looked up into the pale scholarly face of the
young man. "No," he said with a trace of contempt, "I suppose you
wouldn't have seen anything at that. You may go."
Norman flushed, took his book back. A surge of anger welled up
inside him at the Captain's tone. He was of a mind to register a
complaint with the company.
"I said you may go," repeated the Captain.
"I am waiting for Miss Scott," replied Norman stiffly.
For a moment the two men's wills clashed. It was the Captain, oddly
enough, who yielded. "Very well. May I see your book, Miss Scott?"
Norman felt a sense of triumph as Jennifer passed over her book.
The Captain accepted it, scanned it briefly. "I see your father is
Commandant Scott. I know him very well. A capable man. We need
more administrators like him in the Colonies. But Earth doesn't
produce the men she used to. If it weren't for the Outlanders, the
Empire would fall to pieces. Decadency; that's the sickness of Earth.
Be sure to convey my respects to your father, Miss Scott."
Jennifer smiled, said, "Thank you, Captain."
"I believe you were with Mr. Saint Clair. Did you seen anyone ahead
of you?"
Jennifer frowned in an effort to remember, shook her curly black hair.
"I'm sorry, Captain."
Before he could reply an officer pushed his way into the group.
Norman recognized him as the colonel in charge of the Armed Guard.
"Hello, Captain," said the Colonel. "One of my men just informed me
of the murder." He glanced at the body. "I suggest you close off this
corridor and take these people's names."
"I've done both," said the Captain tartly. "Since you've arrived,
Colonel, I can leave the investigation in your hands. Meanwhile this
must be reported to the T.I.S. You'll excuse me, Colonel?"
The Colonel nodded indifferently. He was a small wiry man with cold
blue eyes. He requested all three of their books, examined them
minutely while the doctor fidgeted and Norman sweated to get away
from that still form on the deck. After questioning them again, he
took their names in a notebook, dismissed them.
Once in the lounge, Norman lit a cigarette, inhaled it gratefully.
The doctor said, "I prescribe a stiff shot of brandy."
Norman didn't drink. He believed alcohol impaired thinking.
Nevertheless, he seconded the doctor's suggestion. Spirits, he
decided reluctantly, had their uses.
The murder had riven a crack in Norman Saint Clair's complacency.
His safe world was crumbling about his ears. He recalled the
Captain's charge that Earth was decadent. It was true that more and
more Outlanders, men born in the colonies, were grasping power.
Could it be possible that in his academic isolation he had missed the
real pulse of life.
Jennifer said, "Whatever are you thinking, Norman? Your eyes look as
if you were miles away."
With a start, he realized that the pair of them were waiting for him.
"I? I was thinking that—that. Oh bother thinking. Let's get that
drink."
II
Aboard the Jupiter day and night were artificially simulated. Norman
Saint Clair awoke the next morning with a sense of disaster strong in
his mind. He rose, stretched, went to the quartzite port. They had
picked up their escort during the night.
The Terrestian warship paced the Jupiter silently, grimly. She wasn't
half the size of the colossal liner, but her speed he knew to be
fabulous, and he could count a hundred gun ports along her
starboard side alone. A lean gray wolf of space, he thought. Nothing
could stand up against that brutally efficient machine of destruction.
Reassured, he began to dress himself carefully.
In the dining saloon he discovered the girl, Jennifer Scott. She was
seated at a table having breakfast with a young man to whom
Norman took an immediate dislike although it was possible to see
only the back of his head. He felt surprised at himself. He wasn't in
the habit of making snap judgements like that.
Jennifer saw him, waved gaily, beckoned him to come sit with them.
The informality of the Outlanders never ceased to amaze him. They
brushed aside conventions like cobwebs.
He said, "Good morning, Miss Scott. I trust yesterday's tragedy didn't
disturb your rest too much." There was a touch of resentment in his
tone. The girl appeared too buoyant, too vivacious. His own sleep
had been wretched.
The girl's blue eyes were bright. She said, "Not too much;" and
introduced her companion. "This is Mr. Vermeer. He's an agent of the
Venusian Export Lines."
Norman observed Vermeer coolly, saw a black-eyed, black-haired man
whose gray coat fit his chunky shoulders too tightly. There was a
white scar on his upper lip, another above his right eyebrow. Mr.
Vermeer extended his hand without enthusiasm, said, "Sit down,
Saint Clair."
Norman eased his lank frame into the chair. "Have they caught the
murderer, yet?"
Jennifer shook her head.
"Not likely," observed Vermeer with scorn. "There was a time when it
would have been suicide to kill a T.I.S. agent. From Mercury to Pluto
Earthmen were known as the scourge of the Universe. But now. Pah!
They've grown fat and spoiled. The Empire isn't able to protect its
own ships anymore."
Norman fidgeted angrily. "You're an Earthman, yourself," he accused.
"Not I," denied Vermeer. "I'm of Terrestial descent, but I was born on
Venus. I'm an Outlander."
A waiter approached, took Norman's order.
Jennifer leaned forward. "Mr. Vermeer, do you believe this murder has
any connection with the terror?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. I'd say the T.I.S. agent had stumbled across
some information which made it necessary that he be silenced."
Although that was Norman's idea he said perversely, "I think you're
making a mountain out of a molehill. The agent was probably on the
track of smugglers."
Jennifer opened her blue eyes in surprise. Vermeer shrugged, turned
to the girl, said: "They're giving a dance tonight. Would you be my
partner?"
The girl hesitated, glanced roguishly at Norman who sat stiff-faced.
"Thank you, Mr. Vermeer, but Mr. Saint Clair has already asked me."
Norman's mouth fell open. He had wanted to ask her but had
hesitated because he didn't know her well enough. His heart leaped
now with pleasure.
Vermeer glanced at Norman sourly, excused himself, left the table.
When he was out of earshot, the girl said, "There's something about
that man that doesn't ring true. I hope you don't mind me using you
as an excuse, Norman. You don't have to take me."
"Not take you?" he echoed. "Of course, I'm going to take you. You
can't very well refuse now." He grinned triumphantly, feeling
something of a devil. He rather liked the sensation.
The girl was suddenly serious. "Have you heard the news?"
"News? I haven't heard any news."
"It just came over the radio. The Comet disappeared three days out
from Ganymede. She was escorted by a corvette of the Martian Navy,
too."
The Comet, he knew, was a semi-passenger freighter of Martian
register. "But the corvette?" he echoed blankly, feeling suddenly a bit
frightened and confused.
"It vanished too." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that. But before
they disappeared, they reported three flashes in space dead ahead.
Then their signals stopped."
He opened his mouth.
"Wait," said the girl. "You haven't heard it all. The Observatory on
Ganymede had them in sight all the time. A short while after the
ship's radio messages stopped coming through, they noticed that the
Comet was disappearing just as if she were disintegrating. The
disintegration started at the stern and slowly worked forward until
the ship was completely gone." She shuddered. "When I heard the
news coming over the caster it reminded me of an old, old story of a
grinning cheshire cat. The cat disappeared tail first until even the grin
was gone."
"Alice in Wonderland," said Norman mechanically. "That was written
by Lewis Carroll, a famous writer of antiquity."
"What do you think it is?"
He shook his head. "I'm no scientist, Jennifer. It sounds like atomic
disintegration."
"But why?"
Again he shook his head. His food, he realized, was growing cold. He
began to eat mechanically. He thought that if he ever reached
Ganymede, he'd never venture into space again.
The girl said, "Vermeer was right about one thing. The Empire's
crumbling. This never could have happened a hundred years ago."
She hesitated, then added with a rush, "I wasn't going to tell you
because I'm not sure, but Mr. Vermeer's stateroom is next to mine.
When I first came aboard and was putting away my things, I noticed
a man leave his stateroom. Norman, it wasn't Mr. Vermeer. I think it
was that T.I.S. agent who was murdered."
"By Jupiter," ejaculated Norman, "do you think the T.I.S. man could
have been making an investigation of this Vermeer?"
She nodded her head, wide-eyed.
"Have you told the Captain?"
"No," said the girl.
"But he should know."
She shook her head. "He'd think I was imagining things. The
passengers have been reporting all sorts of nonsense since the
murder. If I could only be sure." She bit her lip. "Norman, the dance
tonight. He'll be there. We could search his room."
He looked at her aghast. "Search his room? Me? Suppose he walked
in on us?"
"We could pretend we'd entered by mistake. My cabin is next door."
He shook his head. "I still think it should be reported to the Captain."
"He'd never believe me."
He glanced at her helplessly. "But...."
Jennifer rose. "I'll meet you at the dance tonight. We'll make sure
he's there first."
He nodded unhappily. When the girl had left he pushed back his
plate, called the waiter. "You can take this away," he said. "I've lost
my appetite."
III
In spite of all the preparations by the Stewards Department, the
dance was not a success. Everyone drank too much, tried too hard to
be gay, but the shadow of the terror hung over the little floating
world turning the celebrations tawdry.
Norman and Jennifer were seated at a table against the bulkhead.
The orchestra was playing My Man's Done Left For Outer Space while
a Martian girl gyrated in a barbaric dance which stirred Norman's
pulse and shocked him beyond measure.
"There he is," said Jennifer in a low excited voice. "There's Vermeer
now."
The Venusian Export Lines man had just entered the saloon. Norman
saw him glance casually about the hall, saunter across to the bar.
"Come on," said Jennifer. "Let's get started."
Norman gulped down a last drink of the brandy, rose from the table.
Jennifer took his arm. He could feel her grip tighten. They passed out
a side entrance, down a companionway to the deck where Vermeer's
cabin was located. Before the door of 312 they paused.
"This is it," said Jennifer in a whisper.
Norman gingerly tried the door. "It's locked," he said with relief. "Let's
get back to the dance."
"Here," said Jennifer fumbling in her purse. "Try this. It's a pass key."
He stared at the little sliver of metal in consternation. "Where did you
get it?"
"I bribed the steward."
Norman took the key. The door opened easily. Vermeer's stateroom
contained a bunk, desk, two chairs, and a dresser. A spot reading
light threw a round beam from the overhead to the desk. A door on
the right opened into the bath. There was a second door on the left,
but it was closed.
He drew Jennifer inside, closed and locked the door.
"Look through the desk," he commanded. He went to the closed
door, opened it, revealing a closet.
"Look," he said. "What's this?"
Jennifer glanced up from the desk. Norman had pulled out a single
piece garment with shoes, gloves and helmet attached like a diver's
suit. It was made of a very sheer translucent material resembling
oiled silk. A zipper-like fastener ran up the back. The suit was pale
green, even the eye pieces being the same color.
Jennifer shook her head. "I never saw anything like it before. It isn't
heavy enough for a space suit. What do you suppose it could be?"
Norman shrugged, put it back on the rack. He went through the
pockets of the remaining clothes, found exactly nothing. From the
closet, he turned to the built-in dresser. Again his search was
fruitless.
"Have you found anything, Jennifer?"
The girl shook her head. "Not a thing. Except papers from the
Venusian Export Lines. He seems to be an accredited agent of theirs
after all."
"Let's get out of here," said Norman uneasily.
Jennifer clutched his arm. "Listen!"
He heard the grate of a key in the lock. He and the girl looked at
each other in consternation.
"Quick," said Norman, struck by an inspiration. He embraced Jennifer
clumsily. "Put your arms around me! Hurry! Now kiss me!"
Bewildered but obedient, she held up her lips. Norman kissed her. He
held it until a discreet cough behind them caused them to spring
apart guiltily.
Mr. Vermeer was regarding them from the open door, his black eyes
sardonic. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but you've got the wrong
cabin."
"I know it," said Jennifer in confusion. "My stateroom's next door.
Silly mistake, isn't it?"
"Sorry, Vermeer," apologized Norman hastily. "Come on, Jennifer." He
led the girl into the corridor. Vermeer closed and locked the door after
them.
Jennifer unlocked her cabin, said, "Come in."
Norman limply followed her inside, collapsed on a chair.
"You were wonderful," she cried. "I never would have thought of
that. It explained everything, even our confusion."
He began to feel rather proud of himself. He glanced about the girl's
room. It was similar to Vermeer's except that it was not so tidy.
Gauzy white undergarments of finest spun microweb lay on the
chairs. He recognized a tiny vial of Venusian perfume on the dresser
surrounded by a litter of brushes, mirrors, combs. There was a
picture of a tall elderly man in a uniform.
"That's papa," exclaimed Jennifer.
"I wish I knew what that suit was used for," said Norman
thoughtfully. "I've never seen anything like it before."
"You know," said the girl seating herself on the edge of the bed,
"you're not like most Earth men. You're not stodgy and patronizing.
You're cute."
He felt ridiculously pleased. He was convinced that he'd never met a
more intelligent, a more charming, a more beautiful girl than Jennifer
Scott. He said, "I've had to revise all my opinions of Outlanders since
I met you."
Jennifer laughed, jumped to her feet. Stooping over, she kissed him
lightly. "That's for a very pretty compliment. Now let's get back to the
dance before I lose all my maidenly modesty."
IV
Beyond the orbit of Mars a tension gripped the passengers of the
Jupiter. The killer of the T.I.S. agent remained at large, and the
passengers were beginning to regard each other suspiciously. They
were now in the zone where the terror operated. The battle ship had
edged in closer. Constant radio contact was maintained between the
two vessels.
Norman Saint Clair and Jennifer were on the observation deck in the
forepeak. The quartzite dome arched flatly overhead. The chill
immensity of space crowded all around them, black infinity pricked
with a million blazing suns. It was Norman's first visit to the
observation deck. Jennifer had brought him up.
"There's Jupiter," she exclaimed pointing to a large bright star dead
ahead. Norman gazed at it, fascinated.
The lookout, a lean spaceman, stirred restlessly, then stiffened.
Norman followed his gaze, saw three brief pin pricks of light stab out
of the void.
"Look!" He clutched Jennifer's shoulder, but she had seen the flashes
already.
The lookout grabbed the phone, said, "Observation deck reporting,
sir. Three flashes two points on the port bow. Yes sir. Two points on
the port bow." He hung up the phone.
Norman and Jennifer exchanged glances.
Jennifer said, "The Comet reported three flashes before she
disappeared. It must be a signal?"
Overhead the general alarm rang furiously. A file of Armed Guards
poured onto the observation deck, took up their posts. Norman
pointed to the battle ship. Its guns were run out like bared fangs.
"Attention!" blared a voice over the public address system. "All
passengers return immediately to their staterooms. Attention! All
passengers return immediately to their staterooms."
"Come on," urged Norman. "We'd better go below."
"Do you mind if I stay with you?" asked Jennifer.
"Of course not. I wouldn't leave you alone, anyway."
They descended the companionway to their deck, entered Norman's
stateroom. Through his port he could still observe the warship pacing
them noiselessly.
He padded back and forth across the fiberon carpet. "I wish I had a
dart gun, anything. I feel so helpless." He went to the door, opened it
a crack, peered out. "Jupiter!" he breathed.
"What is it?" cried Jennifer, starting up from her chair.
"Not so loud," he cautioned. "Come here."
The girl sprang lithely across the deck. On tiptoe, her body pressed
against his, she stared over his shoulder through the inch wide crack.
A strange figure stood back to them at the turn in the corridor, a man
clad in loose green coveralls with helmet, gloves and boots attached
so that no part of his figure was exposed.
"Vermeer!" breathed Jennifer. "He's put on the suit we saw in his
closet."
Vermeer remained motionless, half crouched at the end of the hall as
if waiting for some signal. A poisoned dart gun was buckled around
his waist.
Norman eased the door shut, not allowing it to click, faced Jennifer.
"What is it?" she asked breathlessly.
"I don't know. But I think we should have reported that suit to the
Captain."
Jennifer sank to the edge of the bed. He looked at her, thought
again, how striking was the contrast between blue eyes and black
hair. He felt dizzy, said, "Jennifer, do you notice anything?"
"I feel faint!" she gasped.
