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Table of Contents
Toxic Entanglement (Ruthless Alphas, #2)

CHAPTER I - Dark Secrets

CHAPTER II - Shattered

CHAPTER III - Creeping Darkness

CHAPTER IV - Tainted Love

CHAPTER V - Tempest

CHAPTER VI - Ever Thine

 Copyright Ana C. Blacklace pen name of Ana Calin for contemporary dark
romance.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or
by any information storage and retrieval system without the written
permission of the author and publisher, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, except for
public domain or widely known brands, landmarks and places such as, for
example, Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty, or celebrities that are
NOT directly involved in the plot, but merely mentioned. Any further
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
For more information about the author and her books, visit her website:
www.theromancetrove.com, or her Facebook group The Place To Be For
Fantastic Romance. Ana C. Blacklace and Ana Calin’s website, reader
group, and newsletter are the only places to get exclusive teasers and
excerpts, and be the first to know about current projects and release dates.
WARNING
This is NOT a clean romance. Remember that this is strictly a work of
fiction for your pleasure. The author does NOT condone all of the situations
and actions that take place between these characters. This is an adult, dark
romance not suitable for anyone under the age of eighteen.
TRIGGERS
Include but are not limited to:
Degradation, humiliation, s*x in public, graphic violence (between male
fighters), dub con, s*x toys, anal, H treats h like a prostitute (no sharing!),
mention of emotional abuse, mention of suicide.
Yes, this book has a HEA despite all this.
WHAT TO EXPECT
Public degradation through s*x
Jealous/Possessive hero
Over the top hero
Sl*t and wh*re naming
 Playlist
“Die for You” The Weeknd
“Under The Influence” Chris Brown
“Middle Of The Night” Elley Duhe
“Things We Lost In the Fire” Gesaffelstein & The Weeknd
“Liebe oder Krieg” (Translated: “Love Or War”) Sanna/Eddin
 CHAPTER I - Dark Secrets
Addie

I
t’s tonight or never.
I’m giving that bastard Snake his Queen of the Night, and putting
my cage dancer life behind me once and for all. Problem is that now, as
Jax Vaughn’s fiancee, I have security trailing me all the freaking time, and
dodging them has become a pain in the ass. Hence my decision to do this
now, despite the fact that Snake gave me three months. I’m already so
encumbered, it’s gonna take a mission-impossible operation soon, and every
day I’ll be less able to pull it off. So tonight, Mia and I have to make it
work.
I stand at the window of our apartment in the Upper West Side, chewing
on my fingernails, waiting for Mia to emerge from the black car across the
street. Jax has agreed to still give me the nights off, but only until the
wedding. And not without security, not now that news of our relationship
has gotten out to the media and the Manhattan elites. I’m no longer just a
girl he’s fucking, but The Chosen One.
I keep waiting, but the signal doesn’t come. It seems Mia is having
trouble distracting Nicco’s attention from the apartment. I tap my foot
nervously against the floor as a dozen scenarios about how this could go
wrong run through my head. I chew so hard on my fingernails that I taste
blood. Fuck this.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder, ready to just knock on Mrs.
Gilmore’s door and ask to borrow the wig she always wears when she has
her ladies over for their weekly book club, when I see Mia getting out of the
car, slamming the door. She stalks around it, and basically throws herself in
front of a pair of oncoming headlights.
I scream out loud, my palms slapping the window, but the driver hits the
brakes, the bumper stopping just inches away from my best friend’s knees.
She locks eyes with me at the window for just a second before she throws
herself to the ground.
The blood has drained from my head, my eyes wide and my face
basically plastered to the window, but I understand what she’s doing. Nicco
and the rest of our security detail jump from the car, hurrying to her aid.
The driver, a shocked nerd with ruffled curls and thick glasses, gets out with
a look of utter terror on his face. I almost feel sorry for him, because this is
gonna stay with him for a while, but a second is all the time I can spend
pitying him. Or wanting to kill Mia for almost getting herself killed, but if
she did this, then the situation must have been desperate. She had no other
choice.
Which means I have to make good use of every second. So I grab my
backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and take two stairs at a time. I only
need a second to fix the black baseball cap on my head. It’s much too big,
but it was the only way to fit all of my hair under it. More people have
gathered around the supposed accident, providing the necessary cover for
me to disappear incognito around the next corner.
I walk briskly, a feeling of shame engulfing me as I descend into the
drafty subway station. I try to pull myself together, reminding myself this is
a necessary, unavoidable evil. If I don’t do this, Snake will destroy my life,
he’ll tell Jax. And God knows I can’t lose him.
There’s no point denying that I’m madly in love with Jax Vaughn. And
yes, he’s as much of an abuser as Snake. I’m between two rough boulders
that hurt me in different ways, and I fell hard for one of them. Maybe I’ve
worked in the underbelly of New York for too long to be attracted to
anything else. To even want the warm, cozy kind of love that would make
me calm and serene in the soul.
The doors open with a hiss when I’ve finally reached my destination,
people pouring out of the subway. A hooded figure bumps into my
shoulder, her face rising for a second. A flash of recognition hits me, but by
the time I’ve stepped out and turned around to have another look, she’s
gone. I can still make out the hood through the steamed-up window, but as
the train pulls away the person is lost in the crowd. The vague feeling of
familiarity lingers, but the hood obscured much of her face, so I can’t attach
a name to it.
I keep thinking about her as I head down the street toward the club that
has been my secret for the past five years. The closer I come to the red neon
sign twisting into the shape of the club’s name and the shape of a woman
dancing around a pole, the more profusely I sweat. My stomach twisting
and knotting, I pass the long line of men already pushing against each other
and the giant bouncers, and head up the dark side-alley to the back door.
The music fades the further I am from the main entrance, barely still
audible as I bang on the metal.
 I wait, baseball cap pulled down over my eyes, backpack slung over my
shoulder, my hands shoved into the pockets of my oversized denim pants. It
seems to take longer than ever. Must be the nerves. I’m a mess in so many
ways, biting my lips and shifting my weight from one leg to the other, that
maybe my senses aren’t all that reliable.
The night seems to whisper, a breeze singing past me. My flesh pebbles,
my eyes darting in all directions. Damn, I’m growing paranoid. There’s no
way anyone followed me here, Mia would have called me and let me know.
We spent the last few days making sure there wasn’t any extra security on
our trail except Nicco and his team, who always sat in the car with him
unless he assigned them other positions. Tonight, they were all together in
that car, because Mia and I were safe at home, supposedly turning in for the
night, until he saw her running across the street towards him. I still don’t
know what she told him that troubled her so terribly. She just told me to
trust her, and I did. I always do.
The viewer opens with a harsh metallic sound, and the bouncer’s eyes
appear between the small bars. Recognizing me, he shuts it again, and the
heavy locks open. I never thought I’d be so relieved to walk into this place,
the music pounding in my ears, lights cutting through the darkness, forcing
my eyes to adjust too quickly. I head towards the changing room. The night
is young, and the patrons are still just nursing their first drinks, hanging
around rather passively. Things will look very different in less than an
hour.
The girls freeze when I walk in, one in the middle of applying lipstick,
another while fixing her mask to her face, and another while pulling up her
fishnet stockings. They must know what I’m going to do tonight. I’m sure
Snake didn’t bother to hide that he was making preparations for a Queen of
the Night.
I sit down at my vanity, taking off my cap and staring at my reflection in
the lightbulb-lined mirror. It bathes my face in a dramatic glow, a few boxes
of make-up spread out in front of me. Not that I ever use more than lipstick
and some glitter. What I need lies in the drawer built into the table. I reach
to it, pull it open, and take out the glittering Swarovski-encrusted mask. A
weight settles on my chest as I hold it in my palms and stare at it. A light
hand rests on my shoulder.
“It’s a heavy price you have to pay, Addie, but it’s the price of
freedom,” a sweet voice says. I look up to meet the woman’s eyes in the
mirror, and infinite wisdom stares back at me.
Mrs. Lovegood isn’t a dancer, not anymore. She used to be a ballerina
back in her prime, a star in the Manhattan sky until she broke her ankle on
stage. That destroys a dancer’s career. Falling into despair, she landed in
Snake’s hands–and never got out again. Years later he stopped needing her
in the cage, and now she helps him run the place. She got him to depend on
her for all things organization, but that didn’t earn her the freedom she
longed for. On the contrary.
All the girls are aware of what I have to do for my freedom. The reason
why few ever got out is that few have stooped so low to see their shackles
broken. Most couldn’t bring themselves to do a Queen of the Night, because
no woman without something big to lose ever would. But I must rid myself
of my past in order to go on with my future. And the girls understand. I
can’t spot a single accusatory look.
“We all understand why you’re doing this, Addie,” Mrs. Lovegood
confirms softly. “You’re in love, and he loves you back. You have a chance
at happiness, and it would be a mortal sin to let it slip away. Don’t you ever
regret what you’re going to do tonight, because it’s a sacrifice worth
making, if there ever was one.”
The girls nod, murmurs rippling through the changing room. They don’t
know who I’m doing this for, because Jax’s face is anonymous, but they
don’t need to see him in order to understand.
My chin trembles, and I’m about to cry, which prompts them to gather
around me, engulfing me like a cocoon. They whisper words of
encouragement until warmth pools around my heart. They only peel away
from me to help me rub oil onto my skin to give it the right tan for the club
lights, and then move away for me to slip on my leather bikini and strap the
leather belts over my thighs. When I step into my platform heels and put on
the glittering mask, I fully become Ada-Rose.
My shoulders pull back, my spine straighter, a different, confident sway
to my hips. The mask always makes the difference. It’s not that it
transforms me into someone else, but it locks down Adalia Ross along with
her inhibitions and fears, setting my wild side free. Tonight, the Juilliard
reject becomes a demoness of the night one last time.
Rounds of applause accompany me as I emerge into the pumping bass
and flashing lights, sauntering like a real temptress. Men whistle, dollar
bills flying through the air before I even set foot into the cage, because they
all know what’s going to happen tonight. Snake made sure to advertise it to
all of his best clients. I’ll dance in the closed cage until midnight, when
scented steam will spread out through the club with a hiss, and the bidding
will start. By that time, the men will be completely drunk or high, bidding
wildly for the right to make me the queen of their night–touching me in
different places, depending on how much they bid for their requests.
None of the regular sickos missed the chance to make an appearance,
including the stiletto sucker and the one that’s been begging me to smother
him with my “large MILF tits” for years. The latter is licking his lips, his
face already sweaty and full of excitement. He’s high as a kite. The others
are popping open bottles of champagne, laughing out loud as the foamy
liquid bubbles out, their spirits rising.
I remember the first time I saw men lose control. It scared me to death.
But after five years in this joint, hardly anything can make even a muscle
twitch on my face. Yet tonight is going to be so much more than that. This
could actually make top of the list for the hardest things I’ve ever done,
even harder than signing the contract with Jax Vaughn that practically made
me his personal whore.
I take a deep breath. No, Ada Rose doesn’t know regret or shame. She
had to let go of all that so her soul could survive here. She turned shame
and fear into delight when rendering these men blubbering idiots, unable to
restrain themselves. Taking away their control is basically having them on
her leash.
Swaying slowly from one leg to the other, I grab the bars and close my
eyes, letting the music seep into my veins. The rhythm soon takes over, my
body melting into it, becoming the beat. It’s not long before Ada-Rose
writhes with fluid grace, giving everything I would have once loved to give
on stage. Every night I dance in this cage, the day professor Heinirch Russel
from Juilliard rejected me ceases to exist, and I become a prima ballerina,
stretching my legs into languorous splits.
Before long, I’m putting on the show people came here for. The guy
sticking his tongue between the bars to lick me and the one pushing the
neck of a champagne bottle in screaming he’d fuck me with it are regulars,
as is the guy slapping his face and shaking his head until his cheeks flap
like a bulldog’s, showing what he’d do with his face between my legs. But
this being a Queen of the Night in which men get to bid for touching Ada-
Rose means the club is way more packed than usual, and that these men
actually have a chance to put their hands on me.
People push against each other like sardines, getting ready for the big
moment. Many of the men usually hanging around other cages migrate over
to mine, too. Anxiety rises, tugging me out of the dancing trance. I throw
myself deeper into the music, pushing to keep the angst down. I’m not
gonna be able to pull this through unless I’m high in a way, and since I
can’t drink when in the cage, all I have is this.
I lose myself in the dance, trying not to think about what’s going to
happen after midnight. I brace myself for the moment when steam will hiss
out of the grates lining the edges of the club, and the gong will sound to
announce the beginning of the auction. Snake will no doubt emcee it
himself, even though he’ll keep in the shadows, in a spot from where he’ll
be able to watch, while not being seen himself. A Queen of the Night has
only happened twice before in the five years I’ve been here, but every time
it was the same drill. A deep male voice sounds from the surrounding
loudspeakers, making the whole thing feel like a game for the enjoyment of
nasty men.
Thank God for Ada-Rose, my alter-ego. She’s much tougher than
Adalia, and she’ll know how to handle this instinctively. I put my trust in
that side of me completely. I almost feel confident as my eyes sweep over
the crowd until they stop on a thin figure in a dark hoodie. I freeze in my
cage, hands gripping the bars. I blink, and then blink again, the mask
chafing my sweaty face underneath. Yes, it’s her. The woman from the
subway. But she was heading away from this station, wasn’t she? I bumped
into her when I got off the train, and she got in. How did she land back
here?
It’s been at least an hour since the subway, she had time to get back. But
why would she? And the sensation that I was being watched in the side
alley...
The dreaded hissing fills the club. Steam quickly follows the sound,
billowing in front of the hooded figure, and blurring all the other faces.
Drunk, high and heated, men cheer and hoot, the sound raising
goosebumps all over my oiled body.
Okay, this is it. Just push through this, and then I can live happily ever
after with my dark prince. It will be a sick and twisted happily ever after,
but it’s the one I want. Even if my dark prince has fallen in love with a
pristine angel that doesn’t exist. Even if it’s not really me that he wants. The
way his desire feels, having the exclusive attention of those eyes... I never
want him to look away from me, or see me differently. I’ll be his fake little
angel forever if that keeps him enthralled with me.
“Honored guests, I bid you welcome to our first Queen of the Night this
year,” Snake’s distorted voice resounds from the speakers. Cheers rise in the
wake of his words, and he allows time for them to reverberate against the
walls, cages, and my very flesh. The bastard would never get such a
cheerful reaction if people actually saw him. A big and meaty pack of
muscles with tattoos crawling up his bald head, silver and gold coating his
teeth, I bet he never inspired anything but hostility and reluctance. Now,
presenting me like a pretty puppet to be auctioned, he can feel like a star.
Trading women off to be used, that’s what makes bastards like him feel like
men. My throat constricts with anger. One day, I’ll have him pay for this.
“The bidding starts at a thousand for a small taste,” the distorted voice
continues. Some of the cheering turns into disappointed mumbling, but
Snake hurries to add, “This is, after all, Ada-Rose. Her voluptuous curves
have been the object of much desire over the last five years. This is a once
in a lifetime opportunity.”
“Five hundred to lick her shoe,” the tongue-between-bars guy screams.
He’s drunk af, articulating the words as if he’s juggling a hot potato in his
mouth. Snake ignores him.
“Our good Mrs. Lovegood will be going around with a mic, ready to
take your bid.” A spotlight lands on Mrs. Lovegood right next to my cage.
She looks up at me with a kind smile. There’s a grace to Mrs. Lovegood’s
slim figure, to her long swan neck and her dignified demeanor. She
narrowly won a battle with cancer, which she didn’t speak to anyone about
until it was over. She didn’t let her hair grow back, though–a statement of
solidarity for her less fortunate friends, and now she’s wearing a pearl-
encrusted cap on her head.
I’ve known Mrs. Lovegood long enough to understand the message
she’s silently trying to convey–it could be worse. I smile back, giving her a
small nod while Snake keeps talking, continuing to ignore the five hundred
bucks offer. It makes the drunk Tongue-Between-Bars angry enough that
the bouncers have to drag him away, but I’m no longer focusing on that.
The music starts again, and I steady myself, moving along with the
sensual tunes.
 The bidding jumps over the thousand dollar threshold within minutes. I
squeeze my tits forward as I go down low with my ass, riding it along a bar
while coming back up as one of the patrons yells into Mrs. Lovegood’s mic
that he’d pay twenty-five grand to spread my pussy with his fingers and
show it to the entire club.
I grimace in aversion, but Snake’s distorted voice laughs from the
speakers. He’d do it just for the pleasure of watching me humiliated like
that, no doubt, but there’s one thing the bastard enjoys more than watching
a woman getting used. Money. He knows he can get more.
So he pushes for more.
One offers fifty grand to fuck me with the neck of a champagne bottle
right here in the cage, but that’s against the rules. I’m sure the entire club
can hear the disappointment in Snake’s tone when he has to strike down the
offer. Of course, there’s also the matter of more money. I wonder at which
point he’d be willing to trash all the rules. When the bidding jumps over a
hundred grand, I can make out the outlines of the bouncers’ bodies sealing
the doors. I start to worry that I’m gonna have to do things here that I didn’t
bargain for, especially since the bastard knows I’m in no position to
negotiate.
It hits me that he could actually force me into quite a lot. Snake didn’t
come this far tonight to let it end without him swimming in money. He
wouldn’t shy away from stepping on my throat until I choked, keeping me
there until the champagne bottle guy was done with me, making way to the
pussy-exposing one.
My eyes sweep to the reeling skinny guy nursing his umpteenth beer. I
catch her eye and jerk my chin in his direction. She and I have been
working together for so long, we recognize each other’s finest cues, and I
need to get out of this shit with minimal damage.
The skinny guy is my salvation. I’ve seen him here often enough to
know he’s the tamest of all. For that, I’ll have to get his hopes up, convince
him to bid as high as possible. So I concentrate on him, arresting his eyes
with mine and dancing just for him. My attention seems to stimulate him
out of his drunkenness, pulling him closer like a cord. Soon, he’s plastered
to the cage, and I smile down at him. Hope sparks in his eyes, his otherwise
sullen face catching some color as he signals Mrs. Lovegood over. She’s
been around him, pretending not to see the ones she’s come to know as the
nastiest bidders and only taking bids from the softer ones.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Operation
Distress
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Operation Distress

Author: Lester Del Rey

Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller

Release date: February 10, 2016 [eBook #51168]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPERATION

DISTRESS ***
 OPERATION DISTRESS

By LESTER DEL REY

Illustrated by WILLER

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Galaxy Science Fiction August 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Explorers who dread spiders and snakes prove
that heroism
is always more heroic to outsiders. Then
there's the case
of the first space pilot to Mars who developed
the itch—

Bill Adams was halfway back from Mars when he noticed the red
rash on his hands. He'd been reaching for one of the few remaining
tissues to cover a sneeze, while scratching vigorously at the base of
his neck. Then he saw the red spot, and his hand halted, while all
desire to sneeze gasped out of him.
He sat there, five feet seven inches of lean muscle and bronzed skin,
sweating and staring, while the blond hair on the back of his neck
seemed to stand on end. Finally he dropped his hand and pulled
himself carefully erect. The cabin in the spaceship was big enough to
permit turning around, but not much more, and with the ship
cruising without power, there was almost no gravity to keep him
from overshooting his goal.
He found the polished plate that served as a mirror and studied
himself. His eyes were puffy, his nose was red, and there were other
red splotches and marks on his face.
Whatever it was, he had it bad!
Pictures went through his head, all unpleasant. He'd been only a kid
when the men came back from the South Pacific in the last war; but
an uncle had spent years dying of some weird disease that the
doctors couldn't identify. That had been from something caught on
Earth. What would happen when the disease was from another
planet?
It was ridiculous. Mars had no animal life, and even the thin
lichenlike plants were sparse and tiny. A man couldn't catch a
disease from a plant. Even horses didn't communicate their ills to
men. Then Bill remembered gangrene and cancer, which could
attack any life, apparently.
He went back to the tiny Geiger-Muller counter, but there was no
sign of radiation from the big atomic motor that powered the ship.
He stripped his clothes off, spotting more of the red marks breaking
out, but finding no sign of parasites. He hadn't really believed it,
anyhow. That wouldn't account for the sneezing and sniffles, or the
puffed eyes and burning inside his nose and throat.
Dust, maybe? Mars had been dusty, a waste of reddish sand and
desert silt that made the Sahara seem like paradise, and it had
settled on his spacesuit, to come in through the airlocks with him.
But if it contained some irritant, it should have been worse on Mars
than now. He could remember nothing annoying, and he'd turned on
the tiny, compact little static dust traps, in any case, before leaving,
to clear the air.
He went back to one of the traps now, and ripped the cover off it.
The little motor purred briskly. The plastic rods turned against fur
brushes, while a wiper cleared off any dust they picked up. There
was no dust he could see; the traps had done their work.
Some plant irritant, like poison ivy? No, he'd always worn his suit—
Mars had an atmosphere, but it wasn't anything a man could
breathe long. The suit was put on and off with automatic machine
grapples, so he couldn't have touched it.
The rash seemed to get worse on his body as he looked at it. This
time, he tore one of the tissues in quarters as he sneezed. The little
supply was almost gone; there was never space enough for much
beyond essentials in a spaceship, even with the new atomic drive. As
he looked for spots, the burning in his nose seemed to increase.
He dropped back to the pilot seat, cursing. Two months of being
cramped up in this cubicle, sweating out the trip to Mars without
knowing how the new engine would last; three weeks on Mars,
mapping frantically to cover all the territory he could, and planting
little flags a hundred miles apart; now a week on the trip back at
high acceleration most of the way—and this! He'd expected
adventure of some kind. Mars, though, had proved as interesting as
a sandpile, and even the "canals" had proved to be only mineral
striations, invisible from the ground.
He looked for something to do, but found nothing. He'd developed
his films the day before, after carefully cleaning the static traps and
making sure the air was dust-free. He'd written up the accounts. And
he'd been coasting along on the hope of getting home to a bath, a
beer, and a few bull sessions, before he began to capitalize on being
the first man to reach another planet beyond the Moon.
He cut on full acceleration again, more certain of his motors than of
himself. He'd begun to notice the itching yesterday; today he was
breaking out in the rash. How long would whatever was coming
take? Good God, he might die—from something as humiliating and
undramatic as this!
It hadn't hit him before, fully. There was no knowing about diseases
from other planets. Men had developed immunity to the germs
found on Earth; but just as smallpox had proved so fatal to the
Indians and syphilis to Europe when they first hit, there was no
telling how wildly this might progress. It might go away in a day, or
it might kill him just as quickly.
He was figuring his new orbit on a tiny calculator. In two days at this
acceleration, he could reach radar-distance of Earth; in four, he could
land. The tubes might burn out in continuous firing. But the other
way, he'd be two weeks making a landing, and most diseases he
could remember seemed faster than that.
Bill wiped the sweat off his forehead, scratched at other places that
were itching, and stared down at the small disk of Earth. There were
doctors there—and, brother, he'd need them fast!

Things were a little worse when the first squeals came from the
radar two days later. He'd run out of tissues, and his nose was a
continual drip, while breathing seemed almost impossible. He was
running some fever, too, though he had no way of knowing how
much.
He cut his receiver in, punched out the code on his key. The receiver
pipped again at him, bits of message getting through, but unclearly.
There was no response to his signals. He checked his chronometer
and flipped over the micropages of his Ephemeris; the big radar at
Washington was still out of line with him, and the signals had to cut
through too much air to come clearly. It should be good in another
hour.
But right now, an hour seemed longer than a normal year. He
checked the dust tray again, tried figuring out other orbits, managed
to locate the Moon, and scratched. Fifteen minutes. There was no
room for pacing up and down. He pushed the back down from the
pilot seat, lowered the table, and pulled out his bunk; he remade it,
making sure all the corners were perfect. Then he folded it back and
lifted the table and seat. That took less than five minutes.
His hands were shaking worse when the automatic radar signals
began to come through more clearly. It wasn't an hour, but he could
wait no longer. He opened the key and began to send. It would take
fifteen seconds for the signal to reach Earth, and another quarter
minute for an answer, even if an operator was on duty.
Half a minute later, he found one was. "Earth to Mars Rocket I.
Thank God, you're ahead of schedule. If your tubes hold out, crowd
them. Two other nations have ships out now. The U. N. has ruled
that whoever comes back first with mapping surveys can claim the
territory mapped. We're rushing the construction, but we need the
ship for the second run if we're to claim our fair territory. Aw, hell—
congratulations!"
He'd started hammering at his key before they finished, giving the
facts on the tubes, which were standing up beyond all expectations.
"And get a doctor ready—a bunch of them," he finished. "I seem to
have picked up something like a disease."
There was a long delay before an answer came this time—more than
five minutes. The hand on the key was obviously different, slower
and not as steady. "What symptoms, Adams? Give all details!"
He began, giving all the information he had, from the first itching
through the rash and the fever. Again, longer this time, the main
station hesitated.
"Anything I can do about it now?" Bill asked, finally. "And how about
having those doctors ready?"
"We're checking with Medical," the signals answered. "We're....
Here's their report. Not enough data—could be anything. Dozens of
diseases like that. Nothing you can do, except try salt water gargle
and spray; you've got stuff for that. Wash off rash with soap and hot
water, followed by some of your hypo. We'll get a medical kit up to
the Moon for you."
He let that sink in, then clicked back: "The Moon?"
"You think you can land here with whatever you've got, man?
There's no way of knowing how contagious it is. And keep an hourly
check with us. If you pass out, we'll try to get someone out in a
Moon rocket to pick you up. But we can't risk danger of infecting the
whole planet. You're quarantined on the Moon—we'll send up
landing instructions later—not even for Luna Base, but where there
will be no chance of contamination for others. You didn't really
expect to come back here, did you, Adams?"
He should have thought of it. He knew that. And he knew that the
words from Earth weren't as callous as they sounded. Down there,
men would be sweating with him, going crazy trying to do
something. But they were right. Earth had to be protected first; Bill
Adams was only one out of two and a half billions, even if he had
reached a planet before any other man.
Yeah, it was fine to be a hero. But heroes shouldn't menace the rest
of the world.
Logically, he knew they were right. That helped him get his emotions
under control. "Where do you want me to put down?"
"Tycho. It isn't hard to spot for radar-controlled delivery of supplies
to you, but it's a good seven hundred miles from Lunar Base. And
look—we'll try to get a doctor to you. But keep us informed if
anything slips. We need those maps, if we can find a way to sterilize
'em."
"Okay," he acknowledged. "And tell the cartographers there are no
craters, no intelligence, and only plants about half an inch high.
Mars stinks."
They'd already been busy, he saw, as he teetered down on his jets
for a landing on Tycho. Holding control was the hardest job he'd
ever done. A series of itchings cropped out just as the work got
tricky, when he could no longer see the surface, and had to go by
feel. But somehow he made it. Then he relaxed and began an orgy
of scratching.
And he'd thought there was something romantic about being a hero!
The supplies that had already been sent up by the superfast
unmanned missiles would give him something to do, at least. He
moved back the two feet needed to reach his developing tanks and
went through the process of spraying and gargling. It was soothing
enough while it went on, but it offered only momentary help.
Then his stomach began showing distress signs. He fought against
it, tightening up. It did no good. His hasty breakfast of just black
coffee wanted to come up—and did, giving him barely time to make
the little booth.
He washed his mouth out and grabbed for the radar key, banging
out a report on this. The doctors must have been standing by down
at the big station, because there was only a slight delay before the
answering signal came: "Any blood?"
Another knot added itself to his intestines. "I don't know—don't think
so, but I didn't look."
"Look, next time. We're trying to get this related to some of the
familiar diseases. It must have some relation—there are only so
many ways a man can be sick. We've got a doctor coming over,
Adams. None on the Moon, but we're shipping him through. He'll set
down in about nine hours. And there's some stuff to take on the
supply missiles. May not help, but we're trying a mixture of the
antibiotics. Also some ACS and anodynes for the itching and rash.
Hope they work. Let us know any reaction."
Bill cut off. He'd have to try. They were as much in the dark about
this as he was, but they had a better background for guessing and
trial and error. And if the bugs in him happened to like
tachiomycetin, he wouldn't be too much worse off. Damn it, had
there been blood?
He forced his mind off it, climbed into his clothes and then into the
spacesuit that hung from the grapples. It moved automatically into
position, the two halves sliding shut and sealing from outside. The
big gloves on his hands were too clumsy for such operations.
Then he went bounding across the Moon. Halfway to the supplies he
felt the itching come back, and he slithered and wriggled around,
trying to scratch his skin against his clothing. It didn't help much. He
was sweating harder, and his eyes were watering. He manipulated
the little visor-cleaning gadget, trying to poke his face forward to
brush the frustration tears from his eyes. He couldn't quite reach it.
There were three supply missiles, each holding about two hundred
pounds, Earth weight. He tied them together and slung them over
his back, heading toward his ship. Here they weighed only a
hundred pounds, and with his own weight and the suit added, the
whole load came to little more than his normal weight on Earth.
He tried shifting the supplies around on his back, getting them to
press against the spots of torment as he walked. It simply
unbalanced him, without really relieving the itching. Fortunately,
though, his eyes were clearing a little. He gritted his teeth and
fought back through the powdery pumice surface, kicking up clouds
of dust that settled slowly but completely—though the gravity was
low, there was no air to hold them up.
Nothing had ever looked better than the airlock of the ship. He let
the grapples hook the suit off him as soon as the outer seal was
shut and went into a whirling dervish act. Aches and pains could be
stood—but itching!
Apparently, though, the spray and gargle had helped a little, since
his nose felt somewhat clearer and his eyes were definitely better.
He repeated them, and then found the medical supplies, with a long
list of instructions.
They were really shooting the pharmacy at him. He injected himself,
swallowed things, rubbed himself down with others, and waited.
Whatever they'd given him didn't offer any immediate help. He
began to feel worse. But on contacting Earth by radar, he was
assured that that might be expected.

"We've got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and
photos—plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on
the metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that's
bringing the doctor. The pilot will blast over it—that should sterilize it
—and pick it up when it cools."
Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading
out across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had
helped the itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown
worse again.
He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile,
packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was
acting up as he sweated—this made a real load, about like packing a
hundred bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft
drift of the pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was
apparently becoming cyclic. He'd have to relay that information back
to the medics. And where were they getting a doctor crazy enough
to take a chance with him?
He climbed out of the suit and went through the ritual of scratching,
noticing that his fever had gone up, and that his muscles were
shaking. His head seemed light, as if he were in for a spell of
dizziness. They'd be interested in that, back on Earth, though it
wouldn't do much good. He couldn't work up a clinical attitude about
himself. All he wanted was a chance to get over this disease before it
killed him.
He dragged out the photo and copying equipment, under a red light.
It filled what little space was left in his cubbyhole cabin. Then he
swore, gulping down more of the pills where they were waiting for
him. The metal sheets were fine. They were excellent. The only
thing wrong was that they wouldn't fit his developing trays—and
they were tough enough to give him no way of cutting them to size.
He stuffed them back in their container and shoved it into the
airlock. Then his stomach kicked up again. He couldn't see any blood
in the result, but he couldn't be sure—the color of the pills might
hide traces. He flushed it down, his head turning in circles, and went
to the radar. This time he didn't even wait for a reply; let them worry
about their damned maps. They could send cutting equipment with
the doctor and pick up the things later. They could pick up his corpse
and cremate it at the same time, for all he cared right now.
He yanked out his bunk and slumped into it, curling up as much as
the itching would permit. And finally, for the first time in over fifty
hours, he managed to doze off, though his sleep was full of
nightmares.
It was the sound of the bull-throated chemical rocket that brought
him out of it—the sound traveling along the surface through the
rocks and up through the metal ship, even without air to carry it.
He could feel the rumble of its takeoff later, but he waited long after
that for the doctor. There was no knock on the port. Finally he pulled
himself up from the bunk, sweating and shaken, and looked out.
The doctor was there—or at least a man in a spacesuit was. But
somebody had been in a hurry for volunteers, and given the man no
basic training at all. The figure would pull itself erect, make a few
strides that were all bounce and no progress, and then slide down
into the pumice. Moon-walking was tricky until you learned how.
Bill sighed, scratching unconsciously, and made his way somehow
out to his suit, climbing into it. He paused for a final good scratch,
and then the grapples took over. This time, he stumbled also as he
made his way across the powdery rubble. But the other man was
making no real progress at all.
Bill reached him, and touched helmets long enough to issue simple
instructions through metal sound conduction. Then he managed to
guide the other's steps; there had been accounts of the days of
learning spent by the first men on the Moon, but it wasn't that bad
with an instructor to help. The doctor picked up as they went along.
Bill's legs were buckling under him by then, and the itches were past
endurance. At the end, the doctor was helping him. But somehow
they made the ship, and were getting out of the suits—Bill first, then
the doctor, using the grapples under Bill's guidance.
The doctor was young, and obviously scared, but fighting his fear.
He'd been picked for his smallness to lighten the load on the
chemical rocket, and his little face was intent. But he managed a
weak grin.
"Thanks, Adams. I'm Doctor Ames—Ted to you. Get onto that cot.
You're about out on your feet."
The test he made didn't take long, but his head was shaking at the
conclusion.
"Your symptoms make no sense," he summarized. "I've got a feeling
some are due to one thing, some to another. Maybe we'll have to
wait until I come down with it and compare notes."
His grin was wry, but Bill was vaguely glad that he wasn't trying any
bedside manner. There wasn't much use in thanking the man for
volunteering—Ames had known what he was up against, and he
might be scared, but his courage was above thanks.
"What about the maps?" Bill asked. "They tell you?"
"They've left cutters outside. I started to bring them. Then the
pumice got me—I couldn't stand upright in it. They'll pick up the
maps later, but they're important. The competing ships will claim our
territory if we don't file first."
He knocked the dust off his instrument, and wiped his hands. Bill
looked down at the bed to see a fine film of Moon silt there. They'd
been bringing in too much on the suits—it was too fine, and the
traps weren't getting it fast enough.
He got up shakily, moving toward the dust trap that had been
running steadily. But now it was out of order, obviously, with the fur
brushes worn down until they could generate almost no static
against the rod. He groped into the supplies, hoping there would be
replacements.
Ames caught his arm. "Cut it out, Adams. You're in no shape for this.
Hey, how long since you've eaten?"
Bill thought it over, his head thick. "I had coffee before I landed."
Doctor Ames nodded quickly. "Vomiting, dizziness, tremors, excess
sweating—what did you expect, man? You put yourself under this
strain, not knowing what comes next, having to land with an empty
stomach, skipping meals and loading your stomach with pills—and
probably no sleep! Those symptoms are perfectly normal."
He was at the tiny galley equipment, fixing quick food as he spoke.
But his face was still sober. He was probably thinking of the same
thing that worried Bill—an empty stomach didn't make the itching
rash, the runny nose and eyes, and the general misery that had
begun the whole thing.
He sorted through the stock of replacement parts, a few field-sistors,
suit wadding, spare gloves, cellophane-wrapped gadgets. Then he
had it. Ames was over, urging him toward the cot, but he shook him
off.
"Got to get the dust out of here—dust'll make the itching worse.
Moon dust is sharp, Doc. Just install new brushes.... Where are
those instructions? Yeah, insert the cat's fur brushes under the....
Cat's fur? Is that what they use, Doc?"
"Sure. It's cheap and generates static electricity. Do you expect
sable?"
Bill took the can of soup and sipped it without tasting or thinking, his
hand going toward a fresh place that itched. His nose began
running, but he disregarded it. He still felt lousy, but strength was
flowing through him, and life was almost good again.
He tossed the bunk back into its slot, lifted the pilot's stool, and
motioned Ames forward. "You operate a key—hell, I am getting slow.
You can contact Luna Base by phone, have them relay. There. Now
tell 'em I'm blasting off pronto for Earth, and I'll be down in four
hours with their plans."
"You're crazy." The words were flat, but there was desperation on
the little doctor's face. He glanced about hastily, taking the
microphone woodenly. "Adams, they'll have an atomic bomb up to
blast you out before you're near Earth. They've got to protect
themselves. You can't...."
Bill scratched, but there was the beginning of a grin on his face.
"Nope, I'm not delirious now, though I damn near cracked up. You
figured out half the symptoms. Take a look at those brushes—cat's
fur brushes—and figure what they'll do to a man who was breathing
the air and who is allergic to cats! All I ever had was some jerk in
Planning who didn't check my medical record with trip logistics! I
never had these symptoms until I unzipped the traps and turned 'em
on. It got better whenever I was in the suit, breathing canned air.
We should have known a man can't catch a disease from plants."
The doctor looked at him, and at the fur pieces he'd thrown into a
wastebin, and the whiteness ran from his face. He was seeing his
own salvation, and the chuckle began weakly, gathering strength as
he turned to the microphone.
"Cat asthma—simple allergy. Who'd figure you'd get that in deep
space? But you're right, Bill. It figures."
Bill Adams nodded as he reached for the controls, and the tubes
began firing, ready to take them back to Earth. Then he caught
himself and swung to the doctor.
"Doc," he said quickly, "just be sure and tell them this isn't to get
out. If they'll keep still about it, so will I."
He'd make a hell of a hero on Earth if people heard of it, and he
could use a little of a hero's reward.
No catcalls, thanks.
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