“And how are we to tell which it is?” I reminded him.
“I don’t think we will be able to, Doc, until we get fairly close to it--and by then it will be too late to get out of its way. We’ll see what Mitch thinks.”
The Australian was sure that the swarm we were approaching was composed of meteors. “For safety’s sake, Jet, I think we should treat it as though it were and take evasive action,” he said.
“That will mean changing course,” said Jet, “and once we start that we may never reach Mars.”
”If we’re battered to pieces by meteors we’ll never reach it either.”
“WeII, wp’re not likely to meet the outer layers of that swarm for some hours yet,” Jet went on, “and that gives us plenty of time to get you back into the ship. If we decide change course, you’ll have to be here.”
“And I shan’t be sorry,” said Mitch. “Being a member of a freighter crew can get darned dull.”
“Very well,” said Jet. “I’ll call you later.” And with that he switched off the receiver and again turned to me. “Well, Doc,” he asked, “what is our estimated distance from it now?”
“About half a million miles,” I told him. “We should reach it in about seventeen hours.”
“Then if we are going to transfer Whitaker and get Mitch back here, we’d better start doing something about it at once.”
“Where do you intend sending him?” I asked.
“I don’t know. If he has the same effect on other crews as he has on Frank, wherever we send him could well be disastrous.” Jet thought for a moment and then said:
“He’ll have to go to Number Six--with Peterson. He’s about the toughest freighter pilot we have.”
I was about to wake the construction engineer and tell him to put his suit on when Lemmy, who occupied the bunk above him, began to moan.
“What on earth’s the matter with him?” asked Jet in surprise, looking first at Lemmy and then at me. “Is he having a nightmare or something?”
Apparently Lemmy was, because he suddenly began to twist and turn in his bunk and to cry: “No, no--oh, help. Help!”
I moved over to the bunk with Jet close behind me. As I did so, Lemmy gave a piercing scream as though he were in great pain. I took him by the shoulder and shook him. “Lemmy,” I called. “Lemmy! What’s the matter?”
But he just went on yelling and screaming. Then suddenly his eyes opened wide and he sat up in his bunk and began to grapple with me. After a bit of a struggle I freed myself from his grasp and slapped his face. That brought him round. The yelling stopped and he sat quite still, staring at me.
He said nothing for a few moments; just stared at me as though he were trying to recognise me. Then, with a shudder, he said: “Oh, it’s you, Doc. Where are we?”
“Now calm down, Lemmy,” I said. “You’re in the Discovery.”
“Discovery? But Jet and I were . . .”
“On the way to Mars.”
“Mars?” It was as though Lemmy had never heard of the word. “Oh, Mars,” he said suddenly. “Yes, that’s right. And this is Jet, isn’t it?”
“Who else?” I asked him.
“Yeah, it all comes back to me now.”
“What happened, Lemmy? Did you have a bad dream?”
“Yes. Yeah, that’s what it must have been. It was a dream. It didn’t really happen--I mean, I couldn’t have left this ship, could I?”
“No, Lemmy,” I said, trying to reassure him, “you’ve been lying on that bunk for the last half hour, sleeping.”
Lemmy breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” he said. “That was about the most horrible dream I ever had.”
“But it was only a dream,” said Jet. “Now get down out of that bunk. We’ve got work for you to do.”
“Yes, Jet,” said Lemmy meekly and, donning his magnetic boots, he slung his legs over the side of the bunk and came down the ladder. As he descended to the floor his gaze fell on the still form in the bunk below. Then suddenly he became hysterical again. “Oh no,” he moaned, “that’s him. Jet--that’s the same fellow who was . . .”
“Lemmy,” Jet shouted. “Pull yourself together.”
“What’s he doing here?” asked Lemmy frantically. “Where’s Mitch?”
“Lemmy, shut up “ said Jet. “Mitch is in Freighter Number Two--you know darn well he is. What are you carrying on like this for?”
Lemmy calmed down at last. With a long look at Whitaker, he said: “Then who’s this?”
“Whitaker, of course.”
“Whitaker?”
“What’s the matter with you, Lemmy? Have you lost your mind or something? I had him transferred to this-ship two days ago.”
“Yes, so you did,” said Lemmy slowly. “But he . . .”
“He was in your dream?” I asked.
“Yes, Doc.”
“Gave you quite a shock to see him lying on that bunk huh?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too, in a way.”
“How do you mean, Doc?”
“Well, in spite of all the commotion, he hasn’t even stirred.”
Realisation of this occurred to Jet for the first time. “No, he hasn’t, has he?” he said slowly.
Lemmy began to get all worked up again. “I tell you, Jet, there’s something about that fellah. He’s a jinx and he’s putting the mockers on the whole Fleet.”
Jet moved over to Whitaker and shook him roughly by the shoulders. “Hey, Whitaker--Whitaker!” he said, almost shouting.
Whitaker opened his eyes immediately and gazed into Jet’s face. “Yes, captain?” he replied calmly.
“You awake?” Jet asked in surprise.
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t you hear all that row just now?” “No, sir.”
“Then you must be deaf.”
“No, sir. Just waiting for you to wake me. To transfer me to Freighter Number Six.”
“That’s right,” said Jet. “Hey, wait a minute--how do you know?”
“Isn’t it true, then?”
“Yes, it is, but you were asleep when I decided which ship you should go to. Now, how did you know?”
“It was a foregone conclusion, captain. Peterson’s the only person in this whole fleet who’ll put up with my company. Unlike Mr Barnet here.”
“I don’t want to be rude,” interrupted Lemmy, “but you’re right. The sooner you leave this ship the better I’ll like it, and if they transferred you to Number Nine you’d still be too close for me.”
“Lemmy, shut up,” said Jet. “As soon as you’ve eaten, you’ll both put on your suits and get ready to go outside. Then you’ll make your way from ship to ship until you reach Number Six. And you’ll take the propulsion units in case you should come adrift. When you get to Number Six, Whitaker will stay there. Lemmy, you will then escort Simmonds from Number Six to Number Two. Leave him there and then escort Mitch to this ship. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Jet,” said Lemmy, his voice dropping low.
“Right,” went on Jet, “when you’re ready, Doc will open up the airlock and let you out.”
Chapter Five
Number Six was about eight hundred yards from the Discovery, being the last freighter in line but two. We watched the suited figures of Whitaker and Lemmy slowly making their way, ship by ship, towards the far side of the formation. They had just about reached Number Five and were now only tiny figures.
“I must say,” I said to Jet as we watched the screen, “the atmosphere in this ship is a lot easier now Whitaker’s gone. There’s something very peculiar about him.”
“I know. I felt it myself but I didn’t like to admit it.”
“But why should he affect us like that?” I continued. “Everybody he comes into contact with seems to find something they don’t like about him.”
“I think it goes deeper than that, Doc.”
“How do you mean?”
“Lemmy’s dream.”
“What about it?”
“Frank had nightmares, too?” I asked.
“So he said,” went on Jet. “But since Whitaker left Number Two he hasn’t had one.”
“But how can a man’s mere presence cause people to have nightmares?”
“Search me, Doc, but I can’t help feeling that Lemmy’s hysterics were no coincidence. Ah, the main door of Number Six is opening.”
A minute or so later there came a call from the freighter telling us that Lemmy and Whitaker were outside the ship and that the crew were in contact with them.
A moment later there came the voice of Control from Earth demanding to speak to Jet.
“All right, Doc,” said Jet, “If you care to take over here, I’ll talk to Control.”
“Sure, Jet,” I told him.
Jet moved to the other side of the cabin. A few seconds later the voice from Earth said: “Hullo, Captain Morgan. Here is your message. Information on Whitaker received. It has been checked against his dossier in Records Section and found to be identical.”
“Well, of course,” I heard Jet mutter, impatiently.
“But further investigation has revealed that the only James Edward Whitaker who answers to the description we have was born in 1893. In 1924, at the age of thirty-one years, he disappeared and was never seen again.”
My attention was focused on the televiewer, but I could easily imagine the look of surprise that must have come over Jet’s face.
“What!” he exclaimed, “but Whitaker is thirty-one.”
Control ignored the interruption. “Director of Records requests that he be allowed to talk to Whitaker as soon as possible.”
“Hullo, Control,” said Jet, an urgent tone in his voice now, “your message received although not fully understood. But I can’t put you on to Whitaker at present. May I call you later?”
“Very well.”
He called over to me. “Doc, did you ever hear such preposterous nonsense? Is Whitaker in Number Six yet?”
“No,” I told him. “He and Lemmy are hardly in the airlock.”
“Then Control will have to wait.”
And wait they did, for it was more than an hour before Whitaker had been safely transferred to Number Six, Simmonds to Number Two and Mitch and Lemmy were back in the Discovery. As soon as they had taken off their suits, Jet called a conference to decide what to do about the unidentified object ahead which, according to the latest radar reports, was now uncomfortably close. At last it was agreed that we should press on and risk flying through the swarm of meteors if that is what they proved to be. Jet seemed to have forgotten his promise to Control to put Whitaker on to them, so I reminded him of it.
“What’s all this about Whitaker?” asked Mitch, who was seated at the control table estimating, yet again, our rate of approach towards the swarm.
“All Control said, Mitch,” Jet told him, “was that the only man they could trace who answered to Whitaker’s description was born in 1893.”
Mitch’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Don’t you think I realise that?”
“When does Whitaker say he was born?”
“Nineteen-forty. But he did mention 1893 when I questioned him before, when he was still in Number Two.”
“But didn’t they check up on him before he joined the crew?” asked Mitch. “During his training period or anything?”
“They must have done.”
“Then if they were ever going to find out anything as fantastic as this, wouldn’t they have found it out then?”
“I would have thought so.”
“Records Section must be as crazy as coots, all of them.”
“I’d agree with you, Mitch,” I said, “but for one thing.” “What?”
“Whitaker’s odd behaviour. You took his place in Number Two so you can’t know what I’m talking about. But all the while Whitaker was in this ship I had a strange feeling of foreboding. Jet and Lemmy, too.”
“Well, I think you’re all jumping to hasty conclusions.”
“Do you? Then what about the enquiries from Control?”
“Mere routine. And that’s what started you off. Had they asked for information about any other member of the Fleet you would have imagined things about him, too.”
“Maybe, Mitch,” I said, “and I hope you’re right. But we’ll soon see.” For, at that very moment, Jet was at the radio, having made up his mind that before Whitaker spoke to Control he would himself talk to Earth again.
The conversation lasted fully ten minutes and when he had finished he came over to us and said: “Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have some more rather startling news.”
“What is it, Jet?” asked Mitch.
“Remember the journalists who came up to the Moon to watch the takeoff?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, it seems that when they returned to Earth one of them hit on an idea for a series of articles for his paper. He thought he’d visit the relatives of the crews; wives, mothers, and so on, and collect first-hand material on what it’s like to be the wife of a space man--you know the sort of thing.”
“He’d have a job with me,” said Lemmy. “I’m a bachelor.”
“He’d thought of that, too. If any of the men didn’t have wives, he had their parents supply the story. Well, he ran a whole series of articles on us, giving our whole life histories. Apparently he left nothing out.”
“Go on,” said Lemmy.
“Come to the point,” said Mitch impatiently. “Where does Whitaker fit into all this?”
“That is the point. He doesn’t seem to fit in at all.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” went on Jet, “the first odd thing this journalist struck was that although Whitaker was supposed to hold degrees in astronautical engineering, he’d never been on the roll of the Astronautical College.”
“But he must have been!” I exclaimed.
“He might have faked his diploma,” suggested Lemmy.
“Quite easily,” said Jet, “but that wouldn’t have given him the knowledge he’s got. He’s a first-class engineer-- one of the best we have.”
“Then where did he learn?” asked Mitch.
“Beats me,” said Jet. “But that’s not all the story. This journalist, drawing a blank at the Astro College, decided seek out Whitaker’s relatives and, in due course, he found his way to Whitaker’s home in Kensington and asked to see his parents. But he hadn’t any.”
“Well,” said Lemmy, “orphans are not uncommon.”
“No, Lemmy, they’re not. But even the parents of orphans don’t die before their children are born.”
“Oh no, I grant you that,” said Lemmy, “but . . . eh? What was that?”
“The parents of James E. Whitaker,” said Jet slowly, “died before the Second World War.”
“But that’s impossible,” protested Mitch. “Whitaker wasn’t born until 1940.”
“Let Jet finish, Mitch,” I said.
Jet continued. “But living at the same address as Whitaker had given was a family of the same name. Headed by a man of forty-eight who declared his father’s name was James.”
“Born in 1893?”
“Yes, Doc. And this James Whitaker left his home one morning in 1924 and was never seen again. All efforts by the police to find him were a complete failure.”
“Could be a coincidence,” suggested Mitch.
“Could have been, Mitch,” said Jet, “quite easily. Only Edward Whitaker produced a photograph of his father. Control says it bears a striking resemblance to the one Records have of the Whitaker flying with us. Of course, as soon as he realised there was something odd about all this, the journalist took the whole matter up
with Control who then took it up with the police. And police records show that the James E. Whitaker who disappeared was identical in every way, physically, with the Whitaker in Number Six. Even to the colour of his eyes.”
“Green,” said Lemmy positively.
“How do you know?” asked Mitch.
“If he’d looked at you the way he looked at me sometimes when he was in this ship, you’d know they were green.”
“Well, it all sounds very mysterious,” said Mitch, “but I’m sure there’s some rational explanation. Why don’t you tackle Whitaker about it yourself?”
“That’s just what I intend to do,” said Jet; “but I while he’s in Number Six. When we’re safely through the swarm or whatever it is I’ll have him come back here where I know our conversation won’t be overheard by the rest of the Fleet.”
“I think Jet’s right,” I said to Mitch and Lemmy. “Until we get to the bottom of this business the fewer people who know about it the better.”
“Then let’s forget the whole thing for now,” suggested Jet, “and get back to work. Now, have you got those figures ready for Control, Mitch?”
“Yes,” replied the engineer. “They’re on the table.”
“Good. All right, Lemmy, get back to the radio and get in the latest radar reports.”
“Yes, mate,” replied the Cockney.
So, on the surface at any rate, the affair of James Edward Whitaker was temporarily forgotten.
Jet and Mitch were fully occupied for the next two or three hours checking our position. But for my part, although I did my best to concentrate on my work, my mind kept returning to Whitaker. On one or two occasions I thought I heard his flat, dull voice and once even looked up, expecting to find him standing at my elbow. No matter how hard I tried I could not get him out of my thoughts. So it was for three hours or more, until a shout from Lemmy called us over to where he was working at the radio. “What’s the trouble?” asked Jet.
“Communication with the Fleet is almost impossible,” said Lemmy. “There’s so much static I can’t always make out what’s being said. Here, you listen.”
The Red Planet Page 4