by W. J. Stuart
“Yessir. Right, sir.” The Bosun snapped another salute—and was gone.
And again the remaining officers of Cruiser C-57-D looked at each other across the table.
Adams said heavily, “That’s two . . .”
Farman said, “Looks like Morbius wasn’t fooling about that Force.”
I said, “One thing we know now—it’s nothing to do with him. That shot I gave him knocked him out.”
Adams said, “What is it then? Some—some left-over Krell?”
There was a silence—which I broke. I said, “There are too many things we don’t understand. If we got the answer to even one of ‘em, the rest might fall into place . . .”
They stared at me, puzzled. As well they might be; I wasn’t any too sure myself why I was talking this way. But I went on with it. I said, “Take that monkey—the titi,” and told how I’d taken its body out of the tractor and kept it to dissect.
I said, “I was just generally curious about the animals. I’d no idea what I was going to find. Or not going to find—”
The way they looked at me made me realize I must be showing something of what I’d felt down there in the surgery.
Adams said, “For Christsake, what are you talking about?”
I said, “I’m not sure I know. But—well, that monkey wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t have been living. In my book, it wasn’t ever living. And yet we saw it alive. In fact, we killed it and heard it die!”
Farman said, “Jesus—what’re you trying to do? Can’t you talk English?” He was almost shouting; I suppose our nerves were stretched too tight.
I said, “All right. In plain words for the layman, the titi didn’t have the works for living. Inside, it was a biologist’s nightmare. A heart and only two main arteries. No stomach. No intestines, just a single duct. No veinous network. A chest cavity, but no lungs in it.” I found I was thumping the table. “And no glandular system. Get that, will you? No glands! . . . And everything padded, filled up, with a mass of cross-weaved fibrous tissue no more use than a stuffing of cotton!”
I don’t know how much of my own horror I’d gotten over to them, but at least they were listening. And even thinking. Because Farman said, “What about the brain?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t started on the head.” I thought about it. “I’m not sure I want to,” I said.
There was a long silence, until Adams said, “Okay, Doc—so it’s a mystery. And you may be right about the answer helping with everything else. But we don’t have an answer. So right now I’m on another problem. Morbius. He’s either got something to do with our troubles, drug or no drug, or he hasn’t. And if he hasn’t, he might be in trouble himself. Maybe that immunity he talked about isn’t holding.” He was carefully saying nothing about Altaira, but I knew he must be thinking about her. He said, “Either way, he ought to be under guard. To protect him, or us. Because as soon as this ship’s ready, she’s taking off. With him on board.”
Farman said, “The ship wants a guard too, Skipper. And all hands to work on getting the core back in.”
Adams nodded. “That’s the trouble, Jerry. How to spare the men. One man even.”
I said, “Why not me? You’d be without a doctor—but my Dresser’s as good as most of us with degrees.”
Adams looked at me quickly. He almost smiled. “That’s an idea, Doc! Quite an idea!”
VI
In less than half an hour, I was in the tractor and on my way, with one of the older Cadet-hands driving me. I had Adams’ belt on, with the audi-video attachment. So I could keep in touch, Adams had said.
It was certainly a consolatory thought. But still, now I was actually en route, with all bridges burned behind me, I wasn’t so pleased with myself as I had been when I’d volunteered.
The desert looked blacker than ever now the moons were high. And my driver gave me a bad ten minutes along the edge of the chasm. He was a taciturn lad named Randall, and he seemed unmoved by this trip through country he’d never seen before; country which might very well house the terrifying, apparently invisible enemy which had already torn one man to bloody shreds and spirited away another.
I tried to talk to him, but without much success. He was called Gabby by his shipmates—and I understood why. I can’t say that his apparent nonchalance made me feel any better; I had more than a suspicion it might be assumed, to cover much the same sort of qualms I was having myself.
We went through the rocks and down into the valley, and Gabby was moved to words for once. He looked at the scene, placid in the green moonlight, and said, “Sorta nice,” and after that effort relapsed into a silence which lasted until we drew up by the patio.
There was no light behind any of the windows; no sign of life. And no sound from anywhere.
I told him to wait a minute and climbed down and crossed the patio to the door. As I reached it, I thought I saw something move in the bushes which lined the track. I repressed a violent start, and looked carefully, and came to the conclusion that my eyes—and nerves—had been fooling me.
I tried the door, and found that it opened. I didn’t want to make any noise and perhaps frighten Altaira, so I went back to the tractor again and spoke softly to Gabby. I said, “Everything’s all right. You can go back. Thanks.”
He nodded. He took his D-R pistol from his holster and laid it on the seat beside him, and then reached out and tested the spring catch of the manually operated Colt-Vickers slung against the seat. He looked at the house-front with an appraising eye.
“Look pretty with lights on,” he said.
He sketched a gesture—half-wave, half-salute—and drove off . . .
I stood and watched while the dark bulk of the tractor disappeared into the grove. I didn’t envy the boy the lonely drive back. I felt, all of a sudden, inordinately lonely myself.
I turned to go back to the house—and found I was staring at the black windows and wondering whether, when I went in, I might find the household had been visited by the horror which had visited the ship . . .
I put my hand down to my belt—to Adams’ belt—and felt for the audi-video switch and lead. But I checked myself. Adams had enough troubles without my getting in touch with him every five minutes just because my feet were cold. Especially before I’d even found out Altaira was all right . . .
I went quickly to the door and opened it and stepped into the house. I closed the door behind me—and was in pitch darkness.
Groping in my blouse pocket for a flashlight, I took a step forward—
And crashed painfully into something huge and hard and immovable, I staggered back, my head singing and my heart in my mouth. I pressed the switch of the flashlight—and saw the dead hulk of the Robot standing there in the center of the entryway . . .
I swallowed a couple of times. My mouth was so dry my tongue felt swollen and unmanageable. But I got it working at last and said, “Robby—”
The single glow came on behind the louvres of his headpiece. It was like suddenly seeing a friend when you’re lost in a forest . . .
I got him to switch on lights. I walked into the living room and he followed me and I asked how Morbius was, and Altaira.
He winked and blinked at me, crackled and whirred. He said, “Doctor Morbius was asleep. Miss Altaira was asleep.”
The past tense had a strange sound, but I realized it had to be used after periods of deactivation. I said, “Go and see how they are now,” and he turned and strode lumberingly to the rear door.
I was still in the middle of the room, dumping my musette bag on a chair, when he opened the door—and I heard from the passageway beyond a muffled shouting in Morbius’ voice . . .
I was across the room in two jumps, remembering enough to shout at Robby to get out of my way. As he turned to stand flat against the wall and I ran past him, I could see the door of Morbius’ room standing open.
I got there in three strides, but not before I’d heard Altaira’s voice. I didn’t catch the words, but the tone
was low and—rather desperately—soothing. Then Morbius shouted incoherencies again—and when I reached the door I saw him struggling with Altaira.
He saw me, and turned away from her and came at me with his arms flailing. He was shouting something which sounded like, “Don’t want to sleep—don’t want to sleep—” His movements were spasmodic and badly coordinated, and his eyes showed he was still under the influence of the drug; so much under the influence it was amazing he could be on his feet at all.
Altaira gasped when she saw me, staring as if she thought I must be an illusion. But I didn’t have time to speak to her. I was too busy with her father. I sidestepped his rush and grabbed his wrists with one of those holds you learn as an interne and never forget.
He struggled wildly. But, drugged as he was, there wasn’t much force in him and I got him back to the bed quite easily and sat him on the edge of it.
His eyes closed and his head dropped, but when I eased him back onto the pillows and started to lift his feet, a sort of convulsive tremor shook him and he was up again, fighting me and shouting a babble of words in which I could only hear, don’t and sleep.
Altaira came to help me. She was trembling, and there were tear stains on her face. But she was cool enough and did exactly as I told her, and before long we had him half-sitting, half-lying, across the bed.
His head was resting against the wall, and although he was motionless his eyes were open. It was odd; when he wasn’t actually lying down he seemed quieter. Maybe it was because somehow—by some almost superhuman determination—he could keep himself this way from relapsing into sleep.
I stood up, slowly and carefully. He didn’t move. I said to Altaira, very quietly, “Stay where you are. I won’t be a minute . . .”
Her blue eyes looked at me in agonized appeal, and I smiled at her reassuringly. I went out into the passage and found Robby where I’d left him and sent him for my musette bag.
I went back and leaned against the jamb of Morbius’ door, where Altaira could see me. Her father hadn’t moved; but his eyes were still open.
Robby came back and I took the bag from him and found my emergency kit and loaded a small syringe with a full c.c. of Hesperidol.
I palmed the syringe and walked back into the door, watching Morbius’ eyes as I crossed to him. There was a slight contraction of the pupils, but nothing more. I sat down beside him again, and he muttered something more about don’t and sleep. I reached for his wrist, and when he let me raise it, and pull back his sleeve, I knew I was all right. As the needle pricked him, he winced, and his eyes rolled toward me. But he didn’t move. I don’t think he could; the fight he’d put up against the soporific had taken everything out of him except that weird determination to stay awake.
I pulled the needle out, carefully. I said, “Don’t worry, you won’t go to sleep again,” and watched his face.
In a few more seconds it relaxed. In a few more he was smiling the happy, Buddha-like smile Hesperidol always seems to produce. I motioned Altaira to the door, and she went out slowly, looking back at her father all the time. I propped him up on pillows, and left him still smiling, his eyes wide.
I joined Altaira in the passage. She was wearing a long, robelike sort of thing, and her hair was loose over her shoulders. She looked like a beautiful but very frightened child, and I put a hand on her arm and squeezed it reassuringly, and told her that what I’d given her father was one of the latest hypnotics. I said, “He’ll be the way you saw him for several hours. Perfectly happy, and not asleep.”
She smiled at me. But her lips were quivering and she couldn’t talk. I squeezed her arm again and led her along to the living room, telling Robby to stay outside Morbius’ door and tell us if he tried to get up.
I shut the living room door and settled her in a big chair and found a decanter of wine in the dining alcove and poured a glass and made her sip it and got one for myself.
I pulled up another chair and sat to face her—and got her to tell me what had been happening. She was so thankful for my being there that it hadn’t occurred to her yet to ask why I was here.
She said, “He—he was asleep for a long time. For hours. Until just before you came. I was going to bed—then I heard him start shouting. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. I ran into his room—and—and—” Her voice faltered but she made herself go on.
“I—I was afraid,” she said. “He didn’t know who I was. He kept shouting—he was frightened about sleeping, because of terrible dreams he was having. He hated you—he kept saying your name, over and over. And—and John’s name—” a slow tide of color swept up from her neck—“and he didn’t know who I was!” she repeated. “He didn’t know who I was! He—he tried to hit me—”
She stopped. I thought there was going to be an outburst of tears, but she fought them back and I liked her even more. She raised her glass and took a sip of her wine.
And looked at me. I saw the question I was fearing come into her eyes. It was mixed with her fear.
She said, “But—but you didn’t know . . . Why did you come? Has anything—has anything happened to John?”
I said, “It’s all right, Altaira. Nothing’s happened to him. He’s fine. I’ve come here to look after you and your father.”
She said, “But why now? Why like this, in the middle of the night? Something must have happened!”
So I had to tell her. I gave no detail except that there’d been an attack on the ship, and that one man had been killed. I said we hadn’t seen the attackers and didn’t know who or what they were but had figured that, since there was some mysterious enemy about, and since her father was ill, somebody should be at the house. Adams had wanted to come, I said, but had had to stay with his command.
She listened to me gravely. She sat there with her eyes on mine. They weren’t only beautiful eyes, I found, but highly intelligent eyes.
She didn’t say anything at all when I’d finished. She seemed to be considering everything I’d said. She also seemed to be nothing like a child any longer, but a mature and thoughtful woman.
For some reason, I didn’t like the silence. So I asked a question which had been constantly recurring in my mind. I said, “Altaira—has your father ever mentioned any possible danger to you. From—from—” I couldn’t find any words and broke off.
She said, “He’s told me about the bad things that happened when all the other people were killed. The people who came from Earth, with him and with my mother. He says that was why he and Robby made the shutters outside. He says there was Something that—that hated anyone who wanted to go away and tell about this planet.” She stopped for a moment. “But he says It didn’t hate him, or Mother. Because they didn’t want to go away . . .”
I was fascinated: Morbius—whom I’d never suspected of lying, however much circumstances made him seem to be—had told the same story to his child as he had to us.
Altaira suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair, a hand to her mouth and horror darkening her eyes.
She said, “Oh! Do you think—Do you suppose—Could it be my fault? Because—because I don’t want to be here any more? Because I want to go away with John?”
I said quickly, “Of course not. If it was your fault, you’d be the one that would be—would be in trouble. Can’t you see that, child?” I wondered whether I was speaking the truth or not. I thought I probably was.
Anyway, it worked. The horrified look left her face, and she said suddenly, “I think you’re good. I—I like you. You feel the same as my father—but not really the same at all . . .”
I didn’t say anything. But I smiled at her. I felt, maybe foolishly, extraordinarily proud.
Then she said, on an entirely different note, “You—you are a friend of John’s, aren’t you?” and when I’d nodded decisively, “So you understand? About—about what has happened to us? To John and to me? . . .”
I said, “Yes, Altaira, I understand.”
She said, “It’s so—so str
ange. I don’t belong to myself any more. Or to Father. I don’t understand it. It’s beautiful, but it hurts too. And it’s rather frightening . . .”
Something of the child was back in her face as she looked at me, the blue eyes unwavering.
“Do all people know that feeling?” she said. “Do you know it?”
I said, “The happy people do, Altaira. I do. I know it a little too well, perhaps.” I had a fleeting feeling of amazement that I should be talking about Caroline to this child. I said, “But my reason for feeling that way—well, she isn’t alive any more.”
I don’t think I drenched the statement with pathos; I think I made it the flat statement of fact that it was. But the blue eyes were suddenly soft with pity, and she leant forward and laid a hand for a moment over my hand where it rested on the arm of my chair.
She said, “I’m so sorry . . . So sorry . . .”
I sat studying her, not saying anything. I wondered whether John Justin Adams deserved her—and came to the conclusion that he did. I said, “Repaying you, let me state that I like you. Very much. Very much indeed.”
I smiled at her; I’d just thought of something which should have occurred to me long before.
I put my hand down to Adams’ belt, and felt for the switch of the audi-video and flipped it on and pulled out the projector on its shining long lead.
I said, “How would you like to talk to John? And maybe see him too?”
She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to. One glance at her was enough.
I put the projector to my mouth and said, “Ostrow calling Commander,” and almost at once Adams’ voice acknowledged. I said, “Reporting all sound and secure, Skipper. How’s things with you?”
“Nothing new, Doc. Tractor’s back okay.” His voice was thin and faraway and metallic, but absolutely clear.
I said, “Morbius was fighting the drug. But I gave him Hesperidol and he’s all right. So’s everything else—and everyone.” I paused for a moment. “You by yourself?”
I think he was ahead of me. He said, “Yes,” and left it to me.
I said, “Wait a minute—” and opened the finder and held it so that it would show Altaira for a moment. I unbuckled the belt and slipped it around her and pushed her back into her chair and gave her the projector to hold and showed her how to use it.