Space 1999 #7 - Alien Seed

by E. C. Tubb

  If so, it was accurate. Three days later Edward Markham was dead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He was found in his room, lying supine on the unused bed, one hand lifted to rest above his head, his cheeks drawn and paper-pale.

  ‘Anemia.’ Helena gave the diagnosis later after she’d examined the body in Medical. ‘At least that is the clinical definition of his condition. No sign of injury, no toxins, no signs of organic breakdown. Just a classic case of acute anemia. John, this is incredible!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A person doesn’t get anemia overnight. Edward was fit and healthy; otherwise, he would never have been accepted as a security officer. He was in top condition when last seen a few hours ago, and yet, when called, he was dead. Dead, John! Dead from something that couldn’t possibly have killed him so soon. Anemia doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Not even if accelerated?’

  ‘No! Unless—’ Helena broke off, frowning, then said slowly, ‘Anemia is a shortage of red corpuscules, and so a shortage of haemoglobin in the blood. Which means, in turn, that the body is unable to extract oxygen from the air sucked into the lungs and transport it around the body.’

  ‘And a shortage of oxygen would lead to literal asphyxiation in the sense of being denied viable air. Could some form of vapour have done it, something like carbon monoxide, for example?’

  ‘It could, but it didn’t. Any gas or irritant vapour would have left traces. I found none.’

  ‘And if the anemia had been accelerated?’

  ‘In that case I guess the result would have been what we see—sudden death, accentuated pallor and a complete absence of haemoglobin.’ Helena turned and took three steps across the floor, then turned again, her eyes haunted. ‘But, John, what you’re talking about is impossible. You can’t accelerate the progress of a disease or organic malfunction to such a degree. It means compressing weeks, months even, into a few hours. In that case there would be signs of malnutrition, but there aren’t any. Edward Markham was fit when he went into his room and dead a few hours later. Something must have killed him.’

  Constance Boswell had no doubt as to what it was.

  ‘It’s that thing,’ she said. ‘Enalus. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Ever since he was given guard and observation duty, he’s talked of nothing else. How lovely she is, how graceful, how gentle, how understanding. The bitch!’

  ‘Steady!’ Helena checked her pulse and looked over the bed at Koenig. ‘How did you know he was dead?’

  ‘Edward? I heard some of the orderlies talking and I got up and saw him as they wheeled him from the examination room.’ Tears shone in the girl’s eyes, glistening like pearls as they ran down her cheeks. Still weak from her own ordeal despite the strength given by the massive transfusions, she had little control over her grief. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why did it have to happen to him? We had plans and . . . and . . .’

  Helena gripped her hand as the girl shook with a storm of weeping.

  As it subsided, Koenig said, ‘Connie, when Edward came to see you, did he say anything about Enalus?’

  ‘Only how wonderful she was and how everyone envied him being one of her escorts.’

  ‘Nothing else? I mean, you two were in love and—’

  ‘Were in love,’ she snapped bitterly. ‘How right you are, Commander. The past tense applied as soon as he saw that creature. He tried to pretend, but I could tell. He was enamoured of her and couldn’t think of anything else. Even when he kissed me he was thinking of her—I could tell it.’ Her eyes filled again with tears. ‘Edward,’ she murmured brokenly, ‘I was a fool, but I wasn’t sure. He loved me and I wanted him to love me, but there was no hurry and now it’s too late. He’s dead and that thing killed him. She killed him, Commander—and it’s up to you to do something about it!’

  A demand he couldn’t refuse and a duty he had already acted on. And yet the mystery remained. Edward Markham had been on escort duty. Together he and Enalus had listened to music in the music room, had played a game of table tennis in the recreation room and later watched several pairs of wrestlers competing in the inter-section judo competitions. He had handed over his charge, reported to Security, had been relieved and had gone directly to his room.

  ‘That would have been about eleven, Commander,’ said the guard who had taken over from Markham. ‘Maybe a little later. As you know I was on duty at the time and only caught a glimpse of him as he left my vicinity.’

  ‘And Enalus was with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ George Tomlinson was broad, hard, his eyes deep-set and very direct. ‘She wasn’t out of my sight until she went to her room.’

  ‘And you stood on guard?’

  ‘Until relieved, yes. That was before she awoke. I went off duty after catching a snack and playing a little poker with some of the boys. You can check if you like.’

  ‘I have.’ Koenig was grim. ‘So you are willing to swear that Enalus was nowhere near Markham at the time he died?’

  ‘I am.’

  From where she stood behind Koenig at the desk, Helena said, ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Enalus?’ Tomlinson shrugged. ‘She’s just a girl.’

  ‘You’re not in love with her?’

  ‘I—no, of course not, Doctor. To me she’s just a job of work.’

  Koenig nodded dismissal, and after the man had left the office he said, ‘Why did you ask him that, Helena?’

  ‘I wanted to know something.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I found out what I wanted to know. He lied, John. That man lied!’

  Her voice held a throbbing intensity, emotion far in excess of what the discovery called for and totally at variance with her normal calmness. A blend of anger and, he thought, more than a little fear.

  Quietly Koenig said, ‘So he lied a little, Helena. You embarrassed him, perhaps, but what does it matter?’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ Her eyes met his own, direct, accusing. ‘He’s in love with that thing, and so is every man on the Moonbase who’s come in contact with her. But, worst of all, John, you are in love with her yourself!’

  Nancy Coleman finished her coffee, looked thoughtfully into the empty container, then tossing it aside, said, ‘The word is metamorphosis, Professor, as you well know, so please don’t try to flatter an old woman.’

  ‘Old, Nancy?’ Bergman smiled and shook his head. ‘I can give you—well, too many years. And you know how age erodes the memory. Metamorphosis, of course—the period of rapid transformation from one form to another. But in plants?’

  ‘In insects, not plants. It’s the change made by a larval to an adult form such as a caterpillar to a butterfly. The caterpillar eats until it’s ready, spins a cocoon, seals itself inside and waits. Then something happens and it changes into a butterfly, which breaks out of the cocoon and usually eats it before flying away.’

  ‘As a source of food,’ murmured Bergman. ‘As the alien creature did the pod in which it arrived.’

  She said shrewdly, ‘You’re thinking of Enalus. Professor, there’s no connection. She is the fruit of a plant, simply that and nothing more. An unusual-looking fruit. I’ll agree, and one with fantastic attributes, but a fruit all the same. One shaped by the initial stimulus that fertilised the plant, as the commander suspected. A pity we didn’t know that earlier; we could have fertilised them all.’

  With results Bergman would rather not think about. One other, yes, science demanded at least that, but more would have been tempting a destructive fate. And there could be no need. Each single fruit could perhaps be sufficient to itself.

  Nancy shrugged when he asked the question. They sat in her laboratory and the light from the overhead sun caught her hair and turned the silver strands into gold.

  ‘It’s possible that she could bear other fruit. Professor, but how would you go about planting her? I hardly think you’d be allowed to bury her in the ground.’ She added after a moment, ‘Not by the men, at least; the women wou
ld probably dig the hole for you and fill it in with their bare hands.’

  ‘They dislike her that much?’

  ‘Dislike is a mild word, Professor. Say they hate her and you’d be closer to the truth. Can’t you guess why? She’s competition. Five engagements have been broken since she’s had the run of Alpha. Married couples are talking of divorce. No girl stands a chance when Enalus is around, and she makes every woman feel and look second-rate. And there is Edward Markham’s death.’

  ‘She can’t be blamed for that.’

  ‘No?’ Nancy Coleman shrugged. ‘Maybe not, but the women are certain she was the cause.’

  An illogical reaction and one that Bergman didn’t want to discuss.

  He said, ‘When Enalus stepped from the bole, you took photographs of her. I’ve taken some since and I’d like to make a comparison if I could use your equipment.’

  ‘Help yourself.’ The botanist waved to the far end of the laboratory. ‘The left-hand panel is static; the right-hand one is the control. Check it over while I get the photographs.’

  She had them in a folder and Bergman took it, spilling prints until he found the first taken after Enalus had stepped from the pod. He clipped it to the left-hand panel, adjusted the magnification, then placed another photograph he had brought with him into the right-hand section of the machine. A knurled knob twisted beneath his hand and, on a screen, both pictures appeared, one superimposed on the other, each in a different colour.

  ‘You’ve set the machine wrong,’ said Nancy. ‘You’Ve failed to adjust for scale-differential.’

  ‘No.’ Bergman flipped a switch and checked each of two ruby bands. ‘I made certain my photograph had a reference-scale. That table next to Enalus is exactly thirty-two inches in height. You used the normal scale-rod. Let’s try again.’

  The pictures merged, the edges blurred a little and the woman sucked in her cheeks as she read the scales at the sides of the screen.

  ‘She’s grown, Professor. Hips are wider and breasts are larger and she seems a little taller than she did before.’

  ‘Two inches.’ Bergman was thoughtful. ‘And the increase is general, which makes the added height unnoticeable. The hair also tends to disguise the height and, naturally, her clothing acts as a distraction to her added bulk. Yet she is still in proportion.’

  And still very lovely—a goddess when compared to the human imperfections of the other women. Aphrodite must have looked like that, he thought, a vision of loveliness born from the foam to set a standard, an ideal that sculptors had tried for millennia to set in stone. A female so beautiful that, even in the trapped image of a photograph, she cast her enticing spell

  ‘Growing,’ said Nancy Coleman. ‘Professor, when did you take your photograph? Was it after Edward Markham died?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no connection. There can’t be; Enalus was cleared. She had a cast-iron alibi.’

  ‘One provided by a man,’ reminded the botanist. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do but wait. Edward could have been the victim of a freak accident or a rare natural condition, but if another man should die in similar circumstances, and if Enalus continues to grow—well, Professor, in that case the women will know what to do.’

  Koenig woke to the hum of his commlock, shedding dreams; nightmares in which he had run from faceless entities across an endless plain littered with bleached and ancient bones.

  Helena looked from the screen. ‘There’s something odd, John. You’d better come to Medical right away.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘No, make it ten.’

  He was dull with fatigue. There was no apparent emergency and a shower and cup of coffee would serve to restore his facilities. But why did he feel so tired?

  In the shower he thought about it, reviewing the past few days. Markham’s death had created a lot of work, alibis checked and rechecked, potential causes isolated and eliminated, a sea of faces to be questioned and tests and more tests to be made. All for no purpose. On the evidence nothing had caused the man’s death but an unsuspected natural cause. An act of God, thought Koenig, the convenient blanket-cover used in the past to absolve everyone from blame. Too convenient—and Alpha could not afford the luxury of such self-indulgence.

  ‘John?’ Helena was calling again and with a start of guilt he realised that already the promised ten minutes had been doubled. He’d been dreaming in the shower, standing with his eyes closed, more asleep than awake. ‘John, are you well?’

  ‘Yes.’ The question irritated him. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You look pale.’

  ‘I’m tired.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Be with you in five minutes.’

  He made it with a minute to spare, looking around as he entered the Section, seeing the three men sitting like schoolboys on the long bench, the marks on their faces clear signals as to the violence in which they had participated.

  ‘You called me here to see this?’ Anger sharpened his voice. ‘Damn it, Helena, we have systems to handle such problems. Let Security take over—they know what to do.’

  ‘This isn’t just a matter of discipline, John.’ The chill of her own voice was a reproof to his irritation. ‘And there is more than those three. George Tomlinson collapsed an hour ago.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘No. We got to him in time. But he has the same symptoms as Constance Boswell had. The same illness that killed Edward Markham. John, he’s been bled white!’

  Koenig looked at the man as he lay in intensive care. The bluish light accentuated the corpse-like pallor of his face, the sunken cheeks and prominent bone adding to the appearance of a skull. A security guard was not chosen for his weakness, and Tomlinson, as Koenig remembered, had been a strong, sturdy, bull-like man with the smouldering strength of a horse.

  ‘Anemia?’

  ‘His blood is almost completely devoid of red corpuscles, John. But his collapse wasn’t as sudden as Markham’s. I’ve learned from his colleagues that for the past few days he’s looked tired and jaded. They even made jokes about it—need I tell you what they were?’

  ‘No.’ Koenig was aware of what they would have been. Aware, too, of the sudden anger that gripped him, the wave of emotion that dewed his face with sweat. ‘The swine!’

  ‘John!’

  ‘Nothing.’ He turned from the startled expression in her eyes. ‘What of the others? Those men out there? What made them fight?’

  ‘Jealousy.’ Helena elaborated as she turned from the limp figure on the couch. ‘Something was said, someone objected and abruptly they were trying to kill each other. And I mean that literally, John. There are witnesses who will swear to it.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yes, but does it matter?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘They were parted just in time and brought here. I’ve tranquillised them and made certain tests. John, they, too, are suffering from a shortage of red blood cells. They, too, are showing signs of anemia.’

  A plague? The very thought was terrifying, a gibbering nightmare that lurked forever at the threshold of awareness, a thing of white and ancient bone—one of the Four Horsemen that had always threatened man. And here, on the Moon, it was all the more horrible, for they had nowhere to run.

  He said thickly, ‘What are you saying, Helena? A virus infection? A contaminating type of cancer? A mutated bacteria—for God’s sake, woman! Tell me! Is Alpha doomed?’

  ‘Steady!’ He saw her face, the wide, startled eyes, the sudden expression of awareness replacing the previous concern. ‘You said you were tired, John, and you look paler than normal. Hold still a moment.’ Her hand lifted and he felt the pressure of her fingers as she pulled down his lower eyelids. ‘I want to make a test, a blood count. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Later. I’m—’

  ‘Now, John!’ Her tone precluded the concept of refusal, her authority paramount in such a case at such a time. ‘I must find out if you, too, have been affected.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘By the th
ing that has come among us,’ she said, bleakly. ‘The thing that is draining our blood.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There should have been wolves, creatures howling in a windswept darkness together with mouldering turrets and ancient castles with mysterious servants and an enigmatic nobleman who woke at sunset to prowl until dawn. A thing of legend, born from the need to explain the death that came from the dying of the blood, the increasing pallor of the afflicted. But, if vampires had ever existed, surely they must have been left far behind.

  Surely it wasn’t possible for one to be even now at large in Moonbase Alpha?

  A thing to ponder, to add to the rest, a mountain of worry and doubt which, for the moment, he could do nothing about. Koenig sighed and looked at the ceiling, the bottle hanging from its support, the container of red, red blood that was being fed into his veins.

  Tests had shown him to be anemic, the loss of red corpuscles accounting for his lassitude and irritation, or so Helena had explained. But how had he contracted the condition? How?

  From where he sat at the side of the bed, Bergman said, ‘Helena is conducting a check on all personnel to determine how many are affected. As yet all those showing signs of anemia are men.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Perhaps nothing, but it is a fact and must be accepted as such. Men only—oddly enough Nancy Coleman hinted at potential trouble. She also suggested that at least half of us here in Alpha would know how to handle it.’

  ‘The women?’ Koenig straggled to sit upright, feeling a momentary nausea, a jerk at the connection to his arm. Redness showed beneath the tape holding the hollow needle in place. Stripping it free, he removed the needle and folded his arm, holding his clenched hand hard against his shouder. ‘What nonsense is this, Victor?’

  ‘Nonsense?’

  ‘Yes. Enalus had nothing to do with this. She couldn’t!’

  Bergman said dryly, ‘Did I say she had, John? But now that you mention it, there is an interesting correlation between her and those affected. Every man showing signs of anemia has been close to her in some way. Edward Markham was her security escort and so was George Tomlinson. Those men who fought—two engineers and a hydroponics man—had spent time with her. And there are others. Everyone, John—every male who has been close to her shows some signs of a diminished red blood count.’