grateful he was. Right at the moment one consideration alone dominated
his thinking. If he could get past the guard he could hide out in an
intricate maze of machinery. Even if they sent a dozen guards down
to look for him it would take them some time to locate him. He could
hide-out and gain a breathing spell.
The waitress had a very small hand. Abruptly Corriston clasped it and
held it for an instant, his fingers exerting a firm, steady pressure.
"Thanks," he said.
Corriston swung about without glancing toward the end of the counter.
He'd pass the guard quickly enough; there was no sense in alerting
the man in advance. As for recognizing him, that would be no problem
at all. You couldn't mistake a Security Guard no matter what kind of
clothes he wore.
Corriston took his time. He walked slowly, refusing to hurry. A man
under surveillance should never hurry. He should be casual, completely
at his ease, for there is no better way of keeping an observer guessing.
He kept parallel with the long counter, his shoulders swaying a little
with the assurance of a man who knows exactly where he is going.
Presently the entire length of the counter was behind him, and he was
less than a yard from the door.
He hadn't glanced once at the counter. He didn't intend to now. One
quick leap would carry him through the door and beyond it, and to hell
with recognizing the guard. When it was touch and go and odd man out,
you altered your plan as you went along.
He'd seen a girl disappear when everyone said it didn't happen.
Confined to a psycho-ward, he had simply walked out, eluded a killer,
and watched a ship explode on the green hills of Earth. He'd survived
all that, so how could one lone Security Guard stop him now?
He was preparing to leap, when something got in his way--a shadow--a
shadow for an instant between himself and the door, and then a dark
bulk stepping right into the shoes of the shadow and filling it out.
The Security Guard was not at all the kind of person he'd expected
him to be. He was not a big ape, not even a muscular-looking man. He
had simply seemed big for the instant he took to fill the place of
his shadow. He was a man of average height, average build. He blocked
the doorway without bluster, looking very calm and relaxed. Only his
eyes were cold and accusing and dangerously narrowed as he surveyed
Corriston from head to foot.
"I'm afraid you'll have to go back to the ward now," he said. "You
picked a bad time to take a turn about the Station. Ordinarily you'd
be privileged to do so. That's part of the therapy. But you picked a
_very_ bad time."
"I'm beginning to realize that," Corriston said. "I couldn't help it,
though. I had no way of knowing that freighter was out of control. I'm
afraid you've made a mistake, too, though. I'm not going back to the
cell."
Corriston had been watching the man's right arm. Suddenly it went back
and his fist started rising, started coming up fast at an angle that
could have sent it crashing against Corriston's jaw.
Corriston had no intention of letting that happen. He side-stepped
quickly and delivered a smashing blow to the pit of the guard's
stomach. The blow was so solid that it doubled the guard up. His knees
buckled and he started to fold.
Corriston didn't take the folding for granted. A second blow caught the
man squarely on the jaw and a third thudded into his rib section. For
an instant he looked so dazed that Corriston felt sorry for him.
He was still half-doubled up when he sank to the floor and straightened
out. He straightened out on his side first, and then rolled over on his
back and stopped moving. His lips hung slackly, his eyes were wide and
staring.
The look on his face gave Corriston a jolt. It was a very strange
look. The fact that his features had become slack was not startling
in itself, but there was something unnatural, unbelievable, about the
way that muscular relaxation had overspread his entire countenance. His
features were putty-gray and they seemed to have no clearly defined
boundaries.
His nose, eyes, and forehead looked as if the ligaments which held them
together had snapped from overstrain or had been severed by a surgeon's
scalpel ... severed and allowed to go their separate ways without
interference.
In fact, there was no real expression on the man's face at all--no
recognizably human expression--not even the stuporous look of a man
knocked suddenly unconscious.
There was agitation now in the cafeteria, a hum of angry voices, a
rising murmur that was coming dangerously close. Corriston shut his
mind to it. He knelt at the guard's side and swiftly unbuttoned the
unconscious man's heavy service jacket. He felt around under the jacket
until he was satisfied that he could move on through the doorway with
a clear conscience. The guard's heart was beating firmly and steadily.
There was a reassuring warmth under the jacket as well, a complete
absence of clamminess.
Suddenly the guard groaned and started to roll over on his side again.
Corriston didn't wait for him to complete the movement. He arose
quickly and was through the door in four long strides.
He preferred not to run. He was not so much fleeing as seeking a
security he was entitled to, a reasonably safe port in a storm that was
threatening to take away his freedom by blanketing him in a dark cloud
of unjust suspicion and utter tyranny.
The corridor was as deserted as he'd hoped it would be. With no one
to get in his way or sound an alarm, he had no difficulty at all in
locating the emergency passageway which descended in a rail-guarded
spiral to the Master Sequence Selector. He kept his right hand on the
safety rail as he moved downward into the darkness. For the first time
he felt extremely tired.
7
The drone of machinery in a high-vaulted, metal-walled compartment
awakened Corriston. It was for the most part a steady, low, continuous
sound. But occasionally it ceased to be a drone, in a strict sense,
and became high-pitched. It became a shrill, almost intolerable whine,
impinging unpleasantly on his eardrums and preventing him from going to
sleep again.
For interminable minutes he lay stretched out at full length in the
lidded, coffinlike rag bin into which he had crawled, a lethargic
weariness enveloping him like a shroud. Above his head steel-blue
surfaces crisscrossed, vibrating planes of metal and wire intricately
folded back upon themselves.
After a moment, when the steady drone was well in the ascendency again,
he sat up and stared about him. He had a throbbing headache and there
was a dryness in his throat which made swallowing difficult.
He was certainly not an exceptional man in regard to such matters.
During moments of crises he could remain fairly calm and self-possessed
but the aftermath could be killing.
He felt now as if all of his nerves had been squeezed together in a
vise. He looked at his wrist watch and was amazed to discover that he
had slept for eight hours. If a search had been made for him, he had no
reason to complain about his luck. He hadn't even closed the lid of the
bin. But perhaps the oil-stained waste he had drawn over himself had
given them the idea that he was just more waste underneath.
Perhaps the guards didn't give a damn whether they found him or not.
It was quite possible. On a low official level a cynical desire for
self-comfort could dominate the thinking of a man.
It was quite possible that the guards who had been sent down to
search for him--or one of the guards, at least--had been angry at his
superiors. Just a quick look and to hell with it--that must have been
his attitude.
It made sense in another way. They wouldn't suspect the bin because the
bin was so conspicuous and obvious a hiding place. The Purloined Letter
sort of thing. Crawl into an empty coffin at a funeral and no one will
give you a second glance. All dead men look alike.
The Master Sequence Selector compartment was a coffin, too--a big,
all-metal coffin arching above him and hemming him in. If he hoped to
get out of it alive, he'd have to do more than just beat on the lid
with his fists.
Almost instantly he was ashamed of his thoughts. He had been extremely
lucky so far. The funeral was over, the sod firmly in place. They would
not be likely to dig him up on suspicion, and he could stay buried
until he starved to death.
The worst would be over when they found him. The thirst torment would
be the worst, but if it became unbearable he would still have the
choice of surrendering himself.
Quite possibly he _would_ die of thirst. Quite possibly he could shout
his lungs out and still remain trapped. If a search had been made and
they had failed to find him, sullen anger might have tempted them
to do an unthinkable thing. They might have locked the door of the
compartment so that the corpse would have no opportunity of escaping
prematurely and making them look like fools.
Corriston was just starting to climb out of the bin to investigate
the truth or falseness of that utterly demoralizing possibility when
he heard the sound. It was a very peculiar sound, three or four
times repeated, and he heard it clearly above the low drone of the
Selector's automatic controls.
He stood up in the bin, straining his ears. It came again, louder this
time. It was only a short distance away and it was a voice sound,
unmistakably a voice sound.
He climbed out of the bin, grasped a metal rod that projected from
one of the cross-beams, and descended cautiously to the base of the
Selector. The droning increased for an instant, rising to a whine so
high-pitched that he could no longer hear the voice.
He started moving around the edge of the Selector, keeping well within
its shadow, watching shafts of dull light move backwards and forwards
across the floor. He hardly expected anyone to leap out at him. The
voice had not seemed quite that near; in fact, he was by no means sure
that it had come from the compartment at all. But if not from the
compartment, where?
He found out quickly enough. There was a square, windowlike grate a few
feet from the Selector's automatic control panel, set high up on the
wall. A faint, steady glow came from it.
Corriston paused for an instant directly below the glow, measuring the
distance from the floor to the aperture with his eyes. He strained his
ears again, waiting for the whine to subside. It continued shrill, but
suddenly he heard the voice again, heard it above the whine.
There was stark terror in the voice. It was despairing and desperate
in its pleading, and it seemed to Corriston that he would remember it
until he died. He thought he recognized the voice, but he couldn't be
sure.
It was perhaps merciful that he couldn't, for the grate was at least
ten feet above the floor and had he known beyond the faintest shadow
of doubt that it was Helen Ramsey's voice, his inability to reach her
would have been fiendish torment.
He hoped only one thing--that he had to reach that voice in time.
First of all he had to stay calm. Even a calm man could not hope to
scale a ten-foot wall with his bare hands, but an agitated man would
have no chance at all. Something to stand on! A box--anything!
A box would help, a ladder would be better. But what were his chances
of finding a ladder in the Selector compartment? Not good at all.
Still, he could search for a ladder. Quickly now. No time to waste, but
don't lose your head. Take thirty seconds, a good long thirty seconds
to look around for a metal ladder. There just might be one standing
somewhere against the wall.
There was! Not one ladder, but two, leaning against the wall directly
opposite the glimmering front section of the Selector.
It was amazing how desperation could change a man. In the great moments
of danger and desperation small, neurotic concerns ceased to matter.
He was sure now. He had recognized the voice beyond any possibility of
doubt. The ladder scraped against the wall and swayed a little, and for
an instant he feared it might slide out from under him. He paused to
make sure, and then went swiftly on up until his head was level with
the grate.
He grasped the heavy grillwork with both hands and raised himself
higher. He could see clearly through the grill into the compartment
beyond now. The entire compartment was visible from where he stood. It
was small and square and dimly lighted by an overhead lamp, and there
was a paneled door leading into it.
Close to the door a man was standing. Corriston couldn't see his face.
He was half-turned away from the wall opposite him, and the girl who
was struggling to escape from him was more than two-thirds concealed by
his massive shoulders.
He was holding her in a tight, merciless grip. He had locked one hand
on her wrist and was preventing her from moving either backwards or
forwards. It was costing him no effort. He simply stood very straight
and still while she struggled vainly to free herself.
Immense strength seemed to emanate from him, complete assurance and
a coldly calculating kind of brutality which appeared to be slowly
undermining her will to resist. Her struggles became less frantic
second by slow second, and that she was about to stop struggling
altogether was evident from the way her right arm had begun to dangle
and her body to sag.
The man was holding her by the left wrist in a left-handed grip. He was
cruelly twisting her wrist and suddenly she cried out again in pain and
despairing helplessness.
The blood started mounting to Corriston's temples. He began tugging at
the grate with both hands, exerting all his strength in a desperate
effort to dislodge it. It began to move a little, to become less firmly
attached to the wall. He could feel it moving under his hands, rasping
and creaking as it loosened inch by inch.
He was covered with sweat. Already in his mind he had killed the man,
and Helen Ramsey was tight in his arms, happy and alive.
The man did not seem to hear the rasp of the grate coming loose. He
neither turned nor raised his head. His free hand had gone out and
across the girl's face. But if he had struck her on the face, she gave
no sign. She did not recoil as if from a blow and there was something
strange about the movement. It was as if the man had reached out to
tear something from the girl's face--a veil or a mask.
His hand whipped back empty but his fingers were oddly twisted, as if
he had clawed at something that had failed to come free.
Corriston pulled back his shoulders and his posture on the ladder grew
more erect. He knew that his exertions might send the ladder toppling
but it was a risk he had to take.
The grate was freely movable now. He could move it backwards and
forwards, six or eight inches each way; but he still could not rip it
completely free.
He kept on tugging, his neck cords bulging, the ladder swaying
dangerously. The grate could be moved upward now, just a little. No, it
was finally coming completely loose. He could move it in all directions
and even push it outward at right angles to its base.
Twice he heard Helen Ramsey cry out again, and her screams became a
goad that turned his wrists to steel. With a sudden, convulsive wrench
he twisted the grate sideways. It came loose in his hands. It was so
surprisingly light that an incongruous rage surged up in him. It was
cruelly perverse, intolerable, that he should have been so long delayed
by a thin sheet of metal that hardly seemed to have any weight at all.
He swung about on the ladder and let the grate drop. It struck the
floor a few feet from the Selector and rebounded with a clang loud
enough to wake the dead. The ladder swayed again, and he had to grab
the edge of the aperture quickly and with both hands to keep himself
from toppling.
He pulled himself forward through the aperture on his stomach, taking
care not to dislodge the ladder. His temples were pounding and his
palms sticky with sweat. He did not look down until he was completely
through, dreading what he might see.
He passed a hand over his eyes. It was unbelievable, but he had
to believe it. The man was gone and the girl was now alone in the
compartment.
Had the man fled in sudden fear, knowing that Corriston would be
consumed with a killing rage that would make him a more than dangerous
adversary? Corriston didn't think so. The man had looked quite capable
of putting up a furious struggle. More likely he had disappeared to
keep himself from being recognized, or because he had accomplished his
purpose.
Blind, embittered anger again boiled up in Corriston. Had the man
waited, he would have rejoiced and been less angry. He would have taken
a calm, deep breath and slowly set about the almost pleasant task of
killing him.
He felt cheated, outraged. Then his concern for Helen Ramsey made him
forget his rage. Had she been felled with a blow, or had she simply
fainted? He started down, then hesitated.
The ladder first. Before he descended it was necessary to make sure
that the ladder would be in the same compartment with him, set firmly
against the wall, directly under the aperture. If he were prevented
from leaving the compartment by the corridor door, he might find
himself needing the ladder. Without it he might be descending into a
trap that could close with a clang and abruptly imprison him.
Getting down into the compartment was the worst part, just putting the
ladder into place and not knowing how badly hurt she was.
_What if she's dead?_ he thought. _What if he killed her with a single
blow? He looked strong enough. He could have killed her. God, don't let
me think of that. I mustn't think it._
His feet touched the floor. He let out his breath slowly, turned and
crossed the floor to where she was lying. He went down on his knees and
lifted her into his arms. She lay relaxed in his arms, face up, quiet,
her lips slightly parted.
He looked down into her face, and for a moment his mind went numb,
became still, so that there was no longer a whirling inside his
head--only a chilling horror.
She seemed to have two faces. One was shrunken and almost torn away,
a shredded fragment of a face. But enough of it remained for him to
see the shriveled flesh of the cheeks, the puckered mouth, the white
hair clinging to the temples. It was the face of an old woman but so
fragmentary that it could not even have been called a half-face. And
even though it had been almost ripped away, it seemed still to adhere
firmly to the face to which it had been attached, and to blend with it,
so that the features of both faces intermingled in a quite unnatural
way.
Not quite, though; Helen Ramsey's face was sharper, more distinct--all
of the features stood out more clearly. And when Corriston's stunned
mind began to function normally again, he realized that the old woman's
face was--had to be--a plastic mask.
It took him only an instant to remove the ghastly thing from features
which he could not bear to see defaced.
He had to pry it loose, but he did so very gently, exactly as a
sculptor might have pried loose a life mask from the face of a
recumbent model.
He held it in his hand and looked at it, and a little of the horror
crept back into his mind.
It was the merest fragment, as he had thought. Thin, flexible, a
tissue-structure of incomplete, aged features, and with an inner
surface that was very rough and uneven, as if something had been torn
from it.
He could have crumpled it up in his hand, but he did not do so. With
a lack of foresight which he was later to regret--a lack which was to
prove tragic--he simply flung it from him, as though its ugliness had
unnerved him so that he could no longer endure the sight of it.
Helen Ramsey was a dead weight in his arms, and for a moment he feared
that she had stopped breathing. So great was his fear, so paralyzing,
that his hand on her pulse became rigid, and for a moment he could
neither move nor think.
Then he felt the slow beat of her pulse and a great thankfulness came
upon him.
He knew then that he must get help as quickly as possible. He eased her
gently to the floor, walked to the door and locked it securely. Then
he returned to her and took her into his arms again. He spent several
minutes trying to revive her. But when she did not open her eyes, did
not even stir in his arms, he knew that he could not wait any longer.
8
An inexorable kind of determination enabled Corriston to get to the
Station's central control compartment, and confront the commander,
when the latter, absorbed by matters of the utmost urgency, had
triple-guarded his privacy by stationing executive officers outside the
door.
Commander Clement was a small man physically, with a strangely bland,
almost cherubic face. But his face was dark with anger now--or possibly
it was shock that he was experiencing--and the heightened color seemed
to add to his dignity, making him look not merely forcibly determined,
but almost formidable. His white uniform and the seven gold bars on
each epaulet helped a good deal too. It was impossible to determine at
a glance just how great was his inner strength, but Corriston knew that
he could not have gotten where he was had he not possessed unalloyed
resoluteness.
He was standing by a visual reference mechanism which looked almost
exactly like a black stovepipe spiraling up from the deck. There was
a speaking tube in his hand, and he was talking into it. He seemed
completely unaware that he was no longer alone.
Had Corriston been less agitated he would have felt a little sorry for
the officer who had admitted him. The officer had been so impressed by
Corriston's gravity and the earnestness with which he had pleaded his
case that he had stepped forward and opened the door without question,
assuming, no doubt, that Clement would look up instantly and see
Corriston standing just inside the doorway.
Now the door had closed again, Clement hadn't looked up, and the
officer was going to be in trouble. But Corriston had no time and very
little inclination to worry about that. What Commander Clement was
saying into the speaking tube had a far stronger claim on his attention.
"It's the worst thing that could have happened," Clement was saying.
"We can't just brazen it out. It's going to mean trouble, serious
trouble. What's that? How should I know what happened? When you're
carrying a certain kind of cargo a thousand things can go wrong. The
ship went out of control, that's all. The first radio message didn't
tell me anything. The captain was trying to cover up to save himself.
He didn't even want _me_ to know.
"You bet it can happen again. We've got to be prepared for that, too.
But right now--"
Commander Clement saw Corriston then. His expression didn't change, but
it seemed to Corriston that he paled slightly.
"That's all for now," he said, and returned the speaking tube to its
cradle.
He looked steadily at Corriston for a moment. A glint of anger appeared
in his eyes, and suddenly they were blazing.
"What do you mean by coming in here unannounced, Lieutenant?" he
demanded. "I gave strict orders that no one was to be admitted. If I
didn't know you were suffering from severe space-shock...."
"I'm sorry, sir," Corriston said quickly. "It's very urgent. I think
I can convince you that I am _not_ suffering from space-shock. I've
found Miss Ramsey. She's been badly hurt and needs immediate medical
attention."
The Commander looked as if a man he had thought sane was standing
before him with a gun in his hand. Not Corriston, but some other, more
violent man. For a moment longer he remained rigid and then his hand
went out and tightened on Corriston's arm.
"By heaven, if you're lying to me!"
"I would have no reason to lie, sir. It proves I'm not a space-shock
case. But that's unimportant now. She's safe for the moment. No one can
get to her. I bolted the door on the inside. Unless--"
Corriston went pale. "No, there's no danger. I drew the ladder up and
returned it to the Selector compartment. Then I threw the lock on the
emergency door."
"Start at the beginning," Clement said. "If she's in danger well get to
her. Take it easy now, and tell me exactly what happened."
Corriston went over it fast. He said nothing about the mask. Let
Clement find that out for himself.
Commander Clement walked to the door, threw it open and spoke to the
executive officer who was stationed outside. The officer came into the
control room.
"Stay with Lieutenant Corriston until I get back," Clement said. "He's
not to leave. He understands that."
He turned back to Corriston. "I'm afraid you'll have to consider
yourself still under guard, Lieutenant. I have only your word that you
found Miss Ramsey. I believe you, but there are some regulations even I
can't waive."
"It's all right," Corriston said. "I won't attempt to leave. But please
hurry, sir."