into your mind. The killer had not tried to spare Helen Ramsey. He had
killed her bodyguard and ripped a mask from her face. No attempt at
protection there. But Clement could not have known about that. He had
evidently been searching for Helen Ramsey himself. The news that she
had been found had startled him, had given him a visible jolt.
Corriston did not think that the pattern would dissolve. A few of its
features were becoming too clear now, the implications too inescapable.
There was something going on that was ugly at the core of it, and the
coming of the killer had simply brought it out into the open. Not too
much into the open as yet perhaps, but the handwriting on the wall had
at least become almost readable. Perhaps the accident to the freighter
had also helped to bring it into the open. In some obscure way
everything seemed to dovetail: Ramsey; the situation on Mars; Clement
and the freighter; a twice disappearing Helen Ramsey; and an accusation
of space-shock which was completely false and unjustified. Each seemed
to hover just above the center of a very definite pattern.
And so did the masks! The masks in particular. Think, think hard about
the masks and what the very existence of such masks on the Station
implied.
The masks could only have been designed to cover the darkest deceit, to
cover the most terrifying treachery.
How many officers and enlisted men on the Station were wearing masks?
How many? And why? Was _every_ officer on the Station wearing one? If
the masks were thought necessary, if their employment had been made
mandatory, there could be only one explanation.
Every officer and every enlisted man was masquerading. The Station was
officered and manned by--a word he'd never liked from a dictionary of
obsolete American slang came unbidden into his mind--_Phonies!_
The thought staggered him. For a moment he rejected it as
inconceivable, outside the bounds of reason. But it remained on the
perimeter of his consciousness and would not be dislodged. It came back
and set itself down where its dominance over his mind could not be
contested.
What else _could_ it mean? Masks have only one purpose: to enable the
wearer to avoid being recognized.
Quite obviously the phony officers could be wearing masks for only
one reason: to conceal their real identities while they manned the
Stations, carrying on the tasks of the men they had displaced.
Carrying on the tasks of the rightful officers, but with a difference.
And that difference would almost certainly be criminal activity on a
wide and daring scale.
The only question remaining to be answered was how high did that
activity ascend? Did it ascend to the very top, to Commander Clement
himself?
Fortunately, the violence of space is a controlled violence, and
determined men can slip through it with tools and building materials.
They can base themselves on zero-gravity construction rafts and take
refuge in pressurized crevices, go floating along steel girders five
hundred feet in length until there has been assembled the greatest
of all miracles--a manned Space Station a thousand feet in diameter
encircling Earth at a distance of fifteen hundred miles.
The Station had not been built in space, it had been built on Earth
section by section. However, the final task of putting it together had
been left to the floating men in their fishbowl helmets, the suicide
brigade with their incredible vacuum equipment and remote control
welding arms.
Fifty-seven sections had been built on Earth over a period of five
years, thirty-four in the Eastern United States, the rest in scattered
localities from Chicago to the Gold Coast. They had all been sent up
by step rockets into the same narrow orbit around Earth. They were
fifty-seven sections "crash landing" in a total vacuum, weightless and
yet with sufficient mass and inertia to keep them in close proximity
until the great task could get under way.
The assembled Station was cone-shaped, and it had been a colossal
undertaking to keep it from developing stress defects over a third of
its bulk during the early constructional stages. Under the guidance of
experts, the problem had been solved, but at a tragic price.
Assembling the Station had cost the lives of fifty-three men, for
there is no easy way to bring together, join, seal and make safe
tons of metal and plastic, intricate machinery and equipment, plus a
thousand-and-one small, incidental contrivances fifteen hundred miles
above the emergency-alert systems and hospital facilities of Earth.
Some of the men who had lost their lives had been blown out of
transport rocket tubes by mistake. Some had missed their footing too
close to a welding operation that had been halted too late. Some had
floated into capsules full of nitric oxygen gas under high pressure
and had failed to veer away in time. Still others had tugged too
strenuously at heavy girders and the slow, but crushing inertia of an
enormous, backward-swinging beam in free fall had ripped their space
suits asunder and fractured their spines.
There were five thousand ways of dying in space. But the sacrifice, the
terror, the tragic toll seemed immeasurably remote now, for the roar of
the incoming and outgoing ships made the Station a gigantic reality so
completely in the present that it seemed to have no past.
Spinning always on its axis, substituting centrifugal force for
the gravity tug of Earth, the Station was a complete world, a
self-contained macrocosm so immense that the magnetic-shod mechanics
who inspected it in relays, the passenger-carrying shuttle rockets from
Earth that came and went, and even the thousand-foot ships that berthed
for re-fueling and clearance seemed hardly to encroach at all on its
vast central bulk.
And yet, it was something quite apart from the Station's bigness which
came under worldwide scrutiny when the freighter crashed and was
splintered into fragments, channeling a fiery crater in the earth and
causing the most disastrous accidental death toll in United States
history.
The news was flashed to the four corners of the earth, and almost
simultaneously a flight of United States military jets took off from
the Lake Superior airport to explore the wreckage.
The first message from the flight commander, Lieutenant Colonel
Hackett, came five hours later. It was tense, grim and it minced no
words. "Wreckage radioactive. Main cargo uranium in a rough ore state.
Explosion and subsequent intense radioactivity apparently caused by an
auxiliary cargo of highly unstable uranium isotopes. If the freighter
had berthed at the Station the dangerous character of its cargo could
not have escaped detection. We have every reason to believe that it
_intended_ to berth at the Station. Its signals to the Station, before
some undeterminable shipboard accident sent it out of control, confirm
this. We must therefore assume complicity of a double nature: by the
freighter's commanding officer, Captain James Summerfield, and by
someone in a position of high command on the Station."
After that, there was no silencing the slow, relentless events on Earth.
A week after the tragedy, a U. S. Marine corporal stationed at Port
Forrestal, Wisconsin, put through a late afternoon phono-view call to
his wife. His face on the screen was haggard with strain, and he seemed
not to want to meet his wife's gaze.
"We've been ordered out into space," he said.
"You mean they're sending you out to take over the Station?"
"They're sending out five thousand United States Marines," the corporal
said. "We all knew it was coming. We expected it when that Governmental
Investigating Committee was turned back."
"But it doesn't make sense. I can't understand it. Why should the
Commander of the Station refuse to permit a Governmental Investigating
Committee to land?"
"We don't know. He must have something to conceal, and you can be
pretty sure it's an ugly something. When that freighter disaster got
into every daily press conference of the high brass I knew this was
coming. I felt it in my bones."
"But what will happen if the Commander refuses to let even the Marines
land? What will happen then?"
"We may have to open fire on the Station," the corporal said. "If the
Station is in criminal hands we'll have no alternative."
"You talk as if you were in command."
"I guess every soldier talks like that when his life is in jeopardy.
But I'm glad I'm not a five-star general. If I had to make a decision
like that--"
* * * * *
But it wasn't a general who made the crucial decision. It was Admiral
John Hayes, Commander of the Eighth Spatial Naval Division, acting on
behalf of fifty-seven nations.
He stood in the bridge room of a United States naval cruiser of massive
tonnage, staring out through a wide-view observation port at the
Station's glimmering immensity. The cruiser and the Station were moving
at almost the same speed, fifteen thousand miles an hour. But now the
cruiser was moving just a little faster than the Station, and Admiral
Hayes was growing impatient.
Maneuvering into an orbital position almost directly abreast of the
Station had been difficult. Commander Hayes' nerves were badly frayed;
and he was not a man who could endure too much frustration. He had
signaled the Station twice and received no reply. During that time,
both the Station and the Cruiser had completely encircled the Earth at
an interval of just a little under two hours.
He turned suddenly from the viewport, his lips set in tight lines. He
stared for an instant in silence at the young officer at his side, his
mind groping for an argument which would completely justify what he had
already decided he must do.
But Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Archer spoke first, saying quietly:
"You have no choice, sir."
Hayes' features relaxed a little. It was good to know that he had
support from a man whose judgment he respected. For an instant the
awful aloneness which went with supreme command weighed less heavily
upon him.
"It's absolute defiance, open rebellion," Hayes said. "I'm forced
to assume that the Station is in criminal hands. We'll never know,
probably, just _what_ happened on board that freighter. But we do know
that accidents occur. For every thirty ships that berth securely, one
meets with some kind of navigational mishap. The damage isn't always
irreparable. More often than not, in fact, it's quite minor. Usually
it means only a delay in berthing, a navigational shift, a circling
back for another try. But apparently that freighter really _had_ it.
So it gave the show away. Commander Clement must be in league, hand in
glove, with whoever is interested in smuggling unauthorized uranium
shipments through to Earth for his own personal profit. And to hasten
his immediate profit that someone apparently found it to his advantage
to trigger a little of the shipment into highly fissionable material on
Mars."
"You know as well as I do who the someone is, sir," Archer said.
"I guess we both know. But right now my only concern is with the
Station. If they ignore my third order to stand by for boarding I'll
have to open fire. The Station's stolen property just as long as it
remains in criminal hands. You can't get a desperate criminal to
surrender your property unless you convince him his own life is in
danger. I've got to try my best to convince Commander Clement I mean
business without destroying the Station."
"You'll damage it to some extent, sir. How bad do you think it will be?"
"I don't know. I don't intend to launch an atomic warhead. But I can't
stop short of that if he stays stubborn. I've no way of knowing what
his breaking point will be. But I do know that if he keeps control of
the Station he'll be in a position to wipe out New York or London."
"But you'll make your intentions unmistakably clear before you open
fire, sir?"
"Yes," Hayes said, wearily. "Yes ... of course I will."
11
Corriston took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So far luck had
favored him. Now he felt as though he were walking through a deadly
jungle where all the animals had suddenly turned friendly. The teeth
they bared at him were smiling. The grins were their masks. But the
commander didn't pretend at all ... whoever the commander really was!
And then that single question began to gnaw at Corriston like some rat
feeding on his flesh: Where was the real Clement now? Was he alive? Was
he accessible? Or was he dead?
Corriston's mental processes were now governed by the most evanescent
of impressions: the depth of the shadows on both sides of the corridor;
his own shadow lengthening before him; the drone of machinery deep
within the Station; the muffled beating of his own heart. Suddenly he
was at the end of the corridor and approaching the main control room,
his face as grim as death.
Violence he had determined upon, but it would be a very brief, a very
effective kind of violence. It takes only a second to rip a mask from a
man's face.
Something was happening just outside the main control room door. The
three executive officers guarding the door had moved eight or ten paces
down the corridor, and the door itself was standing ajar. The executive
officers had their backs turned to Corriston and were making no attempt
to conceal their agitation. They were very pale, at least, one of them
was. Two had their backs completely turned, but Corriston caught a
brief glimpse of the third man's profile, and it seemed completely
drained of color, as if the mask had stopped mirroring emotion
artificially and had allowed the wearer's actual pallor to seep through.
Corriston glided quickly to the door, passed through it and shut it
very quietly behind him.
The commander had his back turned too. He was standing before the
viewport, staring out into space.
But the commander did seem dazed, did seem stunned. Corriston could
tell by his posture, by the way he held his shoulders, by the utter
rigidity of his neck.
Then he saw it, the long cylindrical hull touched by a pale glimmer of
starlight, the circular, glowing ports, the massive, atomic-projectile
launching turrets at its base. He saw it through the viewport, saw it
past the commander's stiffening shoulders--an American war cruiser of
formidable tonnage and armed with sufficient fire power to shatter a
small moon.
All right, let the Big Dark contain it for a moment, poised out there,
ready for any contingency. Right at the moment a scoundrel must be
unmasked in a very stark way. Whatever trouble he had brought upon
himself, he must be made to face it now without the mask.
Corriston unholstered his gun and walked toward the commander across
the deck. He came up behind him and thrust the gun into the small of
his back.
"Turn around," he ordered. "Don't make any other move. Just turn slowly
and face me. I want to take a good look at your face."
If the commander was startled, he didn't show it. Perhaps the
war cruiser had dealt him such a crushing blow that he was no
longer capable of experiencing shock. Or his control may have been
extraordinary. Corriston had no way of knowing and it didn't concern
him too much.
He was chiefly interested in the commander's eyes. He had never before
seen eyes quite so piercing in their stare or narrowed in quite such an
ugly way.
The commander spoke almost instantly and his voice had a steel-cold
rasp. "Well?" he said.
Just a few words--just the shortest possible question he could have
asked.
Corriston said: "You're wearing a mask, aren't you, commander?"
The impostor's expression did not change, but his hand went
instinctively to his throat.
"Remove your tie and unbutton your collar," Corriston said.
The man made another quick gesture with his hand in the direction of
his throat. But it seemed involuntary, protective, for he did not touch
his collar.
Corriston shifted his weapon a little, moving the barrel upward until
it pressed very firmly against the commander's breastbone. He reached
out and unbuttoned the commander's collar with his free hand, very
quickly and expertly.
He was staring at the tiny hooks at the base of the mask when something
happened which made him regret that he had not followed his original
intention of instantly ripping the mask from the man's face.
The door opened and the three executive officers came into the control
room. For an instant they seemed neither to see nor understand the
situation. They must have seen Corriston, but the fact that he was
wearing a guard's uniform may have given them the idea that he had
every right to be there. The gun was concealed from view and the
commander was standing very quietly by the viewport and quite obviously
incapable of making any move, simply because the slightest move would
have endangered his life.
So the executive officers went right on talking for an instant, half to
themselves and half to the commander, just as if Corriston had not been
present at all.
"If that cruiser lands, Ramsey's goose is cooked and ours is too," a
tall officer said. "The instant that freighter crashed I knew they'd
find out quickly enough how the ships had been carrying smuggled
uranium. I knew that under pressure, half of our captains would
talk ... and the crews, too. All the government would have to do is
check and they'd find out that we're Ramsey's men, all of us. They
might even now know about the masks."
"Why not about the masks?" another officer joined in. "Ramsey paid for
the research that went into them, didn't he? Big tycoon ... fingers in
a dozen pies. When the secret's out, and he puts them on the market,
he'll make important money out of it. But we'll be in prison with just
our own faces staring back at us from a steel wall."
"Don't worry about that. Ramsey won't profit from the manufacture of
masks. He won't even profit from the false uranium clearance we gave
him. If that cruiser is allowed to land he'll be in prison with us."
"Better think that over, Commander. You refused to let the Governmental
Investigating Committee land. If a single soldier sets foot on the
Station we're done for. It's not too late to do something about it.
That cruiser can only berth by overtaking us. If we change our orbit
fast and start blasting at them with our rear adjusting rockets they'll
have to keep their distance?"
"Aren't you forgetting something? A single atomic warhead could blow
the Station apart."
"We've got to risk that. They'll think a long time before they'll go
that far. The Station's not expendible. If we change our orbit we can
still make contact with the Mars ship that's due to berth in an hour.
We've got to get back to Mars and whatever protection Ramsey can give
us. We'll have his daughter with us. He'll be so glad to see her he'll
go out on a limb to protect us."
"He'd go out on a limb anyway; He'd have to in order to save himself.
But sure, we'll take the girl. No harm in that. He knows she's here
and will be expecting her. He'll thank us for taking things so quickly
in hand. If that crazy lieutenant had made his story public that
cruiser would have been out there anyway--perhaps even sooner. They'd
have wanted to know on Earth why anyone would want to harm Ramsey's
daughter, something we don't know ourselves."
Corriston decided then that he'd kept silent long enough. He returned
his gun to its holster, and walked up to the three executive officers,
completely ignoring the commander.
He heard the commander threaten him in a low tone, heard him say words
which would have caused some men to pause in fear. But Corriston did
not turn.
There was stunned disbelief in the eyes of the three men facing him. He
spoke quickly, knowing that he had only a moment before the commander
would see that he was seized and restrained. He had to make sure that
the three would hear him out, that the commander would not be instantly
obeyed. Perhaps he couldn't make sure, but at least he could try.
"I'll make a bargain with you," he said. "I've done reckless things
but I'm not a complete fool. You're going to prevent that cruiser from
berthing and I won't be able to interfere. I'm just one man against
several hundred. All three of you are armed. If I started shooting I'd
get perhaps two of you--no more. Then you'd kill me. I haven't even the
advantage of surprise. I gave that up because I can't believe you're
complete fools either.
"First, I want to see Helen Ramsey. I want you to let me talk to her.
And when the Mars' ship berths, I want to go to Mars with her. I've
something to offer in return."
One of the officers stared at him, tightened his lips and stared
harder. "Good God!" he muttered. "Good God! A bargain. You must be out
of your mind. What could you possibly offer? If you had a gun trained
on us--"
"A witness in your defense," Corriston said. "A witness who will stand
up in court and swear that you did try to protect Helen Ramsey, that
you saved her from a very great danger. You may think that you do not
need a witness now, but before the year is out Ramsey will be on trial
for his life. His wealth won't save him. They know too much about him
now. That freighter explosion killed too many people. The public
outcry will be too great.
"If you stay on Mars you'll be hunted down like wild animals. They'll
get you in the end and you know it. You'll be brought back to Earth;
you'll stand trial."
Corriston paused for the barest instant, knowing that the commander too
was listening, knowing from the absence of sound and movement behind
him that his words were being weighed. "I think you know that I would
not break my word. I'll stand up in court and defend you under oath.
I'll be speaking the simple truth. You _did_ save Helen Ramsey from a
very great danger; you probably saved her life. That is sure to weigh
in your favor with any impartial judge and jury. You won't get the
death penalty; I can promise you that."
It was the commander who spoke first. He said, very quietly. "He's
right, of course. Completely right."
One of the officers nodded. "There's no reason why we shouldn't let him
talk to the girl. We can decide later whether we like his offer."
"We're going to like it," the commander said, coming around in front of
Corriston. "He has more sense than I would have given him credit for."
"So have you, commander," Corriston said, and meant it.
The commander's eyes were still hostile, unfriendly, but the cold rage
had gone out of them.
"All right," he said. "Let him see the girl now. Make sure a guard is
stationed at the door. Keeping that cruiser from berthing won't be
easy. They'll keep the Station under fire with small projectiles, even
if they don't attack us with atomic warheads. They'll risk some damage
just to throw a scare into us."
The officer next to Corriston nudged his arm. "All right," he said.
"But remember this when you talk to her. She doesn't know the truth
about us. She doesn't even know we're wearing masks. We'd like it
better if you didn't say anything about it."
"Whether she knows it or not isn't too important," Corriston said. "I
suppose you wouldn't care to tell me what you've done with Commander
Clement and the other officers."
"No, we wouldn't care to tell you. Anything more?"
"I guess not," Corriston said. "Take me to her."
12
He was staring at her across a shadowed room, with the pale glimmer
of a cabin viewport above her right shoulder, a very small port that
looked like a full moon glimmering high in the sky through a sea of
mist.
Her face was very white and she was staring back at him as if he had
come suddenly out of nowhere.
She hesitated only an instant and then walked straight toward him,
walked right up to him and touched him gently on the face.
"I'm so glad," she said.
She drew back then and looked at him and smiled. "I was afraid you were
in trouble because of me," she said, "some terrible kind of trouble,
and I couldn't help you at all. I kept blaming myself for everything
foolish that I had ever done, going way back to the day when I broke
my first doll, deliberately and spitefully, because I was a very
headstrong little girl."
"I'm afraid I've always been pretty headstrong myself," Corriston said.
"But being a boy, I naturally couldn't break dolls. I just wrecked the
family's peace of mind."
"We all go through life with a great deal of foolish luggage," she
said. "And sometimes you have an impulse to just drop everything--and
run away."
"I can understand that," Corriston said. "But did you have to run
away quite so fast? It's hard to believe it was for anybody's good,
including your own."