Waverill, face contorted with hate, complied slowly. Murdoch secured
the inner hatch behind the man, then got on the ship's intercom. "Now,
Waverill, you'll notice it's too far for a jump back to Ganymede. I'm
going to spend about forty minutes getting into an orbit that'll give
you a good chance. When I say shove off, you can either do it or stay
where you are. If you stay, we'll be headed a different direction and
I'll have to kill you for my own safety." He left the circuit open,
and activated a spy cell so he could see into the lock. Waverill was
leaning against the inner hatch, conserving what heat he could.
V
Murdoch set up a quick flight program, waited a minute to get farther
from Ganymede and the aliens, then turned on a radar search and set the
alarm. He unzipped his left shoe, got it off and stood staring at it
for a moment, almost afraid to turn it over.
Then he turned it slowly. There was a sticky spot on the sole.
The muscles around his middle got so taut they ached. He hurried to
the ship's med cabinet, chose a certain package of bandages and tore
it open with unsteady fingers. There was a small vial hidden there. He
unstoppered it and poured the contents onto the shoe sole.
He let it soak while he checked the pilot panel, then hurried back.
With a probe, he mulled the liquid around on the shoe sole and waited
a minute longer. Then he scraped all he could back into the vial and
looked at it. There were a few bits of shoe sole in it, but none big
enough to worry him. He got out a hypodermic and drew some of the fluid
into it. The needle plugged. He swore, ejected a little to clear it and
drew in some more.
When he had his left sleeve pushed up, he looked at the vein in the
bend of his elbow for a little while, then he took a deep breath and
plunged the needle in. He hit it the first time. He was very careful
not to get any air into the vein.
He sighed, put the rest of the fluid back in the vial and stoppered it,
and cleaned out the needle. Then he put a small bandage on his arm and
went back to the pilot's seat. He felt tired now that it was done.
The scan showed nothing dangerous. Waverill hadn't moved. Murdoch
opened his mouth to speak to him, then decided not to. He flexed his
arm and found it barely sore, then went over his flight program again.
He made a small adjustment. The acceleration was just over one G, and
it made him a little dizzy. He wondered if he could risk a drink. It
hadn't hurt Waverill. He went to the small sink and cabinet that served
as a galley, poured out a stiff shot into a glass, and mixed it with
condensed milk. He took it back to the pilot's seat, not bothering with
the free-fall cap, and drank it slowly.
It was nearly time to unload Waverill.
He checked course again, then thumbed the mike. "All right, Waverill.
Get going. You should be picked up within nine or ten hours."
Waverill didn't answer, but the panel lights showed the outer hatch
activated. Through the spy cell Murdoch could see the stars as the
hatch slowly opened. Waverill jumped off without hesitating. Murdoch
liked the tough old man's guts, and hoped he'd make it all right.
* * * * *
He closed the hatch and fed new data into the autopilot. He sagged into
the seat as the ship strained into a new course, then it eased off to
a steady forward acceleration. He was ready to loop around another of
Jupiter's moons, then around the giant planet itself, on a course that
should defy pursuit unless it were previously known.
He flexed his arm. It was a little sorer now. He wondered when the
drowsiness would hit him. He didn't want to trust the autopilot until
he was safely past Jupiter; if a meteor or a derelict got in the way,
it might take human wits to set up a new course safely.
He had all the radar units on now. The conic sweep forward showed the
great bulge of Jupiter at one side; no blips in space. The three Plan
Position screens, revolving through cross-sections of the sphere of
space around him, winked and faded with blips but none near the center.
He thought, I've made it. I've gotten away with it, and I ought to feel
excited. Instead, he was only tired. He thought, I'll get up and fill a
thermos with coffee, then I can sit here.
He unstrapped and began to rise. Then his eyes returned to one of the
scopes.
This particular one was seldom used in space; it was for planet
landings. It scanned ahead in a narrow horizontal band, like a sea
vessel's surface sweep. He'd planned only to use it as he transited
Jupiter, to cut his course in near to the atmosphere, and it was only
habit that had made him glance at it. The bright green line showed no
peaks, but at the middle, and for a little way to each side, it was
very slightly uneven.
He thought, It's just something in the system, out of adjustment. He
looked at the forward sweep. There were no blips dead ahead. He moved
the adjustments of the horizontal sweep, blurred the line, then brought
it back to sharpness. Except in the middle. The blurriness there
remained.
He opened a panel and punched automatic cross-checks, got a report that
the instrument was in perfect order. He looked at the scope again.
The blurred length had grown to either side. Clammy sweat began to
form on his skin. He punched at the computers, set up a program that
would curve the ship off its path, punched for safety verification,
and activated the autopilot. He heard the drive's whine move higher,
but felt no answering lateral acceleration. He punched for three
G deceleration, working frantically to get strapped in. The drive
shrieked but there was no tug at his body.
The blurred part of the green line was spreading.
He realized he was pressing against the side of his seat. That meant
the ship was finally swerving. But he'd erased that program. And now,
abruptly, deceleration hit him. He sagged forward against his straps,
gasping for air. He heard a new whine as his seat automatically began
to turn, pulling in the straps on one side, as it maneuvered to face
him away from the deceleration. He was crushed sideways for a while,
then the seat locked and he pressed hard against the back of it. This
he could take, though he judged it was five or six G's. He labored for
breath.
The deceleration cut off and he was in free fall. His screens and
scopes were dark. The drive no longer whined. He thought, Something's
got me. Something that can hide from radar, and control a ship from a
distance like a fish on the end of a spear.
He tore at the straps, got free and leaped for the suit locker. He
dressed in frantic haste, cycled the air lock ... and found himself on
the surface of a planet.
He had been returned to Ganymede.
Panicked, he fled; then abruptly, where nothing had been, there was
something solid in his path. He turned his face to avoid the impact and
tried to get his arms in front of him. He crashed into something that
did not yield. His arms slid around something, and without opening his
eyes he knew the robot had him. He tried to fight, but his strength was
pitiful. He relaxed and tried to think.
In his suit helmet radio the voice of the robot said, "We will put you
to sleep now."
He fought frantically to break loose. His mind screamed, No! If you go
to sleep now you'll never....
* * * * *
He was wrong.
His first waking sensation was delicious comfort. He felt good all
over. He came a little more awake and his spaceman's mind began to
reason: There's light gravity, and I'm supported by the armpits. No
acceleration. I'm breathing something heavier than air, but it feels
good in my lungs, and tastes good.
His eyelids unlocked themselves, and the shock of seeing was like a
knife in his middle.
He was buried in the ice, looking out at the place where he and
Waverill had stayed. He was far into the ice and could only see
distortedly. Between him and the open were various things; rocks,
eroded artifacts. At the edge of his vision on the right was a vaguely
animal shape.
Terror made him struggle to turn his head. He couldn't; he was encased
in something just tight enough to hold him. His nose and mouth were
free, and a draft of the cloying atmosphere moved past them so that he
could breath. There was enough space before his eyes for him to see
the stuff swirling like a heavy fog. He thought, I'm being fed by what
I breathe. I don't feel hungry. In horror, he forced the stuff out of
his lungs. It was hard to exhale. He resisted taking any back in, but
eventually he had to give up and then he fought to get it in. He tried
to cry out, but the sound was a muffled nothing.
He yielded to panic and struggled for a while without accomplishing
anything, except that he found that his casing did yield, very slowly,
if he applied pressure long enough. That brought a little sanity, and
he relaxed again until the exhaustion wore off.
There was movement in the vague shape at his right, and he felt a
compulsion to see it more plainly. Even after it was in his vision,
horrified fascination kept him straining until his head was turned
toward it.
It was alive; obscenely alive, a caricature of parts of a man. There
was no proper skin, but an ugly translucent membrane covered it. The
whole was encased as Murdoch himself must be, and from the casing
several pipes stretched back into the dark ice. The legs were entirely
gone, and only stubs of arms remained, sufficient for the thing to hang
from in its casing. Bloated lungs pulsed slowly, breathing in and out a
misty something like what Murdoch breathed. The stomach was shrunken to
a small repugnant sack, hanging at the bottom with what might be things
evolved from liver and kidneys. Blood moved from the lungs through
the loathsome mess, pumped by an overgrown heart that protruded from
between the lungs. A little blood circulated up to what had once been
the head. The skull was gone. The nose and mouth were one round hole
where the nutrient vapor puffed in and out. The brain showed horrible
and shrunk through the membrane. A pair of lidless idiot eyes stared
unmovingly in Murdoch's direction. The whole jawless head was the size
of Murdoch's two fists doubled up, if he could judge the size through
the distortion of the ice.
* * * * *
Sick but unable to vomit, Murdoch forced his eyes away from the thing.
Now the aliens spoke to him, from somewhere. "Pretty isn't he Murdoch.
He makes a good bank for the virus. You were right you know it does
offer great longevity but it has its own ideas of what a host should
be."
Murdoch produced a garbled sound and the aliens spoke again. "Your
words are indistinct but perhaps you are asking how long it took him to
become this way. He was one of our first visitors the very first who
tried to steal from us. His plan was not as clever as your own which we
found diverting though of course you had no chance against our science
which is beyond your understanding." And, in answer to his moan, they
said, "Do not be unphilosophical Murdoch you will find many thoughts to
occupy your time."
I'll go mad, he thought. That's the way out!
But he doubted that even the escape of madness would be allowed.