[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science
Fiction March 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _The passengers rocketed through space in luxury. But they
never went below decks because rumor had it that Satan himself manned
the controls of The Hell Ship._]
The giant space liner swung down in a long arc, hung for an instant on
columns of flame, then settled slowly into the blast-pit. But no hatch
opened; no air lock swung out; no person left the ship. It lay there,
its voyage over, waiting.
The thing at the controls had great corded man-like arms. Its skin was
black with stiff fur. It had fingers ending in heavy talons and eyes
bulging from the base of a massive skull. Its body was ponderous, heavy,
inhuman.
[Illustration]
After twenty minutes, a single air lock swung clear and a dozen armed
men in Company uniforms went aboard. Still later, a truck lumbered up,
the cargo hatch creaked aside, and a crane reached its long neck in for
the cargo.
Still no creature from the ship was seen to emerge. The truck driver,
idly smoking near the hull, knew this was the _Prescott_, in from the
Jupiter run--that this was the White Sands Space Port. But he didn't
know what was inside the _Prescott_ and he'd been told it wasn't healthy
to ask.
Gene O'Neil stood outside the electrified wire that surrounded the White
Sands port and thought of many things. He thought of the eternal secrecy
surrounding space travel; of the reinforced hush-hush enshrouding
Company ships. No one ever visited the engine rooms. No one in all the
nation had ever talked with a spaceman. Gene thought of the glimpse he'd
gotten of the thing in the pilot's window. Then his thoughts drifted
back to the newsrooms of Galactic Press Service; to Carter in his plush
office.
"Want to be a hero, son?"
"Who, me? Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day."
"Don't be cute. It's an assignment. Get into White Sands."
"Who tried last?"
"Jim Whiting."
"Where is Whiting now?"
"Frankly we don't know. But--"
"And the four guys who tried before Whiting?"
"We don't know. But we'd like to find out."
"Try real hard. Maybe you will."
"Cut it out. You're a newspaperman aren't you?"
"God help me, yes. But there's no way."
"There's a way. There's always a way. Like Whiting and the others. Your
pals."
Back at the port looking through the hot wire. _Sure there was a way.
Ask questions out loud. Then sit back and let them throw a noose around
you. And there was a place where you could do the sitting in complete
comfort. Where Whiting had done it--but only to vanish off the face of
the earth. Damn Carter to all hell!_
Gene turned and walked up the sandy road toward the place where the
gaudy neons of the Blue Moon told hard working men where they could
spend their money. The Blue Moon. It was quite a place.
Outside, beneath the big crescent sign, Gene stopped to watch the crowds
eddying in and out. Then he went in, to watch them cluster around the
slot machines and bend in eager rows over the view slots of the peep
shows.
He moved into the bar, dropped on one of the low stools. He ordered a
beer and let his eyes drift around.
A man sat down beside him. He was husky, tough looking. "Ain't you the
guy who's been asking questions about the crews down at the Port?"
Gene felt it coming. He looked the man over. His heavy face was flushed
with good living, eyes peculiarly direct of stare as if he was trying to
keep them from roving suspiciously by force of will. He was well
dressed, and his heavy hands twinkled with several rather large
diamonds. The man went on: "I can give you the information you want--for
a price, of course." He nodded toward an exit. "Too public in here,
though."
Gene grinned without mirth as he thought, _move over Whiting--here I
come_, and followed the man toward the door.
Outside the man waited, and Gene moved up close.
"You see, it's this way...."
Something exploded against Gene's skull. Even as fiery darkness closed
down he knew he'd found _the way_. But only a stupid newspaperman would
take it. Damn Carter!
Gene went out.
He seemed to be dreaming. Over him bent a repulsive, man-like face. But
the man had fingernails growing on his chin where his whiskers should
have been. And his eyes were funny--walled, as though he bordered on
idiocy. In the dream, Gene felt himself strapped into a hammock. Then
something pulled at him and made a terrible racket for a long time. Then
it got very quiet except for a throbbing in his head. He went back to
sleep.
* * * * *
She had on a starched white outfit, but it wasn't a nurse's uniform.
There wasn't much skirt, and what there was of it was only the back
part. The neckline plunged to the waist and stopped there. It was a
peculiar outfit for a nurse to be wearing. But it looked familiar.
Her soft hands fixed something over his eyes, something cold and wet. He
felt grateful, but kept on trying to remember. Ah, he had it; the girls
wore that kind of outfit in the Blue Moon in one of the skits they did,
burlesquing a hospital. He took off the wet cloth and looked again.
She was a dream. Even with her lips rouge-scarlet, her cheeks pink with
makeup, her eyes heavy with artifice.
"What gives, beautiful?" He was surprised at the weakness of his voice.
Her voice was hard, but nice, and it was bitter, as though she wanted
hard people to know she knew the score, could be just a little harder.
"You're a spaceman now! Didn't you know?"
Gene grinned weakly. "I don't know a star from a street light. Nobody
gets on the space crews these days--it's a closed union."
Her laugh was full of a knowledge denied him. "That's what I used to
think!"
She began to unstrap him from the hammock. Then she pushed back his
hair, prodded at the purple knob on his head with careful fingertips.
"How come you're on this ship?" asked Gene, wincing but letting her
fingers explore.
"Shanghaied, same as you. I'm from the Blue Moon. I stepped out between
acts for a breath of fresh air, and wham, a sack over the head and here
I am. They thought you might have a cracked skull. One of the monsters
told me to check you. No doctor on the ship."
Gene groaned. "Then I didn't dream it--there is a guy on this ship with
fingernails instead of a beard on his chin!"