He was crawling on hands and knees through a
world of steam, of greasy mud that sought to engulf him bodily. He
could not breathe—yet he must go—get
away—out—
His lanky body was sprawled across the bed, arms wide and
spread. Hands clawed feebly at the wrinkled covering bunched under
it as his head turned with slow, agonized steadiness back and forth
on the slightly raised section at one end of that narrow shelf.
Humid heat, gluey mess holding him—but he must keep going.
It was very necessary—he must!
He was breathing in gasps, which grew into shudders, shaking his
whole lean length. And though his eyes were still closed, he
endeavored to push himself up and away from the surface on which he
lay.
He could see—his eyes relayed a message to his brain—that
he was not crawling over any steam-pillared swamp. Instead, he
lifted his head higher to look at walls that appeared to raise and
lower rhythmically to his gasping.
Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader Solar
Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK—as if they were part
of a flaming scarlet sign printed on the heaving surface before
him, he read those words. And they made sense, although—did
he see them? He—he was Dane Thorson. And the Solar
Queen—
With a gasp that was half cry, he gave himself a push so he was
seated, not lying, on the bed, though he had to hold on tightly
while the surface, which should have offered solid security, bucked
and swung under him.
But as if recognition of his identity unlocked some barrier, he
could think. He was still deathly ill and dizzy, but he could force
himself to sort out the events of the immediate past, or at least
part of it. He was Dane Thorson, acting cargo master of the Queen because Van Ryke, his
superior, was off-world and would join them only at the end of this
voyage. And this was the Solar Queen, a free
trader—
But as Dane turned his head carefully, he knew that that was not
true. He was not in his familiar cabin on board ship—this was
a room. He forced himself to study his surroundings for some clue
to aid limping memory. There was the bed on which he had been
lying, two snap-down seats pulled out of the wall, no windows but
an air plate near the ceiling, two doors, both closed. A wan light
came from a ceiling set rod. It was a bare room, not unlike a cell.
A cell—memory spiraled back.
They had been Patrol Posted. This was a cell—No! That was
all done with. They had finned down on Xecho, ready to ship out for
Trewsworld on their first mail run—
Ship out! As if those two
words were a spur, Dane tried to get to his feet. He nearly fell,
but somehow he balanced along the wall, his stomach heaving for
tortured moments of misery. He caught at the nearest door, his
weight dragging it open, and found that some merciful instinct had
brought him to the fresher. Then he proceeded to be thoroughly and
violently ill.
Still shaking from racking spasms, he managed to get to water
and splash it over his face and upper body, thus becoming aware for
the first time that he was not wearing his uniform tunic, though
breeches and space boots still clothed him.
The water and, oddly, the nausea, seemed to pull him farther out
of the fog. He wavered back into the room, staring about him while
he thought. His last clear memory was—what?
Message—what message? That there was a registered package
to be picked up, under standard one priority. For a few seconds he
had a clear mental picture of the cargo master’s office on
the Queen, of Tang Ya, the com-tech, standing in the
door.
Last-minute pickup—last minute! The Queen was set
for takeoff!
Panic hit him. He did not know what had happened. The
message—and he must have left the ship—but where was
here? And—even more important—when was
now? The Queen had a schedule all the more
important because she was, if temporarily, a mail ship. How long had he been here?
Surely they would not have lifted without him! And how and why, as
well as where—
Dane rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. Odd,
he was dripping with sweat, and yet he shook with a chill inside.
There was a tunic—He wavered to the bed and fumbled with the
garment that had been tossed there.
Not his. It was not the sober brown of a spaceman but rather a
gaudy, though faded, purple with raveling embroidery. But because
he was so cold, he pulled it about him. Then he made for the other
door, one that must get him out of here—wherever
here was! The Queen set to lift and he not on
board—
His legs still tended to buckle under him, but he kept on them
and walking. The door gave to his weak shove, and he was in a
corridor, with a long line of other doors, all closed. But at the
far end was an arch and beyond that movement and sound. Dane headed
for that, still trying to remember more. The message for a
pickup—He must have left the Queen at once. Now he
halted to look down at his body under the flapping of the
unfastened tunic, too tight and short for him. His safe
belt—yes, he was still wearing that. But—
With one hand he investigated. Its pockets were all empty except
the one holding his ident disk, but no one would have any use for
that. It was keyed to his body chemistry. Let another take it, and
within minutes the information on it would be erased. So he had
been robbed.
But why the room? If he had been jumped, they would have left
him lying—Gingerly he felt his head—no painful bruise
or lump. Of course there were nerve holds that knocked a man out,
and if sleep gas had been blown in his face—But why the
room?
Time for puzzles later. The Queen and takeoff—he
had to reach the Queen! And where was he? How much time
did he have? But surely when he had not returned, they would not
have gone. Rather they would have come looking for him. The crew of
the Solar Queen was too close-knit a companionship to
leave one of their members planet-side without a search.
At least he could move better now, and his head was clear. Dane
pulled the tunic close about him, though he could not seal it, as he reached the arch and looked beyond. The large
room was familiar. Half of it had booths set along the wall with
dials for quick meals in their tables. The other half had a
registration robo, a message bank, and a newscast screen. This was
the—the—
He could not remember the name, but it was one of the small,
cheap inns at the port, catering mainly to crewmen who were waiting
to ship out. He had eaten at that table right over there with Rip
Shannon and Ali Kamil just yesterday—or was it
yesterday?
The Queen and lift time—Panic-fed urgency
clamped on him again. At least he was not miles from the port,
though on this world where dry land was merely strings of islands
set in shallow, steaming seas, one could not get miles from the
port and still be on the same blob of land.
All that was of no consequence now. He must get back to the
Queen. To hold to that was going to take all his
concentration. Dane took one careful step after another, heading
for the nearest door.
Had he or had he not seen one of those men seated in the nearest
booth start up as if he wanted to stop him? Maybe he looked as if
he needed assistance. But just let him get to the
Queen—!
If he attracted any more attention, Dane neither knew nor cared.
What filled his world was the supreme luck of seeing an unoccupied
scooter just outside. He fumbled his ident disk out, and as he fell
rather than sat on the seat, he fed that into the proper slot and
punched out “go.”
Already he was straining to see the launch strip. One, two,
three ships! And the last one in line was the Queen! He
would make it. The scooter whirled him at its top speed, though he
did not remember punching it. It was almost as if the machine
sensed his fear and impatience.
The cargo hatch was closed, but, of course, he had seen to that
himself. The ramp was still out. As the scooter swept up, he
tottered from it to the ramp and pulled himself up hand over hand
by the guardrail. His will kept him going, but the weakness and
dizziness were returning. And now, the ramp was moving! They were
preparing for takeoff!
Dane made a convulsive effort, gained the end of the ramp and
then the hatch. He could not reach his own cabin in time to strap down. Where? Van Ryke’s was the
nearest—up ladder.
His own body was the enemy he must fight. Dane was dimly aware
of the struggle with the ladder, of half falling through a cabin
door, of reaching the bunk and dropping on it. Then he blacked
out.
No dream now of wading through an adhesive swamp or veils of
steam. There was a heavy pressure on his chest, smothering him, a
harsh rasping on his chin. Dane opened his eyes to stare into
inquisitive feline ones. Sinbad, ship’s cat, nosed him again,
kneaded his paws on Dane under his own portly frame with vigor
enough to bring a protest out of the man.
There was the familiar vibration, though. This was Sinbad. He
had reached the Queen, and they were out in space. A vast
relief flooded through Dane.
Then, for the first time he was able to think farther than just
reaching the ship before it lifted. He had gone to make a
registered pickup. And somewhere he had been jumped and robbed.
Before or after he had made the pickup? A new worry presented
itself. If he had signed for it, then he, or rather the
Queen, was responsible for the loss. The sooner he
reported to Captain Jellico, the better.
“Yes,” he said aloud, pushing Sinbad away to sit up.
“Got to see the Old Man—”
His first awakening in the inn had been tough. This was almost
as bad. He had to hold onto the bunk and close his eyes, not sure
if he could move. There was the com on the wall. Get to
that, call for help—Poison? Could they—the mysterious
they—or he—or it—who had initiated his attack
have used poison on him? Once before he had been so wracked, on
Sargol, when, by native custom as a successful Gorp hunter, he had
shared a ceremonial drink—to pay for that compliance later.
Tau—Medic Tau—
Dane set his teeth, grasped Van Ryke’s file of micro
films, which jutted conveniently from the wall, and pulled himself
up. He managed to jerk the mike from its hook, but when it came to
thumbing the button for sick bay, he could not be sure—they
were a blur. He had to chance it.
Now that he was up, he was almost afraid to return to the bunk.
The waves of sickness seemed less overpowering when he was on his
feet. Maybe if he tried now to get around—Besides, he had to report to Jellico, must do
that—
He heard a warning growl from Sinbad as his foot touched
something soft. And the big cat, his dignity injured by
interference with his tail, slapped back, his claws grating on
Dane’s space boot.
“Sorry.” Dane, trying to avoid the rest of
Sinbad’s bulk, staggered forward, out of the door, into the
well of the ladder. He held out groping hands for that.
Captain—must report—
“What the—?”
Dane had not trodden on the head of the man climbing up, but it
was a near thing. As with Sinbad, he tried to avoid collision and
swung out so far he would have fallen had not the newcomer caught
him. Ali Kamil’s finely featured face swung back and forth in
Dane’s sight, but then the assistant engineer’s tough
grip steadied him.
“Got—to—report,” Dane said.
“See—Captain—”
“What by the Five Names of Stayfol!” Kamil supported
him back against the wall. His face was clear and then blurred in
Dane’s sight.
“See Jellico—” Dane repeated. He knew he was
saying that, but he could not hear his own voice. Nor could he
twist free from Kamil’s grip.
“Down—come on—”
Not down—up! He had to go to see Jellico—
He was on the ladder. He must have made Ali understand.
Only, they were going down—down—up—in space which
was which? Dane shook his head to clear it, and that only made it
worse, so that he dared not move at all, but clung to the ladder, a
sole anchor in a spinning world.
Hands pulled at him. He heard talking, only the words had no
meaning.
“Report—” With a vast effort he got that out
in a rasping whisper.
There were two of them with him, Ali and someone else. Dane
dared not turn his head to see. And they were steering him to a
cabin door. Ali pushed that back, and they entered, Dane limp
between them.
Then for a stark moment the mists were gone, wiped away. He hung
between the two who had supported him, but he could see, as if the
shock of what lay on the bunk had pulled him out of the dizzy spin
of the sickness.
The sleeper lay quietly, acceleration straps still about him as
if he had not recovered from takeoff. His tunic—his head—the face—
Dane gave a jerk that loosened the grasp of those
with him. Their astonishment must have been as great as his. He
stumbled forward the step or two to the bunk to stare down at the
man who lay there, eyes closed, apparently asleep or unconscious.
Then, holding on with one hand to keep his precarious balance, Dane
reached out the other to assure himself by touch that someone
did lie there, that his eyes were not playing tricks on
him, for the face against the raised end of the bunk was the one he
saw in mirrors. He was looking down at—himself!
There was solid flesh and bone meeting the prod of his finger.
But if a body did lie there, the face—was that a dream out of
his illness? Dane turned his head. Kamil was there, and with him
Frank Mura, the cook steward. Both of them were staring at the man
on the bunk.
“No!” Dane choked out a denial of what he saw.
“I’m—I’m—me! I’m Dane
Thorson.” And he recited the same formula that had come to
him in the inn on his first waking into the nightmare.
“Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader
Solar Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK.” His ident
disk! He had that as proof. Now he got it out of his belt pocket,
held it so they might see it, too, and know that he was Dane
Thorson. But if he was Dane Thorson, then who—
“What is going on?”
Tau! Medic Tau! With relief Dane hunched around, still keeping
his hold on the bunk lest he sprawl on the floor. Tau would know
who he was. Why, he and Craig Tau had gone through almost as bad as
this together—on Khatka.
“I’m Dane,” he said. “I can prove it.
You’re Craig Tau, and we were on Khatka, where you used magic
to make Limbulo hunt himself. And—and”—he
pointed with the ident disk to Ali, his hand shaking as he did
it—“you’re Ali Kamil, and we found you trapped in
a maze on Limbo. And you, you’re Frank Mura. You piped us
into that maze.” There, he must have proved it. No one but
Dane Thorson would know all that. They must believe him now.
But then who—what—lay on his bunk, wearing his
tunic—because it was his. There was the mend he had done by
thoro-weave three days ago. He was Dane Thorson—
“I am Dane Thorson—” Not only were
his hands shaking now; his whole body quivered. And he was going to
be sick again. He couldn’t help it. Maybe—maybe this
was all some kind of crazy dream!
“Steady! Get him, Kamil.” Tau was with him. Then he
was in the fresher once more, vomiting.
“Can you hold him?” He heard Tau’s voice
faintly as if it came from a distance. “I’ll have to
get a shot. He’s been—”
“Poisoned, I think,” Dane heard himself say. But
whether he spoke aloud, he could not tell. At the same moment the
lights went out.
For the third time he roused, but this time lazily. It was not
Sinbad’s weight on his chest and the cat’s rasping
tongue that drew him back to consciousness. Rather it was a feeling
of peace, as if he had thrown off some burden. And for a long
moment he was content until memory began its irritating prick-prick
of summons to full awareness.
There was something—something about a report to the
captain. Dane’s thoughts uncoiled sluggishly. He opened his
eyes, turned his head a little, and things dropped into focus. He
was in sick bay. Though he had never lain here before, the cabin
was familiar. He stirred, and the medic came into Dane’s line
of vision.
“With us again, eh? Let’s see—” He went
to work with quick competence to run a check on Dane’s still
inert body. “Fair enough, though by rights you should be
dead.”
Dead? He had been dead—Dane frowned. There had been a
body in his bunk.
“The man in my bunk?” He made that a question,
though he did not finish it.
“Dead. And I think you are fit enough now—”
Tau went to the wall com. “Sick bay calling
Captain.”
Captain—report to the captain! Dane tried to get up, but
Tau had already pressed the button bringing part of the surface up
under him as a support. A little dizziness returned but then was
gone.
“That man—how—”
“Acceleration with a heart condition. He had no business
trying to get off-planet,” Tau told him.
“His—his face—”
Tau took something from a nearby shelf. He faced Dane, holding
out a plasta mask. Save that it had no eyes, only holes, it was
like looking in a mirror. And a back stretch covered with blond
hair like Dane’s turned it into a full head covering.
“Who was he?” The mask possessed a macabre
fascination. Dane looked away from it quickly. It was almost like
seeing a part of himself limp and flaccid in the medic’s
grasp.
“We were hoping—are hoping—you know,”
Tau returned. “But the captain wants it now.”
As if that were an introduction, Captain Jellico came in. His
deeply tanned face with the blaster scar along one cheek showed no
readable emotion, as was usual. But he glanced from the mask Tau
was holding to Dane and back again.
“Diabolically clever piece of work,” he commented.
“Not a quick job.”
“Nor made on Xecho either, I would say.” Tau put
away the mask, to Dane’s relief. “That is the product
of an expert.”
The captain came to Dane’s side and held out his hand. On
the palm rested a colored tridee. It was of a man. His skin did not
have the brown tan of a crewman but was bleached looking, though he
must be Terran or Terran colonial bred. There was an odd, fixed
look in his eyes, a frozen stillness to his features that was
disquieting. His hair was sparse, sandy brown, his eyebrows above
those fixed eyes were thin and ragged, and he had a rash of
freckles across his upper cheekbones. To Dane he was a complete
stranger.
“Who—?”
Jellico gestured to the mask. “The man behind that. You
don’t know him?”
“Never saw him—that I can remember.”
“He had your belongings, a forged ident in the bargain,
and that mask. He was sent aboard to be you. And where were
you?”
Dane outlined his adventures after waking in the inn, adding the
information about the missing package—if it was missing.
“Inform the port police?” he suggested
tentatively.
“Not for robbery, I think.” Jellico turned the
tridee to look down at the face in it, as if, by the very intensity
of his gaze, he could force some answer to the riddle. “This
was a setup that required a lot of planning. It was, I believe, a means of
getting a man on board.”
“A cargo master aboard, sir,” Dane corrected
eagerly, “who would have access to—”
Jellico nodded sharply. “Fair assumption. Stowage
reports—what are we shipping that would be worth such a
long-range plan?”
Dane, entrusted for the first time with full authority for the
stowage, could have recited the entire list. He ran over it swiftly
now in his mind. But there was nothing—nothing that
important. A mask would require time to make, a reason for a
long-thought-out buildup. He turned to Tau.
“I was poisoned?”
“You were. If it hadn’t been for the metabolism
shift after that ceremonial drink on Sargol—” He shook
his head. “Whether they meant to have you dead or just put
you out for a long time—anyway, normally it would have
finished you.”
“Then he was meant to be me—for how long?” He
asked that question of himself, but the captain answered.
“No longer than Trewsworld, I would say. First, unless he
was exceptionally well briefed, he couldn’t play the part
with shipmates who really knew you. It would require a complete
memory switch for that, and they didn’t have you in their
hands long enough for that. You went off-ship and apparently were
back again in one Xechoian cin-cycle. A memory switch takes a
planetary day at least. Also, he couldn’t play sick either.
Tau would have been after him. So, he could say he was uncertain
about his work—first run for him in cargo command—and
could hole up to check his tapes and the like. The Trewsworld run
is not a long one. He might have been able—with luck—to
pull it off, or think he could, with that excuse.
“Second, there are only two reasons why he’d come on
board—he was carrying something he had to transport under
guard, or he himself had a very necessary reason for reaching
Trewsworld in disguise. He was defeated mainly by
chance—first, that you had your insides shaken up badly on
Sargol so that their poison didn’t work, and, second, that he
himself was not fit for space travel.”
“Did he bring anything with him?” Dane asked.
“The registered package—they might have been after that
all the time but have planned to walk off with it on Trewsworld, not
jump me for it on Xecho.”
“Trouble was,” Jellico answered, “he was
checked on board by the ramp cell, not by any of us. We don’t
know whether he brought anything or not. There’s nothing in
the cabin, and the holds are safe-locked.”
Safe-locked!
“Not the treasure room,” Dane returned. “I
left that on half seal—couldn’t close it until the
package came.”
Jellico went to the com. “Shannon!” His call to the
bridge alerting the assistant astrogator was loud enough to make
Dane’s ears ring. “Down to the treasure room on the
double. See if it’s fully sealed or not!”
Dane tried to think. Where else, if the holds were on full seal,
where else could something be hidden on the Queen?
He was crawling on hands and knees through a
world of steam, of greasy mud that sought to engulf him bodily. He
could not breathe—yet he must go—get
away—out—
His lanky body was sprawled across the bed, arms wide and
spread. Hands clawed feebly at the wrinkled covering bunched under
it as his head turned with slow, agonized steadiness back and forth
on the slightly raised section at one end of that narrow shelf.
Humid heat, gluey mess holding him—but he must keep going.
It was very necessary—he must!
He was breathing in gasps, which grew into shudders, shaking his
whole lean length. And though his eyes were still closed, he
endeavored to push himself up and away from the surface on which he
lay.
He could see—his eyes relayed a message to his brain—that
he was not crawling over any steam-pillared swamp. Instead, he
lifted his head higher to look at walls that appeared to raise and
lower rhythmically to his gasping.
Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader Solar
Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK—as if they were part
of a flaming scarlet sign printed on the heaving surface before
him, he read those words. And they made sense, although—did
he see them? He—he was Dane Thorson. And the Solar
Queen—
With a gasp that was half cry, he gave himself a push so he was
seated, not lying, on the bed, though he had to hold on tightly
while the surface, which should have offered solid security, bucked
and swung under him.
But as if recognition of his identity unlocked some barrier, he
could think. He was still deathly ill and dizzy, but he could force
himself to sort out the events of the immediate past, or at least
part of it. He was Dane Thorson, acting cargo master of the Queen because Van Ryke, his
superior, was off-world and would join them only at the end of this
voyage. And this was the Solar Queen, a free
trader—
But as Dane turned his head carefully, he knew that that was not
true. He was not in his familiar cabin on board ship—this was
a room. He forced himself to study his surroundings for some clue
to aid limping memory. There was the bed on which he had been
lying, two snap-down seats pulled out of the wall, no windows but
an air plate near the ceiling, two doors, both closed. A wan light
came from a ceiling set rod. It was a bare room, not unlike a cell.
A cell—memory spiraled back.
They had been Patrol Posted. This was a cell—No! That was
all done with. They had finned down on Xecho, ready to ship out for
Trewsworld on their first mail run—
Ship out! As if those two
words were a spur, Dane tried to get to his feet. He nearly fell,
but somehow he balanced along the wall, his stomach heaving for
tortured moments of misery. He caught at the nearest door, his
weight dragging it open, and found that some merciful instinct had
brought him to the fresher. Then he proceeded to be thoroughly and
violently ill.
Still shaking from racking spasms, he managed to get to water
and splash it over his face and upper body, thus becoming aware for
the first time that he was not wearing his uniform tunic, though
breeches and space boots still clothed him.
The water and, oddly, the nausea, seemed to pull him farther out
of the fog. He wavered back into the room, staring about him while
he thought. His last clear memory was—what?
Message—what message? That there was a registered package
to be picked up, under standard one priority. For a few seconds he
had a clear mental picture of the cargo master’s office on
the Queen, of Tang Ya, the com-tech, standing in the
door.
Last-minute pickup—last minute! The Queen was set
for takeoff!
Panic hit him. He did not know what had happened. The
message—and he must have left the ship—but where was
here? And—even more important—when was
now? The Queen had a schedule all the more
important because she was, if temporarily, a mail ship. How long had he been here?
Surely they would not have lifted without him! And how and why, as
well as where—
Dane rubbed a hand across his sweating forehead. Odd,
he was dripping with sweat, and yet he shook with a chill inside.
There was a tunic—He wavered to the bed and fumbled with the
garment that had been tossed there.
Not his. It was not the sober brown of a spaceman but rather a
gaudy, though faded, purple with raveling embroidery. But because
he was so cold, he pulled it about him. Then he made for the other
door, one that must get him out of here—wherever
here was! The Queen set to lift and he not on
board—
His legs still tended to buckle under him, but he kept on them
and walking. The door gave to his weak shove, and he was in a
corridor, with a long line of other doors, all closed. But at the
far end was an arch and beyond that movement and sound. Dane headed
for that, still trying to remember more. The message for a
pickup—He must have left the Queen at once. Now he
halted to look down at his body under the flapping of the
unfastened tunic, too tight and short for him. His safe
belt—yes, he was still wearing that. But—
With one hand he investigated. Its pockets were all empty except
the one holding his ident disk, but no one would have any use for
that. It was keyed to his body chemistry. Let another take it, and
within minutes the information on it would be erased. So he had
been robbed.
But why the room? If he had been jumped, they would have left
him lying—Gingerly he felt his head—no painful bruise
or lump. Of course there were nerve holds that knocked a man out,
and if sleep gas had been blown in his face—But why the
room?
Time for puzzles later. The Queen and takeoff—he
had to reach the Queen! And where was he? How much time
did he have? But surely when he had not returned, they would not
have gone. Rather they would have come looking for him. The crew of
the Solar Queen was too close-knit a companionship to
leave one of their members planet-side without a search.
At least he could move better now, and his head was clear. Dane
pulled the tunic close about him, though he could not seal it, as he reached the arch and looked beyond. The large
room was familiar. Half of it had booths set along the wall with
dials for quick meals in their tables. The other half had a
registration robo, a message bank, and a newscast screen. This was
the—the—
He could not remember the name, but it was one of the small,
cheap inns at the port, catering mainly to crewmen who were waiting
to ship out. He had eaten at that table right over there with Rip
Shannon and Ali Kamil just yesterday—or was it
yesterday?
The Queen and lift time—Panic-fed urgency
clamped on him again. At least he was not miles from the port,
though on this world where dry land was merely strings of islands
set in shallow, steaming seas, one could not get miles from the
port and still be on the same blob of land.
All that was of no consequence now. He must get back to the
Queen. To hold to that was going to take all his
concentration. Dane took one careful step after another, heading
for the nearest door.
Had he or had he not seen one of those men seated in the nearest
booth start up as if he wanted to stop him? Maybe he looked as if
he needed assistance. But just let him get to the
Queen—!
If he attracted any more attention, Dane neither knew nor cared.
What filled his world was the supreme luck of seeing an unoccupied
scooter just outside. He fumbled his ident disk out, and as he fell
rather than sat on the seat, he fed that into the proper slot and
punched out “go.”
Already he was straining to see the launch strip. One, two,
three ships! And the last one in line was the Queen! He
would make it. The scooter whirled him at its top speed, though he
did not remember punching it. It was almost as if the machine
sensed his fear and impatience.
The cargo hatch was closed, but, of course, he had seen to that
himself. The ramp was still out. As the scooter swept up, he
tottered from it to the ramp and pulled himself up hand over hand
by the guardrail. His will kept him going, but the weakness and
dizziness were returning. And now, the ramp was moving! They were
preparing for takeoff!
Dane made a convulsive effort, gained the end of the ramp and
then the hatch. He could not reach his own cabin in time to strap down. Where? Van Ryke’s was the
nearest—up ladder.
His own body was the enemy he must fight. Dane was dimly aware
of the struggle with the ladder, of half falling through a cabin
door, of reaching the bunk and dropping on it. Then he blacked
out.
No dream now of wading through an adhesive swamp or veils of
steam. There was a heavy pressure on his chest, smothering him, a
harsh rasping on his chin. Dane opened his eyes to stare into
inquisitive feline ones. Sinbad, ship’s cat, nosed him again,
kneaded his paws on Dane under his own portly frame with vigor
enough to bring a protest out of the man.
There was the familiar vibration, though. This was Sinbad. He
had reached the Queen, and they were out in space. A vast
relief flooded through Dane.
Then, for the first time he was able to think farther than just
reaching the ship before it lifted. He had gone to make a
registered pickup. And somewhere he had been jumped and robbed.
Before or after he had made the pickup? A new worry presented
itself. If he had signed for it, then he, or rather the
Queen, was responsible for the loss. The sooner he
reported to Captain Jellico, the better.
“Yes,” he said aloud, pushing Sinbad away to sit up.
“Got to see the Old Man—”
His first awakening in the inn had been tough. This was almost
as bad. He had to hold onto the bunk and close his eyes, not sure
if he could move. There was the com on the wall. Get to
that, call for help—Poison? Could they—the mysterious
they—or he—or it—who had initiated his attack
have used poison on him? Once before he had been so wracked, on
Sargol, when, by native custom as a successful Gorp hunter, he had
shared a ceremonial drink—to pay for that compliance later.
Tau—Medic Tau—
Dane set his teeth, grasped Van Ryke’s file of micro
films, which jutted conveniently from the wall, and pulled himself
up. He managed to jerk the mike from its hook, but when it came to
thumbing the button for sick bay, he could not be sure—they
were a blur. He had to chance it.
Now that he was up, he was almost afraid to return to the bunk.
The waves of sickness seemed less overpowering when he was on his
feet. Maybe if he tried now to get around—Besides, he had to report to Jellico, must do
that—
He heard a warning growl from Sinbad as his foot touched
something soft. And the big cat, his dignity injured by
interference with his tail, slapped back, his claws grating on
Dane’s space boot.
“Sorry.” Dane, trying to avoid the rest of
Sinbad’s bulk, staggered forward, out of the door, into the
well of the ladder. He held out groping hands for that.
Captain—must report—
“What the—?”
Dane had not trodden on the head of the man climbing up, but it
was a near thing. As with Sinbad, he tried to avoid collision and
swung out so far he would have fallen had not the newcomer caught
him. Ali Kamil’s finely featured face swung back and forth in
Dane’s sight, but then the assistant engineer’s tough
grip steadied him.
“Got—to—report,” Dane said.
“See—Captain—”
“What by the Five Names of Stayfol!” Kamil supported
him back against the wall. His face was clear and then blurred in
Dane’s sight.
“See Jellico—” Dane repeated. He knew he was
saying that, but he could not hear his own voice. Nor could he
twist free from Kamil’s grip.
“Down—come on—”
Not down—up! He had to go to see Jellico—
He was on the ladder. He must have made Ali understand.
Only, they were going down—down—up—in space which
was which? Dane shook his head to clear it, and that only made it
worse, so that he dared not move at all, but clung to the ladder, a
sole anchor in a spinning world.
Hands pulled at him. He heard talking, only the words had no
meaning.
“Report—” With a vast effort he got that out
in a rasping whisper.
There were two of them with him, Ali and someone else. Dane
dared not turn his head to see. And they were steering him to a
cabin door. Ali pushed that back, and they entered, Dane limp
between them.
Then for a stark moment the mists were gone, wiped away. He hung
between the two who had supported him, but he could see, as if the
shock of what lay on the bunk had pulled him out of the dizzy spin
of the sickness.
The sleeper lay quietly, acceleration straps still about him as
if he had not recovered from takeoff. His tunic—his head—the face—
Dane gave a jerk that loosened the grasp of those
with him. Their astonishment must have been as great as his. He
stumbled forward the step or two to the bunk to stare down at the
man who lay there, eyes closed, apparently asleep or unconscious.
Then, holding on with one hand to keep his precarious balance, Dane
reached out the other to assure himself by touch that someone
did lie there, that his eyes were not playing tricks on
him, for the face against the raised end of the bunk was the one he
saw in mirrors. He was looking down at—himself!
There was solid flesh and bone meeting the prod of his finger.
But if a body did lie there, the face—was that a dream out of
his illness? Dane turned his head. Kamil was there, and with him
Frank Mura, the cook steward. Both of them were staring at the man
on the bunk.
“No!” Dane choked out a denial of what he saw.
“I’m—I’m—me! I’m Dane
Thorson.” And he recited the same formula that had come to
him in the inn on his first waking into the nightmare.
“Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader
Solar Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK.” His ident
disk! He had that as proof. Now he got it out of his belt pocket,
held it so they might see it, too, and know that he was Dane
Thorson. But if he was Dane Thorson, then who—
“What is going on?”
Tau! Medic Tau! With relief Dane hunched around, still keeping
his hold on the bunk lest he sprawl on the floor. Tau would know
who he was. Why, he and Craig Tau had gone through almost as bad as
this together—on Khatka.
“I’m Dane,” he said. “I can prove it.
You’re Craig Tau, and we were on Khatka, where you used magic
to make Limbulo hunt himself. And—and”—he
pointed with the ident disk to Ali, his hand shaking as he did
it—“you’re Ali Kamil, and we found you trapped in
a maze on Limbo. And you, you’re Frank Mura. You piped us
into that maze.” There, he must have proved it. No one but
Dane Thorson would know all that. They must believe him now.
But then who—what—lay on his bunk, wearing his
tunic—because it was his. There was the mend he had done by
thoro-weave three days ago. He was Dane Thorson—
“I am Dane Thorson—” Not only were
his hands shaking now; his whole body quivered. And he was going to
be sick again. He couldn’t help it. Maybe—maybe this
was all some kind of crazy dream!
“Steady! Get him, Kamil.” Tau was with him. Then he
was in the fresher once more, vomiting.
“Can you hold him?” He heard Tau’s voice
faintly as if it came from a distance. “I’ll have to
get a shot. He’s been—”
“Poisoned, I think,” Dane heard himself say. But
whether he spoke aloud, he could not tell. At the same moment the
lights went out.
For the third time he roused, but this time lazily. It was not
Sinbad’s weight on his chest and the cat’s rasping
tongue that drew him back to consciousness. Rather it was a feeling
of peace, as if he had thrown off some burden. And for a long
moment he was content until memory began its irritating prick-prick
of summons to full awareness.
There was something—something about a report to the
captain. Dane’s thoughts uncoiled sluggishly. He opened his
eyes, turned his head a little, and things dropped into focus. He
was in sick bay. Though he had never lain here before, the cabin
was familiar. He stirred, and the medic came into Dane’s line
of vision.
“With us again, eh? Let’s see—” He went
to work with quick competence to run a check on Dane’s still
inert body. “Fair enough, though by rights you should be
dead.”
Dead? He had been dead—Dane frowned. There had been a
body in his bunk.
“The man in my bunk?” He made that a question,
though he did not finish it.
“Dead. And I think you are fit enough now—”
Tau went to the wall com. “Sick bay calling
Captain.”
Captain—report to the captain! Dane tried to get up, but
Tau had already pressed the button bringing part of the surface up
under him as a support. A little dizziness returned but then was
gone.
“That man—how—”
“Acceleration with a heart condition. He had no business
trying to get off-planet,” Tau told him.
“His—his face—”
Tau took something from a nearby shelf. He faced Dane, holding
out a plasta mask. Save that it had no eyes, only holes, it was
like looking in a mirror. And a back stretch covered with blond
hair like Dane’s turned it into a full head covering.
“Who was he?” The mask possessed a macabre
fascination. Dane looked away from it quickly. It was almost like
seeing a part of himself limp and flaccid in the medic’s
grasp.
“We were hoping—are hoping—you know,”
Tau returned. “But the captain wants it now.”
As if that were an introduction, Captain Jellico came in. His
deeply tanned face with the blaster scar along one cheek showed no
readable emotion, as was usual. But he glanced from the mask Tau
was holding to Dane and back again.
“Diabolically clever piece of work,” he commented.
“Not a quick job.”
“Nor made on Xecho either, I would say.” Tau put
away the mask, to Dane’s relief. “That is the product
of an expert.”
The captain came to Dane’s side and held out his hand. On
the palm rested a colored tridee. It was of a man. His skin did not
have the brown tan of a crewman but was bleached looking, though he
must be Terran or Terran colonial bred. There was an odd, fixed
look in his eyes, a frozen stillness to his features that was
disquieting. His hair was sparse, sandy brown, his eyebrows above
those fixed eyes were thin and ragged, and he had a rash of
freckles across his upper cheekbones. To Dane he was a complete
stranger.
“Who—?”
Jellico gestured to the mask. “The man behind that. You
don’t know him?”
“Never saw him—that I can remember.”
“He had your belongings, a forged ident in the bargain,
and that mask. He was sent aboard to be you. And where were
you?”
Dane outlined his adventures after waking in the inn, adding the
information about the missing package—if it was missing.
“Inform the port police?” he suggested
tentatively.
“Not for robbery, I think.” Jellico turned the
tridee to look down at the face in it, as if, by the very intensity
of his gaze, he could force some answer to the riddle. “This
was a setup that required a lot of planning. It was, I believe, a means of
getting a man on board.”
“A cargo master aboard, sir,” Dane corrected
eagerly, “who would have access to—”
Jellico nodded sharply. “Fair assumption. Stowage
reports—what are we shipping that would be worth such a
long-range plan?”
Dane, entrusted for the first time with full authority for the
stowage, could have recited the entire list. He ran over it swiftly
now in his mind. But there was nothing—nothing that
important. A mask would require time to make, a reason for a
long-thought-out buildup. He turned to Tau.
“I was poisoned?”
“You were. If it hadn’t been for the metabolism
shift after that ceremonial drink on Sargol—” He shook
his head. “Whether they meant to have you dead or just put
you out for a long time—anyway, normally it would have
finished you.”
“Then he was meant to be me—for how long?” He
asked that question of himself, but the captain answered.
“No longer than Trewsworld, I would say. First, unless he
was exceptionally well briefed, he couldn’t play the part
with shipmates who really knew you. It would require a complete
memory switch for that, and they didn’t have you in their
hands long enough for that. You went off-ship and apparently were
back again in one Xechoian cin-cycle. A memory switch takes a
planetary day at least. Also, he couldn’t play sick either.
Tau would have been after him. So, he could say he was uncertain
about his work—first run for him in cargo command—and
could hole up to check his tapes and the like. The Trewsworld run
is not a long one. He might have been able—with luck—to
pull it off, or think he could, with that excuse.
“Second, there are only two reasons why he’d come on
board—he was carrying something he had to transport under
guard, or he himself had a very necessary reason for reaching
Trewsworld in disguise. He was defeated mainly by
chance—first, that you had your insides shaken up badly on
Sargol so that their poison didn’t work, and, second, that he
himself was not fit for space travel.”
“Did he bring anything with him?” Dane asked.
“The registered package—they might have been after that
all the time but have planned to walk off with it on Trewsworld, not
jump me for it on Xecho.”
“Trouble was,” Jellico answered, “he was
checked on board by the ramp cell, not by any of us. We don’t
know whether he brought anything or not. There’s nothing in
the cabin, and the holds are safe-locked.”
Safe-locked!
“Not the treasure room,” Dane returned. “I
left that on half seal—couldn’t close it until the
package came.”
Jellico went to the com. “Shannon!” His call to the
bridge alerting the assistant astrogator was loud enough to make
Dane’s ears ring. “Down to the treasure room on the
double. See if it’s fully sealed or not!”
Dane tried to think. Where else, if the holds were on full seal,
where else could something be hidden on the Queen?