The Collected Stories

by Earl

  “You’d better stay,” he admonished gently.

  “I must go,” she insisted nervously. “No matter what it means, if Hugh’s one of them, I must see him!”

  Shelton nodded. They stepped out into the hall and wound their way through the busy corridors, arriving at their destination a few minutes later. The hospital ward, in which ailing men from the bio-conditioning process were looked after, was spacious and modem, second to none on Earth.

  Director Beatty greeted Shelton, a scowl of worry on his face. A physician with a stethoscope and puzzled eyes was going over the bodies, lying in a row of beds. One of the two men who had come back alive from Iapetus stood at one side, haggard from days of sleepless driving across space. But his eyes lighted up suddenly.

  “Rod! Rodney Shelton!” he exclaimed, striding forward eagerly. “My old roommate at Edison College! Remember me?”

  Shelton stared at the gigantic young man blankly for a moment.

  “Mark Traft!” he cried, in recognition, a broad grin spreading over his face.

  “Pilot Mark Traft!” informed the tall man. “In the Planetary Survey. I went to the training docks, when we graduated. I remember you went back for research. I’d heard you were here at ETBI, but never had the chance to drop in. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Rod.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, their minds crowding with renewed memories of college days.

  “Good to see you again, Mark!” Shelton remarked. “But we’ll talk later. Right now—”

  He turned to watch Myra Benning. Her eyes had flicked over the seven still figures. She had stood stiffly, then, breathing hard. Now she ran up and grasped the big pilot’s arm, squeezed with frantic fingers.

  “My brother—Hugh Benning!” she cried. “Another man came back alive! Was it Hugh?”

  Traft’s face instantly became sorrowful.

  “No, Miss Benning,” he said softly. “One man was lost on Iapetus—”

  He shifted his feet awkwardly, tried to go on, but the words stuck. The girl’s eyes dilated. Her lips trembled. Shelton wished the news had been broken to her less abruptly, but it was too late now.

  “HUGH—” she choked. But suddenly she straightened up, shaking herself slightly. “I’m all right,” she said firmly. “Tell me what happened up there on Iapetus—about Hugh.”

  As briefly and sympathetically as he could Traft gave the details to Shelton and the girl.

  “Seeing we couldn’t revive them ourselves,” he concluded, “we decided to get the men to ETBI as soon as possible. We refueled at Titan, took on two men as engine crew, and ripped for Earth, triple-acceleration all the way.” He waved a hand. “Here we are. Greeley, my co-pilot, went to report to our superiors. I came here with the bodies. I had a hunch all along they weren’t—dead!”

  Shelton stepped to the nearest bedside, touched a hand to the forehead of the still man. who lay there.

  “Cold!” he whispered. “Cold as death!”

  The examining physician straightened.

  “Medically,” he pronounced, “they are dead! They don’t breathe, their hearts have stopped, and their blood has cooled. Yet there is no rigor mortis!”

  To demonstrate, he raised a limp arm of one of the men and let it fall. There was no stiffness apparent.

  “Well, what’s your final diagnosis?” demanded Director Beatty impatiently.

  “Death, without rigor mortis!” returned the physician stubbornly, “That is, academically.”

  The director grunted. “What would you call it, Shelton?”

  “Suspended animation!” Shelton replied reluctantly. “The first clear case in medical history. It means arrested life processes, without decomposition. Zero metabolism!”

  He looked at the bodies as though still unwilling to believe.

  “Suspended animation!” muttered Director Beatty, though he had not been surprised. “All right, revive them,” he ordered the physician. “Get the whole staff on the job, if you have to.”

  “I don’t think ordinary methods are going to work!” said Shelton grimly. “However, let them try.”

  The ordinary methods did fail. They knew, an hour later, that such methods were futile. Even an injection of adrenalin directly into the heart of one of the men had failed to start the slightest flutter of pulse. Director Beatty became the picture of baffled dismay.

  “We’ve got to revive those men!” he ground out finally. “The reputation of ETBI is at stake. You’re the best damned biologist on Earth today, Shelton”—he spoke challengingly—“and we’re up against the best damned problem that’s reared out of the spaceways yet. I’m putting you in complete charge. If it takes a day or a year, get these men up and around!”

  “I think adaptene is the answer!” Shelton exclaimed, and went on rapidly to explain: “In a sense, these bodies have been thrown into an environment without air, heat, or any of the normal things. They’re ‘adapted’ to those extreme conditions. We can adapt them right back to ours!”

  Director Beatty nodded. “Try it!” he said, and left. Other pressing duties claimed his attention.

  WHEN he had sent the worn-out Traft for a rest Shelton called the hospital staff and gave them orders. The group galvanized into action. In a few minutes the seven limp forms were in combination fever machines and iron lungs. Small doses of the miracle substance, adaptene, were injected. It remained to be seen whether it could bring metabolism up from a zero point as well as simply shift it in degree.

  “This must work!” Shelton said hopefully to Myra. “But it’ll probably be a wait of hours.”

  He saw her red-rimmed eyes and suggested she take a rest.

  “No.” She shook her head, and went on tonelessly: “There’s more work to do. I’ll help you.”

  The puzzle of it all cropped to the fore in Shelton’s mind. “Just what caused the suspended animation?” he murmured, “What queer, unknown gas—at least they spoke of gas. Is it in the Iapetus air? I wish I knew, but Traft forgot to bring back a sample, in all the excitement.” His eyes suddenly lit with a thought. “There’s one man who might know—the Space Scientist!”

  He whirled and strode toward the Institute’s main opti-phone exchange room, beckoning the girl to follow.

  “The Space Scientist!” she reiterated in astonishment. “Do you know him—talk to him?”

  “I did once,” Shelton said shortly.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Space Scientist

  IN the exchange room, the half-dozing male operators jerked to attention at sight of Shelton.

  “Call long-distance radio central,” Shelton ordered rapidly, “and have them send out a full-power call for the Space Scientist, on micro-wave Nine. When an answer comes, give me a private line.”

  “Yes, Dr. Shelton.”

  The attendant plugged in radio-central, the most powerful Earth radio station, whose services reached through the Heaviside Layer, on micro-waves, to every planet of the empire. Or to any ship in space.

  “I only hope he decides to answer,” Shelton muttered.

  “From what I’ve heard of the Space Scientist,” Myra Benning said, “ ‘deigns’ is the word!”

  Rodney Shelton grinned mirthlessly.

  “It amounts to about that. He’s the most mysterious figure living today. No one seems to know just who he is, or how it started, but he lives out in space, in a ship elaborately equipped. He has a complete laboratory in it, they say!” He shook his head wonderingiy. “He’s been in space for twenty years, alone! He has never been known to land on any planet for supplies, but he must have some means of picking up fuel, oxygen and food, probably through confederates.”

  “What does he do out in space, alone, year after year? I should think he’d go mad!” The girl shuddered.

  “He’s a hermit by nature, I suppose,” Shelton explained. “He’s compiling data for a tremendous new concept of the Universe. He does no harm. Years ago the Space Rangers tried to track him down, but never caught him. They�
��ve left him strictly alone since then. His ship, with two large white crosses on it, has been sighted everywhere, from Mercury to Saturn. At intervals, he contacts Earth scientists and asks for certain information to further his Work on his great theory, whatever it is. But if you want to contact him, he’s liable to ignore your call. He’s called me once, to ask about a biological point, though how that could help him, I don’t know.”

  “Why are you calling him?” asked the girl.

  “A hunch more or less,” confessed Shelton. “He has on tap a lot of firsthand information about the Solar System. He may know something significant about Iapetus.”

  The operator turned. “Here’s your party, Dr. Shelton—the Space Scientist!” He looked rather startled, at having contacted this mysterious, almost mythical character. “You can take the call in private booth Three.” Shelton strode to the booth, motioning Myra Benning to follow. It was something to keep her mind off the thought of her brother’s sad fate.

  He closed the door behind them, in the roomy booth, and snapped the switch. The opti-screen came to life with a subdued hum. Spectrum colors flitted across the fluorescent round plate and finally intertwined into the head and shoulders of the Space Scientist.

  Myra Benning caught her breath. The face was hidden. The entire head was enclosed in an opaque globe of what seemed to be semi-porous cloth. No features were distinguishable behind the mask.

  “HE always wears that hood, at least while televising,” whispered Shelton. “No one has ever seen his face.” He did not realize that the sensitive instrument in the enclosed booth was picking up his whisper.

  “And no one shall ever see my face!” came in harsh, stiffly accented tones from the masked image. “I have made a vow never to let Earth see my face again. Twenty years ago, on Earth, in a laboratory . . . Well, no matter.” A strange laugh came from behind the head, “But you wouldn’t want to see my face. It isn’t a pretty sight!”

  Shelton glanced at the girl significantly. This confirmed rumors that an unfortunate accident in a laboratory had seared the Space Scientists’s face horribly, and had embittered him. It had finally driven him to exile himself in space, where no one would see his disfigurement. Shelton felt pity for the man.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply, then went on hurriedly, after an awkward pause: “I’ve contacted you, sir, to ask for any information you may have about Iapetus.”

  “Why do you want to know about Iapetus?” the Space Scientist asked coldly.

  “Seven men have come back from there in a state of suspended animation, apparently from breathing Iapetus air,” Shelton explained. He went on to give the details.

  The masked scientist seemed to listen attentively, but at the end he said laxly:

  “I am not interested in these affairs. I am not interested in any earthly matters. I have divorced myself completely from that pettiness. Men are fools. Life is futile and meaningless. Only mind is important, and the contemplation of the great mysteries of the cosmos!”

  The globed head moved forward and the voice lowered with tension. “I am at the verge of a tremendous new concept of the Universe. It will embrace all things in one master formula! That has been my dream for twenty years. It will be a significant achievement. It will in one sweeping stroke give meaning to all things!” He ended almost in a shout.

  “But sir, about Iapetus—” began Shelton.

  “I don’t care about Iapetus!” retorted the masked man scornfully. “I have no concern with your petty troubles. I’m not a citizen of Earth, furthermore. I am my own master, with all space as my domain.” His arm moved as though to snap off the connection.

  “Wait!” snapped Shelton angrily. “You may be independent of earthly ties, but you’re still a human being. As such, you must have some regard for earthly things!”

  The Space Scientist’s arm drew back. “Still a human being!” His mirthless laugh sounded again. “Well spoken! Who are you again?”

  “Dr. Rodney Shelton, of ETBI.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the hidden lips, reflectively. “I recall contacting you once. You answered my questions. So in return if I can help you, I suppose I should. But be quick about it.”

  “Have you had occasion to test the Iapetus air recently?” Shelton queried.

  “Yes. Just a minute and I’ll get my record.” The Space Scientist’s form moved aside, out of the screen’s range.

  SHELTON’S eyes stared wonderingly into what he could see of the cabin of the Space Scientist’s mysterious ship. His vision went down a short corridor, into a laboratory. A bewildering variety of apparatus was discernible, most of it blurred from off-focus so that he couldn’t guess its nature. Yet he could sense the completeness of equipment and advanced nature of the man’s experiments. Another of the many unconfirmed rumors about the Space Scientist was that he had discovered amazing new things that Earth scientists would pledge their souls to know.

  Myra Benning shivered. “Somehow, he’s so cold and implacable,” she whispered. “He doesn’t seem human any more. He’s been warped by his long life in space to something different from you and me!”

  “Nonsense!” Shelton laughed shortly. “On the contrary, he is still human, in nature as well as body. More human than he knows himself. He proved it by yielding to my little speech.”

  He broke off as they heard footsteps approaching the screen. The Space Scientist’s masked face appeared.

  “I had occasion to land on Iapetus, in the course of my planetary studies,” he said. “I analyzed its atmosphere. Gases present in Iapetus’ atmosphere are oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon dioxide, helium, neon and traces of the other noble gases. If you want the percentages—”

  “No,” declined Shelton. “When did you make the test?”

  “Once ten years ago, and also just a month ago. The results were the same both times.”

  “One more question,” pursued Shelton. “Do you think it possible for an alien gas to be present, so unstable that it cannot be detected?”

  “Impossible!” the Space Scientist said confidently. “Particularly with my technique. I use a cold-light spectroscope,” A boastful note crept into his voice. “Earth’s scientists don’t know of that method. It examines substances at the low, stable temperature of liquid helium!”

  Shelton stared. That was incredible and he almost said so. No one had ever made spectroscopic tests without heat. But then he remembered to whom he was talking—a genets, mad or not, who had labored at his space science for two decades. Space was cold. Perhaps his researches had naturally veered toward low temperature methods.

  “I see,” Shelton said. “That’s all I wanted to ask you, sir. Thanks and good-by.”

  He was reaching a hand to switch off, but the Space Scientist’s voice interposed. “What are you going to do about those seven unfortunate men?”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in earthly affairs?” said Shelton sharply, suppressing a smile.

  “I am, though in a purely esoteric way,” the masked man returned; “Life and men’s doings are, after all, a part of the Universe which I am encompassing in my theory. I cannot entirely ignore that which exists. All mankind will be represented by one symbol in my formula—the symbol zero!” There was almost an ominous note in his voice. “Perhaps I’ll explain that in some future contact.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” said Shelton. “As for the seven men, adaptene will revive them, I believe.” He set his jaw. “And I’m going to solve the mystery of what happened to them if it takes a year! Good-by!”

  HE snapped off, but not before a slightly derisive chuckle came from the Space Scientist, just before his image faded.

  Myra Benning shivered again. “Now I can appreciate that expression, the ‘cold scientist’,” she murmured. “He’s all of that. If he can laugh at the predicament of those men, he’s a—a beast, too!”

  “But he’s human!” defended Shelton. “Notice how close he was to Earth—must be hovering fairly near, since there
was so little delay in the signals going back and forth. He probably stays around Earth a good-deal, eagerly listening to news and vision programs, eating his heart put because he’s made a silly vow never to come back. I’ve got him figured out!”

  CHAPTER V

  Expedition to the Unknown

  WHEN they got back to the hospital ward the men were still in their lifeless stupor. Shelton ordered another injection of adaptene.

  The night hours fled, as he waited. But at dawn the whole tired crew was electrified to hear a low groan, above the noises of the laboring lung machines. Shelton dashed up and peered down into the glass top of the drum, to see the man’s arms and legs twitching. His head was moving from side to side. He was alive!

  Suddenly his voice was heard, faintly, through a vibrator: “Gas—cold-choking—damn them! Gas—”

  Agonized moans followed, then silence. The man—Captain Harvey—had fallen into a restful sleep.

  “Take him out,” ordered Shelton. “Adaptene did it, all right. The others will revive soon, too.” His smile of relief changed into an aching yawn. “And then we can all get some sleep.”

  Eight hours later, a momentous conference took place in the ward where the seven men who had met seeming death on Iapetus were recovering. They were fully awake now, smoking cigarettes, and apparently unharmed.

  “Tell us just what happened, Captain Harvey,” Rodney Shelton asked when Director Beatty arrived.

  Myra Benning and Mark Traft were already there. The big pilot, looking himself after a night’s sleep, had greeted his companions with unreserved joy at their miraculous return to life. For a week he had seen them as men dead.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” Captain Harvey said slowly. “It struck us like a lightning bolt. We were looking into the cave, couldn’t see much. Then suddenly an intense cold feeling came over us. At the same time some odorless gas choked us. At least that’s the way it felt.”

  He looked around at his men for corroboration and they all nodded. Their eyes reflected the shock they had felt.