The 13th Science Fiction MEGAPACK®: 26 Great SF Stories!

by Lake, Jay

  Shaking with anxiety now, Murdoch executed the small movements of his right hand that forced the tiny instrument out from between his thumb and forefinger. He felt a panicky desire to hurry, and forced himself to move slowly. He transferred the tiny syringe to his left hand, which was nearer Waverill. Waverill was about to pluck the blossom. Murdoch moved his right hand forward, trying—in case the aliens could see, though he had his body in the way—to make the move casual. He flicked a finger near the bee.

  The bee leaped into the air, its buzz high-pitched and loud. Waverill tensed.

  Murdoch cried, “Look out, sir!” and grabbed at Waverill’s hand. He jabbed the miniature syringe into the fleshy part of the hand, at the outside, just below the wrist.

  “Damn you!” Waverill bellowed, slapping at his right hand with his left. He jerked away from Murdoch.

  “Here, sir! Let me help you!”

  “Get away from me, you clumsy fool!”

  “Please, sir. Let me get the stinger out. You’ll squeeze more poison into your skin.”

  Waverill faced him, a hand raised as if to strike. Then he lowered it. “All right, damn you; and be careful about it.”

  Shakily, Murdoch took Waverill’s hand. The syringe, dangling from the skin, held a trace of red in its minute plastic bulb. Murdoch gasped for breath and fought to make his fingers behave. He got hold of the syringe and drew it out. Pretending to drop it, he hid it in the junction of the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. He kept his body between them and the building, and tried to make his actions convincing. “There. It’s out, sir.”

  Waverill was still cursing in a low voice. Presently he stopped, but his face was still hard with anger. “Take me inside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Murdoch was weak with reaction. He drew a painful breath, gave the older man his left arm and led him back.

  The tiny thing between his fingers felt as large and as conspicuous as a handgun.

  IV

  Murdoch felt as if the entire place was lined with eyes, all focused on his left hand. The act of theft clearly begun, his life in the balance, he felt now the icy nausea of fear; a feeling familiar enough, and which he knew how to control, but which he still didn’t like. Fear. It’s a strange thing, he thought. A peculiar thing. If you analyzed it, you could resolve it into the physical sick feeling and the wish in your mind, a very fervent wish, that you were somewhere else. Sometimes, if it caught you tightly enough, it was almost paralyzing so that your limbs and even your lungs seemed to be on strike. When fear gripped him he always remembered back to that turning point, that act that had made him an outlaw and an exile from Earth.

  He’d been a pilot in the Space Force, young, just out of the Academy, and the bribe had seemed very large and the treason very small. It seemed incredibly naive, now, that he should not have understood that a double-cross was necessarily a part of the arrangement.

  It was in escaping at all, against odds beyond calculating, that he had learned that he thought faster and deeper than other men, and that he had guts. Having guts turned out to be a different thing than he had imagined. It didn’t mean that you stood grinning and calm while others went mad with fear. It meant you suffered all the panic, all the actual physical agony they did, but that you somehow stuck to the gun, took the buffeting and still had in a corner of your being enough wit to throw the counter-punch or think through to the way out. And that’s what he had to do now. Endure the fear and keep his wits.

  The robot had responded to Waverill’s loud demand. It barely glanced at Waverill’s hand, said, “It will heal quickly” and left. So far as Murdoch could tell, it didn’t look at him.

  As soon as he dared, he went and took a shower. In the process of lathering he inserted the syringe into the slit between thumb and forefinger of his left hand. In that hiding-place was a small plastic sphere holding a substance which ought to be nutrient to the virus. It was delicate work, but he’d practiced well and his fingers were under control now; and he got the point of the syringe into the sphere and squeezed. He relaxed the squeeze, felt the bulb return slowly to shape as it drew out some of the gummy stuff. He squeezed it back in, let the shower rinse the syringe and got that back into the pouch in his right hand.

  He didn’t dare discard it. There was always the possibility of failure and a second try, though, the timing made it very remote. If the surgery was right, the pouches in his hand were lined with something impervious, so that none of the virus would get into his blood too soon. He lathered very thoroughly and rinsed off, then let a blast of warm air dry him. He felt neither fear nor elation now. Rather there was a let-down, and a weary apprehension at the trials ahead. The next big step was to get the small sphere past the barrier ahead of the time of leaving. He was pretty sure that he couldn’t smuggle it out on his person. The alien’s final examination and sterilization would prevent that.

  * * * *

  Now there came the agony of waiting for the next step. He hadn’t been able to rig things tightly enough to predict within several hours when it would come. It might be in one hour or in ten. A derelict was drifting in. He’d arranged that, but it might be late or it might be intercepted. He prepared a meal for Waverill and himself; sweated out the interval and cooked another. He wandered from library to gymnasium to out-of-doors, and fought endlessly the desire to stand at the barrier and stare at the ship.

  The robot examined Waverill and revealed only that things were going well. Waverill spent most of his time bringing objects before his eyes, squinting and twisting his face, swallowed up in the ecstasy of his slowly returning vision. When darkness came the older man slept. Murdoch lay twisting on his own couch or dozed fitfully, beset with twisted dreams.

  When the ship’s alarm went off he didn’t know at first whether it was real or another of the dreams.

  His mind was sluggish in clearing, and when he sat up he could hear sounds at the front of the building. Suddenly in a fright that he would be too late, he jumped up and ran that way. The robot was already out of the building. It turned toward him with a suggestion of haste. “What is this.”

  Murdoch tried to act startled. “The ship’s alarm! There’s something headed in! Maybe Earth Patrol!”

  “Why did you leave the alarm on.”

  “We—I guess I forgot in the excitement.”

  “That was dangerous stupidity. How is the alarm powered.”

  “It’s self-powered. Rechargeable batteries.”

  “You are fortunate that it is only a dead hull drifting by, otherwise we would have to dispose of you at once. Stay here. I will shut it off.”

  Murdoch pretended to protest mildly, then stood watching the robot go. His hands were moving in what he hoped looked like a gesture of futility. He got the plastic sphere out of its hiding-place and thumbed it like a marble. He held his breath. The robot crossed the barrier. Murdoch flipped the sphere after it. He saw it arc across the line and bound once, then he lost it in the gravel. In the dim light from Jupiter, low on the horizon, he could not find it again. Desperately, he memorized the place in relation to the hedge. When he and Waverill left, there would be scant time to look for it.

  The robot didn’t take long to solve the ship’s hatches, go in through the lock, and locate the alarm. The siren chopped off in mid-scream. The robot came back out and started toward him. Involuntarily, he backed up against the building, wondering what the robot (or its masters) right deduce with alien senses, and whether swift punishment might strike him the next instant. But the robot passed him silently and disappeared indoors.

  After a while he followed it inside, lay down on his couch, and resumed the fitful wait.

  * * * *

  The next morning Waverill’s eyes followed him as he fixed breakfast. There was life in them now, and purpose. The man looked younger, more vigorous, too.

  Murdo
ch, trying not to sound nervous, asked, “Can you see more now, sir?”

  “A little. Sit me so the light falls on my plate.”

  Murdoch watched the other’s attempts to eat by sight rather than feel, adding mentally to his own time-table of the older man’s recovery. Apparently Waverill could see his plate, but no details of the food on it. There was no more drowsiness, though. The movements were deft except that they didn’t yet correlate with the eyes. The eyes seemed to have a little trouble matching up too, sometimes. No doubt it would take a while to restore the reflexes lost over the years.

  Waverill walked the grounds alone in mid-morning. Murdoch, following far enough behind not to draw a rebuff, took the opportunity to spot his small treasure in the gravel beyond the barrier. Once found, it was dismayingly visible. But there was nothing he could do now. He was sweating again, and hoped with a sort of half-prayer to Fortune that his nerves wouldn’t start to shatter once more.

  He made lunch, then set himself the job of waiting out the afternoon. Ages later he cooked dinner. He managed to eat most of his steak, envying Waverill the wolfish appetite that made quick work of the meal.

  The long night somehow wore through, and he embraced eagerly the small respite of breakfast.

  He felt unreal when the alien voice said, “Do not bother to wash the dishes. Lie down on your bunks for your final examination. When you awake you may leave.”

  The fear spread through him again as he moved slowly to his couch. He thought, If they’ve caught me, this is when they’ll kill me. He was afraid, no doubt of that; all the old symptoms were there. But, oddly, there was a trace of perverse comfort in the thought: Maybe I’ve lost. Maybe I’ll just never wake up. Then dizziness hit him. He was aware of a brief, feeble effort to resist it, then he slid into darkness.

  * * * *

  He came awake still dizzy, and with a drugged feeling. His mouth was dry. Breath came hard at first. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too stiff. He spent a few minutes just getting his breath to working, then he was able to open his eyes a little. When he sat up there was a wash of nausea. He sat on the edge of the bunk, head hung, until it lessened. Gradually he felt stronger.

  Waverill was sitting up too, looking no better than Murdoch felt. He seemed to recover faster, though. Murdoch thought. He’s actually healthier than I am now. I hope he hasn’t become a superman.

  The voice from the ceiling said, “Your clothes are in the next room. Dress and leave at once. The barriers will be opened for you.”

  Murdoch got to his feet and headed for the other room. He paused to let Waverill go ahead, and noticed that Waverill had no trouble finding the door. The older man wasn’t talking this morning, and the jubilation he must feel at seeing again was confined, outwardly, to a tight grin.

  They dressed quickly, Murdoch noting in the process that his clothes had been gone over carefully and all weapons removed. It didn’t matter. But it did matter that he had to collect his prize on the way to the ship, and the sweaty anxiety was with him.

  As they went out the door, Waverill stopped and let his eyes sweep about the grounds. What a cool character he is, Murdoch thought. Not a word. Not a sign of emotion.

  Waverill turned and started toward the ship. Murdoch let him get a step ahead. His own eyes were searching the gravel. For a moment he had the panicky notion that it was gone; then he spotted it. He wouldn’t have to alter his course to reach it. He saw Waverill flinch a little as they crossed the barrier, then he too felt the odd sensation. He kept going, trying to bring his left foot down on the capsule. He managed to do it.

  Taut with anxiety, he paused and half-turned as if for a last look back at the place. He could feel the sphere give a little; or maybe it was a pebble sinking into the ground. He twisted his foot. He thought he could feel something crush. He hesitated, in the agony of trying to decide whether to go on or to make more sure by dropping something and pretending to pick it up. He didn’t have anything to drop. He thought, I’ve got to go on or they’ll suspect. He turned. Waverill had stopped and was looking back at him keenly. Murdoch gripped himself, kept his face straight, and went on.

  Waverill had to grope a little getting into the ship, as though his hands still didn’t correlate with his eyes, but it was clear that he could see all right, even in the ship’s dim interior. Murdoch said, “Your eyes seem to be completely well, sir.”

  Waverill was playing it cool too. “They don’t match up very well yet, and I have to experiment to focus. It’ll come back, though.” He went casually to his seat and lowered himself into it.

  Murdoch got into the pilot’s seat. “Better strap in, sir.”

  * * * *

  He didn’t have long to wonder how they’d be sent off; the ship lifted and simply passed through whatever served as a ceiling.

  There was no restraint when Murdoch turned on the gravs and took over. He moved off toward Ganymede’s north pole, gaining altitude slowly, watching his screens, listening to the various hums and whines as the ship came alive. The radar would have to stay off until they were away from Ganymede, but the optical system showed nothing threatening. He moved farther from the satellite, keeping it between him and Jupiter.

  “Hold it here,” Waverill said.

  Letting the ship move ahead on automatic, Murdoch turned in pretended surprise. “What....”

  Waverill had a heat gun trained steadily on him. “I’ll give you the course.”

  Murdoch casually reached down beside the pilot’s chair. A compartment opened under his fingers, and he lifted a gun of his own.

  Waverill’s mouth went tight as he squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Waverill glanced at the weapon. Rage moved across his face. He hoisted the gun as if to throw it, then stopped as Murdoch lifted his own gun a little higher.

  “You got to them,” Waverill said flatly.

  “The ones that did the remodeling job on this crate and hid that gun for you? Of course. Did you think you were playing with an idiot?”

  “I could have sworn they were beyond reach.”

  “I reached them.” Murdoch got unstrapped and stood up. He had the ship’s acceleration just as he wanted it. “And naturally I went over the ship while you were blind. Get into your suit now, Waverill.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m giving you a better break than you were going to give me. I’m putting you where the Patrol will pick you up.”

  “You won’t make it, you son of a bitch. I’ve got some cards left.”

  “I know where you planned to rendezvous. By the time you buy your way out of jail, I’ll be out of your reach.”

  “You never will.”

  “Talk hard enough and I may decide to kill you right now.”

  Waverill studied his face for a moment, then slowly got to his feet. He went to the suit locker, got out his suit, and squirmed into it. Murdoch grinned as he saw the disappointment on the other’s face. The weapons were gone from the suit, too.

  He said, “Zip up and get the helmet on, and get into the lock.”

  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 an
d 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.”