The Horror

by Perry Rhodan

  "Yes sir!" responded Scoobey somewhat sulkily. "I wouldn't worry about it too much, sir."

  Everson descended the companionway ladder. Traversing a portion of the narrow catwalk below, he arrived at a door which bore a sign on it announcing that it was out of bounds to the ship's personnel. He knocked on the light metal panel.

  A muffled voice responded: "Come in."

  Everson opened the door and entered. Mataal sat on his bunk with his legs drawn under him and stared at him darkly.

  "How do you feel?" Everson inquired.

  "Like a prisoner," declared the Eppanian. "Or something worse.

  "Could be," confirmed Everson. "We are in outer space, Mataal. That means that you cannot leave the ship. How is Ramirez doing as your language teacher?"

  "Leave me alone," Mataal retorted in Arkonide.

  Everson forced a smile. Cautiously he asked: "Did you leave your room anytime during the last few minutes?"

  Mataal's body seemed to tense slightly. "No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

  The colonel brushed off the question with a gesture of indifference. "You must try to adjust yourself to your situation here," he advised. "There's no need to be despondent. You will make friends on Earth and one day you will be able to return to Eppan."

  Mataal did not deign to answer.

  "Just consider for a moment," continued Everson carefully. "You have the unique opportunity to be witness to a cosmic drama. Your journey with us will take you centuries into the future. Presumably that's how long it may take for your race to develop its own spaceflight technology, if it ever comes to that. Goldstein informs me that many Eppanians have fallen into a sort of decadence, but you, Mataal, are an intelligent and spirited man. That's why you have my respect and friendship. This is all I can say for now."

  He left the Eppanian in order to look up Goldstein. The young telepath sat at a work table, busily writing something. Everson chanced to look over the mutant's shoulder and saw a list of crew names on a piece of paper. Everson's own name was at the very top. He tried to figure why Goldstein was thus engaged but did not wish to confuse the young man just now with questioning. "I see that you're feeling a little better," he said.

  The pallid telepath smiled. Goldstein folded the crew list carefully then tore it into small bits and threw them carelessly onto the deck. Then he met Everson's gaze. His eyes were unnaturally wide. "Sir," he whispered, "somebody is on board with us."

  An icy wave ran up Everson's backbone. Here it was again—that indefinable sense of immanent danger. Had Goldstein perchance gone mad? His eyes glistened as though in delirium. His lips were dry and cracked. Suddenly he pushed back his chair and staggered into Everson with a shout of hysterical laughter. The colonel stepped back away from him in consternation.

  Goldstein's face was twisted. "Somebody is on board!" he howled. "I've brought along a real nice surprise for you—a maddening surprise. I've sneaked Death itself on board the Fauna! "

  Everson pushed him back onto the messed up bed. Determinedly he turned on the intercom over the work table. "Doctor!" he called into the microphone. "Dr. Morton! This is the Commander speaking. I want you in Goldstein's cabin—on the double! I think the youngster's gone off his rocker!"

  A moment later the microspeaker crackled. The gruff voice of the ship's surgeon was heard. "I'm on my way, sir."

  Shortly thereafter Dr. Morton rushed into the cabin. He was as absently unkempt as ever, with his shirt tail fluttering and his disheveled whiskers looking as though they'd been run over by a lawn-mower. His trousers were held up by thin straps, of an indefinable shade and twisted a number of times over his shoulders. His eyes were incredibly blue, peering brightly and cheerfully out of the thicket of his heavy eyebrows. But now when they turned to Goldstein they became grave. "He has a fever," the doctor announced.

  "Death is on board this ship!" cried Goldstein. "Why don't you believe me? I am the telepath and I sense it. You have to do something, sir.

  Scoobey appeared at the door. "I heard the commotion," he said. "What the devil's going on?"

  Everson pointed to the mutant. "Another ghost observer, Walt."

  Dr. Morton was preparing a hypodermic needle. Scoobey looked at him dubiously.

  "It will calm him down," Morton explained as he wielded the needle like a weapon.

  "Thanks, Doc," said Everson. "Walt, get back to your post.

  When Scoobey was out of hearing range, Dr. Morton said: "It doesn't look good, sir."

  Everson only nodded. Goldstein lay on his bed as though in a trance. The physician stomped out of the cabin. His heavy steps drummed audibly along the aluminium catwalk. As the sound faded away, a sense of dejection came over Everson.

  • • •

  Gonzalez Ramirez entered his cabin and heaved a sigh of relief. A lean young man of medium height, he was a candidate for taking his final exams in the space academy, which were due shortly. Although he had accumulated only a meager number of spaceflight hours so far, and only in a routine capacity at that, nevertheless there was a distinct difference between actual outer space experience and mere instructions in a classroom.

  He sank down into his comfortable chair. After he had rested a few hours he would go to Mataal again in order to continue giving him his lessons in Arkonide. In grim amusement, Gonzalez recalled the difficulties he had experienced several years ago with the alien language.

  He discarded his uniform jacket, revealing the dark hair on his arms. That had been somewhere in Mexico. How far away it seemed now. He had a vague recollection of hot summer days, glowing sands, shrill voices and dark-eyed children plus the smell of tortillas.

  Involuntarily he seemed to savor the food of his native land. He leaned far back in his chair. Mexico—that was the past, a hot and gay-colored world somewhere back on Earth. And the future? Ramirez' fingers passed over the star chart that was tacked down to his work table. That was the future.

  He nodded in satisfaction, drifting into his private daydreams.

  He heard a sound as though someone had opened the door of his cabin. He straightened up with a start. Had he dozed off? No one was in the room. Perhaps some visitor had looked in and thought better of awakening him. He jumped up quickly to look outside. But the long catwalk passage was empty and deserted.

  Then he remembered Finney and what the latter had said to Everson came back to him: "...it was like somebody... well, somebody was standing beside me." Ramirez grinned. He was imagining things because of Finney, that was all. He went to his bunk and straightened the covers. Before his session with Mataal he would take a little nap.

  Gonzalez Ramirez, the lean, friendly youngster from Mexico, of whom it was said in the Academy that he had his way with the girls... He stretched out finally and slowly closed his eyes.

  Suddenly he was aware that the door was being opened! He heard it clearly and definitely—his body tensed. Nevertheless he kept his eyes shut and sought to convince himself that he was imagining it. He had just checked the passage outside and there had been nobody in sight. So he determined to keep his eyes closed and concentrate on the fact that he was mistaken. There was no other alternative if he did not want to doubt his sanity. He moved restlessly. Stubbornly he strove to take his thoughts back again to his homeland: the glowing hot desert sands, the shouts of children and the hot breath of the wind that came over the mountains. His mother's voice, admonishing him to be respectable, and the blustering of his father who always sat on the veranda and prattled in the warmth of the lowering sun.

  He heard the door being closed, as though behind someone who had just entered.

  He opened his eyes with a cry of terror. His pulse raced. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He trembled violently. His tongue touched his lips and found them dry.

  There was nothing. The cabin was empty.

  Hastily he got out of bed and slipped on his jacket. There could be no doubt that he was well on his way toward losing his mind. Like Finney! Finney? Was it possible that two healt
hy, normal men could go crazy at the same time and with the very same symptoms? Ramirez was just on the verge of going to see Dr. Morton when he came to a sudden halt. Somebody had played a trick on him.

  Maybe they had the idea he was just any old inexperienced cadet whom they could throw a scare into without hardly trying. He knew how much the veteran spacemen loved to lead new swabbies and shavetails down the primrose path. They were just waiting for him to run to Dr. Morgan in consternation and beg for an examination. Finney's big act had been a part of the setup, in which the Commander himself was apparently also playing a part.

  Well, they wouldn't take him in so easily. Having thus rationalized himself into a new state of calm, he went back to his bed. Of course he felt sure that they would try something again.

  He did not have to wait long before he again became aware of the soft clicking of the door lock. Ramirez decided the best thing to do was to play deaf. It would put a damper on their gleeful spirits if he slept peacefully through every trick these pranksters could come up with in their attempt to spook him out.

  The door slammed shut behind whoever had entered. The cadet suppressed a grin with an effort. Calmly he lifted his head from the pillow and growled out his most frightening "Boo-oo-ooh!"

  Then he opened his eyes.

  But it was already too late.

  • • •

  Col. Marcus Everson used the railings of the companionway ladder to accelerate his climb to the bridge. The guppy was coming close to its first transition. Scoobey looked a bit disheveled as he rushed about between the electronic consoles and computer equipment to monitor the coordinate preparations. "Everything's ready, sir," he called out as Everson appeared.

  "Cut in the resonance-frequency absorber," ordered Everson.

  This highly refined piece of equipment was able to keep alien tracking stations from detecting or tracing a spaceship's transition jumps. In other words, the frequency absorber was designed to outsmart its exact antithesis, the feared hypersens or, which normally could pinpoint the position of a ship when it emerged from hyperspace. As in the case of so many other technological advances in the Solar Empire, Terranians had Perry Rhodan to thank for initiating the use of this invaluable device.

  "RFA now operating," confirmed Fashong, a diminutive Chinese astronaut with a big voice.

  Everson threw himself into his pilot seat. The hydraulic support struts of the seat sighed softly. All ship systems suddenly sprang to life. "Cut off all radio communications," Everson commanded.

  "Telecom off," came the confirming response from Marlo Landi, who was First Communications Officer.

  "Ship Com off," said Ralf Zimmerman.

  All that was left was the ship's intercom system, which did not depend on radio waves for its function.

  During the next few minutes, Everson passed out his instructions and waited for his checkpoint callbacks to make sure the orders were being carried out.

  Scoobey swung the support beam of his seat over next to Everson. "Ramirez hasn't shown up at his station," he whispered to him.

  Everson scanned the personnel on the bridge. Of course the cadet did not have any direct function to perform during the hyperjump but his presence was mandatory. He was the recorder of the operational events, which was a continuous source of 'learning curve' information for improving the safety of space navigation.

  "He'll have to shape up on his discipline around here or get bounced," grumbled Everson angrily. "He's probably still below with Mataal, all involved in a nice long discussion with that Eppanian." He raised his voice. "Alright, let's keep it rolling! Scoobey, check out the positronicon."

  No human brain would have been able to handle the load of calculations that the electronic brains digested in a matter of seconds. Everson was well aware of the high degree of human dependence upon these machines. Perhaps one day it would be possible for Man to travel among the stars without mechanical assistance. Everson was thinking of the teleporters among the mutants, who had shown the way in this direction. Was it only for lack of understanding throughout the universe that this faculty was not further manifested in the species? Was existing space technology a mere patchwork by comparison? Everson was not able to answer his own questions.

  He concentrated on the work before him.

  "K-262 ready for transition!" announced Scoobey hoarsely.

  The men inside the 200-foot sphere seemed to duck down at their stations. It was always a tense and exciting moment when a ship made its jump from the normal universe into that para-dimensional realm where time and space seemed to be meaningless.

  "Countdown—180 seconds to transition," announced Fashong.

  Everson listened to the countdown for a full minute. Then he said: "Watch the panel responses, Walt."

  The First Officer scanned the flight console and countdown board with an experienced eye, as Fashong counted off the remaining seconds with asiatic composure.

  At 60 seconds, Everson asked: "Scoobey?"

  "Green!" came the answer.

  "Fashong and the others?"

  There was a countdown hold while all stations reported their readiness. Then he gave his final order. "Resume countdown, Fashong."

  Ten seconds later the Fauna broke from the normal structure of 3-dimensional space, unleashing forces which might have pulverized a satellite. During some timeless interval which no power in the universe was capable of measuring, the flight of the small spaceship was like that of a disembodied phantom. An infinitesimal moment and an eternity seemed to pass. All points of reference were gone while unreality manifested itself. Molecules and atoms disintegrated, floated apart and attenuated, only to take new form again as in some giant kaleidoscope that continuously formed new pictures for the observer.

  Then they were through it.

  "Position check!" ordered Everson immediately.

  He received a quick confirmation that the transition had been accomplished as planned. The K-262 had arrived precisely in the calculated sector. In two more hyperjumps the ship would be within hailing distance of Sol.

  Everson got up and permitted the hydro-struts of his extension seat to fold in. "Take over, Walt!" he called to Scoobey.

  "Don't forget Ramirez," Scoobey reminded him.

  Everson nodded. The Mexican had been on his mind all along. He decided not to call the youngster over the ship's com. It would be better to deal with him in person.

  The cadet's enthusiasm for Mataal had to be brought under control. It wouldn't do for him to neglect his duties because of his side assignment.

  Without hurrying, the colonel reached Mataal's cabin and entered. The Eppanian had been asleep and raised up slowly to see who it was. "You again?" he muttered indignantly.

  "Was Ramirez here with you?"

  "So far, no," replied Mataal. "But now that you've awakened me, you might as well send him in here, since my own movements seem to be restricted."

  Everson disregarded the belligerent innuendo. He was concerned about his cadet. where had he been this whole time? The colonel left Mataal and hurried along the catwalk passage. He knocked loudly on Ramirez' cabin door. Nothing. Everson silently voiced an expletive that embraced all cadets in general and then he banged the door open. The harsh command he had formulated stuck in his throat.

  Ramirez lay sprawled on the deck near his bunk. The pillows were wrinkled and twisted as though a struggle had occurred here. With a heartfelt sense of relief, Everson discovered that the youngster was still alive.

  The Mexican's eyes stared upward as though in death. There was something about him that was reminiscent of a baby bird fallen from its nest. His hair stood straight out from his head.

  "Ramirez," he said, "what's this all about?"

  The cadet was unable to answer. His body was rigid as though in epilepsy. Everson forced himself to be calm. For the second time in the course of only a few hours he called Dr. Morton on the intercom.

  While waiting for the medico, he recalled Goldstein's words: "I've sneaked
Death itself on board the Fauna! "

  Did he mean this? —that he had brought a contagious disease with him on board? Everson shook his head. The planet Eppan had been carefully analyzed before any landing there was undertaken.

  Dr. Morton did not keep him waiting long. The physician pushed the commander to one side and silently bent over Ramirez. "He's still alive," he said.

  Everson nodded. "But what can it be, Doc?"

  "He's completely paralyzed. I know of certain poisons that could produce such symptoms. Look here!" He moved his hand in front of Ramirez' eyes and the latter revealed no trace of reaction.

  "But you don't really think he's been poisoned, do you?" queried Everson.

  "Naturally not. Give me a hand, sir, and well get him on the bed."

  Together they lifted the motionless body onto the bunk. The exertion made the doctor breathe heavily.

  He started his examination at once.

  "Don't you think he may have experienced a shock of some kind?" inquired Everson. "Or are you thinking of an unknown sickness?"

  Dr. Morton played his fingers through his whiskers reflectively. The habitual twinkle had disappeared from his eyes. "There could be a number of causes," he answered. "It would be best to place this cabin under quarantine. You'd better let me give that Eppanian a thorough examination. Ramirez was with him quite frequently."

  "Do whatever you see fit. Meanwhile I'm calling the crew together," announced Everson. He left the doctor alone with Ramirez. Shortly thereafter his voice rang out on the ship's P.A. system: "All hands assemble in Control Central, including off-duty personnel. I'll expect you in 3 minutes."

  Scoobey came up to him, which was welcome just now. The First Officer's company served to dispel some of Everson's depression. Scoobey's enterprising nature and his ceaseless activity tended to generate optimism in any situation.

  "What's with Ramirez?" asked Scoobey anxiously.