Collected Short Fiction, page 421
MOON-TERROR. (Also, space-slang, gilliesi) A disease common among people living under less than half normal gravity. Recurrent attacks, with intervals of comparative comfort, cause extreme distress. The syndrome includes changes in blood- and brain-pressure, and typical psychopathic symptoms. Early attempts at treatment, by centrifuge, drugs, and surgery of the inner ear, uniformly failed. Recent success has been claimed, however, for the psykinetic technique, developed by Kung, Swedberg, and Haldane. See PSYKINETICS.—Dictionary of Planetary Medicine. University of Mars, 218 C.S.
The disaster was all Nurse Kane’s fault. So, at least, young Dr. Haldane wanted to tell that glamorous redhead—though he never did. Slight and boyish, Bruce Haldane looked younger than his twenty-four years. But the triumph of psykinetics was already making him famous. A good practise came to his office in New York’s Tri-Planet Tower, and he felt little urge to leave the Earth on any sort of wild goose chase across the void.
Besides, he didn’t like Mr. Casey’s looks.
His day’s work was finished, when the stranger came. Alone in his comfortable inner office, he had relaxed and snapped on the news-repeater. The wall screen lit with the image of a doll-faced platinum blond. Her red-nailed hand held up a strange round jewel, that shimmered with spinning rainbow color. The announcer’s crisp voice rattled:
“Venusian heiress missing! You are looking at an exclusive process reproduction of lovely Zara Carnadon, whose mysterious vanishing has shocked social circles of three planets. Her frantic relatives reported her disappearance today, to Space Police.
“See the jewel in her fingers! Her desperate father revealed to police that he had recently given her a hellstone—one of those most rare and mysterious of all gems, which he had bought through underworld channels for a reported seven-figure sum.
“The hell-stone is also gone! The Space Police believe that its multi-million-dollar value may have supplied the motive for the crime. Many, however, will recall the common superstition that these fantastic stones are simply bad luck for their beautiful owners.
“The Space Police are repeating their frequent warning to would-be purchasers of hell-stones. Their original source is still unknown—though prospectors spurred by dreams of fortune have spent twenty years exploring nearly every foot of every known planet. Efforts to trace the origin of any hell-stone have invariably led back to its purchase from some unidentified underworld character, and no farther.
“Any dealings with this interplanetary criminal ring, police point out, are dangerous. A good many previous purchasers of hell-stones have vanished, with their jewels. However, so long as these fantastic gems remain the most beautiful and most desired objects in the system, it is likely that this strange traffic and tragic trail of consequences will continue—”
Dr. Haldane snapped off the repeater. He had never seen a hell-stone. He wasn’t likely to—not with office expenses eating up his income, and most of the system still unconvinced about psykinetics.
But the mystery fascinated him. He was trained to dig beneath the surface, for ultimate motivations. Why did the hell-stones come only through the underworld? Their unknown seller must be, by now, just about the richest individual in the system. What had he to hide?
The office communicator buzzed. Haldane pressed the key, and a bright miniature of Madelone Kane’s red head appeared on the tiny screen. Her green eyes were shining with excitement.
“A Mr. Casey to see you, doc,” her crisp voice reported. “He’s athletic and military and space-burned and terribly fascinating. He doesn’t look the least bit like another gillies patient. But he won’t tell me what he wants.”
Haldane tried to glare into the twin lenses. But it was hard to glare successfully at Madelone Kane. He gave it up, and his serious blue eyes lit with unvoiced admiration.
“All right—send your Mr. Romeo in.”
Mr. Casey was tall and straight and dark, with a thin black line of moustache along his full red lip. In his flowing green synsilk tunic, he looked like a teleview idol.
“Dr. Haldane!” His voice dripped personality and self-confidence, “I understand that you can cure the gillies? I’m not the patient, of course. But, can you?”
Haldane didn’t like Casey’s crisp, aggressive manner. He didn’t like the moustache. Especially, he didn’t like the way Casey looked at Madelone Kane, who was waiting at the door.
“The moon-terror is part of the price we have paid for the conquest of space.” With an effort at professional dignity, Haldane drew up his slightly stooped shoulders. “When we hurl ourselves out of the environment that has shaped our bodies and our minds for millions of years, painful adjustments are necessary.
“The task of planetary medicine is to assist those adaptations to the conditions of other worlds. I have followed up the pioneer work of my dead teachers, Kung and Swedberg, in developing the psykinetic technique.”
Haldane nodded, in his best lecture room manner—and ignored the malice in Madelone Kane’s green eyes.
“Yes—given the patient’s cooperation—I can cure the gillies.”
“Good,” Casey said briskly. “I’ve a patient for you.”
“Miss Kane will arrange the appointment.”
Casey’s dark handsome face looked covertly amused—as if he were entering a personal contest with the slender young doctor, from which he intended to emerge victorious in the eyes of the gorgeous nurse.
“Unfortunately, doctor,” he said suavely, “you will have to call on the patient.”
Haldane felt his face turn pink. He made a mental note to try to grow a beard. What was the use of being a famous psykinetologist, when you still blushed like a bashful freshman? His voice quivered:
“And where is the patient?”
Casey looked mere amused.
“I’m not at liberty to tell you. You must come prepared for a space voyage lasting six days each way, besides whatever time you will require for the treatment. Transportation will be furnished for yourself and one assistant.”
Casey’s dark roving eyes went back to Madelone Kane. She looked startled. Then her fair skin colored slightly. Pleased anticipation began to sparkle in her cool green eyes.
Alarmed, Haldane caught his breath.
“I can’t leave New York.”
Casey smiled.
“Is it possible, doctor—I heard a rumor—that you’re subject to the gillies, yourself?”
Haldane looked uneasily at Madelon. Her red lips were demure. But the laughter in her green eyes made him want to slap her. Gulping, he turned back to Casey.
“I did have the gillies, once,” he said. “A vacation trip to the Moon, when I was a medical student. Kung and Swedberg tried their theories on me. The beginning of psykinetics. My case was the first cure.”
Madelone’s dancing eyes taunted: maybe.
“Forgive me, doctor.” Casey’s voice was smooth. “Shall we discuss your fee? The patient is extremely wealthy.
Estimate your usual income, and he will triple it for the time you are gone. He will insure your life, besides, for any reasonable amount.”
“My income is adequate.” That was hardly true, but Haldane was getting angry. “I told you—”
“One moment,” Casey interrupted. “We have another inducement.” His dark limpid eyes went back to Madelon. “That is a hell-stone.”
The nurse uttered a soft little cry. “Impossible!” Haldane remembered the news telecast he had just heard, about the vanishing of Zara Carnadon and her priceless jewel. He chilled again, to the cold shadow of that sinister mystery. “One of them is worth millions.”
No longer mocking, Madelone’s eyes were dark with awe.
“I saw a hell-stone, once.”
Her wide eyes seemed to stare beyond Haldane, at some vision of utter loveliness.
“I touched it,” she murmured softly. “Just for a moment. It was a small thing. Bound as a child’s marble, and no larger. But light and color were dancing in it, as if it had been alive. You felt something alive.”
Her hands came up to the white column of her throat, in a gesture of pain.
“It was sad—the thing you felt. So beautiful—and yet so terribly sad. The spinning colors of it slowed and changed with sorrow. Because it couldn’t speak to you. Because it was shut up in a hideous prison.
“The dance of it stopped. All the bright colors went out of it, until only a tired hopeless blue was left. Almost the thing in the jewel was dead. But it wasn’t free—not even to die.”
Her throat pulsed, as she swallowed against the catch in her voice. The office was suddenly quiet. Tears filled her dark eyes.
“It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”
The red hair made a splendid cloud about Madelone’s head. She was easily the most beautiful thing Haldane had ever seen. He wanted desperately to earn that offered jewel, and give it to her. But cold alarm tapped his spine.
He didn’t like Casey, or trust him. He remembered the warning of the Space Police. Whatever had happened to Zara Carnadon and the rest—he wouldn’t put Madelone in that same unknown danger.
He whispered, “No.”
Casey began another suave protest, but Madelone said:
“Wait outside, Mr. Casey. Doe, I want to talk to you.”
Grinning, as if he knew he had won, Casey went out.
“Madelone—” Haldane gulped. “I know those stones are very beautiful and precious. I’d like for you to have one. But there’s such a risk—”
Her green eyes glittered and she caught her breath.
“Why, doc!” she said softly. “Don’t be an idiot. Did you think I wanted you to give the thing to me? There’s something wrong with you—gillies or not. But remember the foundation you’ve been talking about, to train more men in psykinetics and rid the whole system of the moon-terror.” She patted his shoulder.
“Of course there’s a risk. But we can sell the jewel for millions—if we really get back with it. Enough to do everything you’ve planned. You won’t have to struggle on alone, while hundreds of thousands who have the gillies don’t even know there is a cure. “It’s worth a risk!”
Haldane’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t know what to do. He was suddenly aware of a whole new domain of psychology, outside the field of psykinetics. Inadequately, he seized her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“Why, doctor!” Her crisp voice broke the moment. “Anyhow, doc, you need a vacation. You took on too much work, when Kung and Swedberg died. You need a rest. And the voyage will give you time to finish your monograph.”
“All right,” said Haldane. “Tell Casey I’ll go.”
She opened the door.
“It’s all settled, Mr. Casey.” Her voice was eager. “When do we leave?” The we made Haldane open his mouth, in sudden apprehension. She had no business sticking her pretty red head into this somehow sinister adventure. He started to protest that he didn’t need to take an assistant. But he shut his mouth again—because he knew Madelone Kane.
Casey’s voice had a ring of triumph. “My space yacht—the Starbrand—is lying at Berth 280 on the Marsport field. We’re blasting off at midnight—if you and the doctor can be aboard by then.”
In Madelone Kane’s efficient charge, the legal details of the guaranteed fee, insurance, and passports, were swiftly cleared up. The powerful Bank of Mars proved willing to underwrite Mr. Casey, as a “valued client.”
But even the bank’s guarantees couldn’t reassure Haldane. He could not quite believe that any medical service could be worth a real hellstone, to anybody. All Madelone’s bubbling enthusiasm couldn’t dispell his apprehensions.
It was almost midnight when they stepped out of an air-car, on the Long Island space-port. His first glimpse of the Starbrand, standing upright like a strange monument, black against the blue glare of floodlights, chilled him with fresh alarm.
“Doc!” Madelone’s voice was thrilled. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Indeed the tall graceful pillar of the geodesic glider was beautiful. But all the beauty of its sleek, swelling lines spoke of a secret and deadly power. Haldane caught the girl’s arm.
“Look, Madelone!” His throat was tense. “Pleasure yachts aren’t built like that. It’s a fighting ship. You can see that in every line. Maybe I’m no spaceman myself, but my patients have given me models enough. I know it, Madelone—there’s a geodesic gun under that swell forward.”
His voice dropped urgently.
“It’s not too late—please let me go on alone!”
Her laughter chimed softly, unafraid.
“Maybe Mr. Casey needs a gun. You know you want me, doc. Suppose you get a touch of the gillies yourself—you look sort of green, already.” Her voice turned sober. “Remember why we’re doing this. To start your Psykinetic Foundation, and wipe out the moon-terror.”
Her green eyes mocked him again.
“Besides, I think this mystery is fun.”
“It’s no fun to be dead.”
But Haldane followed her toward the yawning air-lock, in the tail of the upended ship. Really, the jewel would mean a great deal. Two hundred years had convinced orthodox medicine that the gillies couldn’t be cured. It was hard for one young man to shake that conviction—there had been too many quacks. But a rich foundation could do it.
In the cage of the tiny elevator that ran up and down the length of the ship, Casey was waiting for them. He looked trimly military in a gray-and-green uniform. His dark face smiled.
“Welcome aboard. We blast off in five minutes.”
“Now, Mr. Casey,” demanded Haldane, “will you tell us where we’re bound?”
“It’s Captain Kellon, if you please, now that we re aboard.” He smiled again, at Madelone. “Captain Casey Kellon.” A chill of warning came into his voice. “Still, doctor, I can’t tell you where we are going—or permit you to find out. I must require you to hold this case in strict professional confidence. This trip will have to be simply a blank in your life.—Understand?”
“All right,” Haldane nodded. “A hell-stone is worth that.”
A brisk silent steward piled baggage into the elevator with them. He touched a button, and the cage started upward. Behind them, the valves clanged. Haldane started—the sound had an unpleasant finality.
“I must be on the bridge,” Casey Kellon was saying. “The steward will show you your rooms. You should be in your berths when we blast off.” His dark eyes had a stabbing power. “This will be an interesting and profitable voyage—if you just play the game.”
But what was the game? Wondering, Haldane tried not to shudder. A few moments later, he received another disturbing hint.
The cage swept them upward, through the levels of the ship. Haldane glimpsed a dark hold, the trim polished cases of the geodesic inflexors, close-packed rows of power-tubes, a spotless galley. Then, as the cage slowed, he saw a circular corridor, and stateroom doors.
“Casey—Casey!”
The screaming voice sawed his nerves. A girl in torn synsilk burst out of one of those doors. A tangle of blond hair half covered her tear-streaked doll-face—but it was somehow familiar.
A white-clad steward followed her out of the room, insisting:
“You must lie down, Miss, until we blast off.”
The elevator stopped, on the level above. The corridor that ringed the shaft was richly carpeted, the walls paneled with dark polished Venusian hardwoods. The steward set out the bags. Kellon nodded below, with faint pity on his brown face.
“My sister,” he said. “An invalid. This is her first voyage, and she seems afraid. It should reassure her, doctor, to learn that you are aboard.” He smiled at Madelone. “Cocktails in the bar on the next deck, after we blast off?”
“Thank you, Captain,” she cooed. “Certainly.”
The elevator carried him on up the central shaft, and the steward let Haldane and Madelone into their respective quarters. The rooms were tiny, but luxurious. The doctor flung himself flat on his berth, waiting for the crushing pressure of the launching rockets.
The warning siren wailed through the ship. In the hush that followed, Haldane wondered if his own case of the gillies was really cured—or would he be shamefully sick, after all, when they reached whatever mysterious moon or minor planet that might be their destination?
Then something clicked in his brain. That girl’s doll-face! In spite of the tears and the tangled hair, he remembered. He had seen her on the telescreen, that very day. She wasn’t Kellon’s sister. She was Zara Carnadon, the Venusian heiress, who had vanished with her hell-stone!
Haldane tried to get up from the berth. He wanted to warn Madelone, to get off this sinister ship. But the rockets made a thunder of sound, and the ruthless pressure of acceleration smashed him back against the blankets. Wherever it might take them, the voyage had begun.
CHAPTER II
THE bellow of the launching rockets stopped, and that crushing pressure ceased. For an instant the Starbrand hung free, and Haldane felt a sudden illness in his middle. Then the inflexors hummed, replacing the launching rockets with their powerful drive. The steady thrust of acceleration restored his physical comfort, but mental unease still tortured him.
Shakily, he tapped on Madelone’s door.
“Why, doc!” Her cool voice laughed at him. “I believe you’re going to have the gillies, after all!”
He decided not to tell her about Zara Carnadon. He had merely glimpsed the girl. There was a good chance he had been mistaken. If he hadn’t been—well, this wasn’t the time to do anything about it. If Kellon really had the kidnapped heiress and the missing jewel aboard, reckless accusations would be likely to result in immediate violence. Better just keep his eyes open, and wait. He might learn more. If his fears were justified, there might be a chance—
“I need that drink,” he said. “How do you get the elevator?”
Madelone pushed a button, at the shaft. Kellon came down, in the cage, and took them to the level above. He went behind the tiny bar, and asked them what they wanted, and mixed the drinks himself. Haldane asked him:
