Doomsday Planet Page 2

  The measured beat from space was more noticeable here, the saloon being closer to the hull plates of the vessel. It was in the air, in the floor, in everything you touched. Lub-dub lub-dub, lub-dub. And it was having an obvious effect on the passengers. At sight of the steward, who was at Donley’s heels, one of the young girls screamed and unstrapped herself. She catapulted across the intervening space and hurled herself on the hapless officer.

  “You lied! You lied!” she accused him. “We’re not getting out of danger. We’re in it worse than ever. You—”

  Donley laid his hands upon her as gently as possible. “Now, now,” he soothed, “take it easy. Everything will be all right.”

  As she twisted in his grasp and her lithe body pressed against him, he became acutely aware that it was not die body of a child but of a desirable young woman. She subsided somewhat in his arms as they tightened about her. Her cheeks were no longer blanched but took on a swift rosiness.

  “Let me go.” But she had stopped squirming and looked up into his stem face.with a dawning of trust.

  Something in her look, her eyes, made him think of Mera and it was just what he needed to bring him back to himself. Was this damnable cadence driving them all a little kooky? The girl clung to him now in what he hoped was a desire to be protected. He disengaged her soft arms and held her away for a better look. She really was a beautiful little thing.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her for want of something to say.

  “Eula,” she said, “and my sister is Byil. I—I think she’s unconscious.”

  Donley rushed to the sister’s recoil seat, the steward following him.

  “They’re from a prominent Boston family,” the steward whispered. “Put aboard in my care.”

  “Get the mate,” snapped Donley, feeling for the pulse of the girl Byrl. Eula clung desperately to his arm. It seemed that the sister had passed out—much the way Captain Stark had.

  The steward was back with Mr. Standish in a moment, and the mate, acting as ship’s surgeon, took over.

  “Let’s get her in her own bed,” said the mate, who had unstrapped the sleeping girl. “Take her sister along; she might panic.”

  So Donley had Eula on his arm once more but now she was a different girl, jittery and pale, biting her lips. As they rounded a comer in the passageway, a man stumbled toward them with his head down, arms hanging like a gorilla’s. Eula screamed and hugged Donley’s arm.

  The man was Captain Stark and he was muttering like a madman.

  “Sick, sick, sick,” was the burden of his barely coherent talk. Then he looked up and, seeing Donley with the now sobbing girl, he shouted:

  “Where’s Randall? Where’s Mr. Standish?”

  Eula pulled away as the captain lunged forward and Donley caught him in a bear hug. The man was shaking as if with the ague.

  “The cursed drumming goes on,” babbled the captain. “It’s the rumble of doom—and I—we—”

  He suddenly hung limp in Donley’s grasp.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Randall left the navigating cabin with some rather definite data concerning the object that was in their path. Its mass was approximately the same as that of Venus. It had no atmosphere and was apparently the terminus of the unbelievable cosmic stream that was carrying the Meteoric relentlessly to its end. From calculated angles and distance and speed, it appeared that they had another six hours to go. Then they would be forced to make a landing—or would crash. Randall refused to consider the latter possibility.

  He was surprised to find the captain’s cabin empty. It was comparatively quiet, even the pulsations being barely discernible as a mere ff-ff, ff-ff instead of the thumping rhythm in other portions of the ship. Randall concluded that the lessening of its influence had somewhat released the captain from its spell of power.

  Hearing voices in a nearby cabin, he entered and there found not the captain but Jack Donley and the mate at the bedside of one of the two young girl passengers. The other girl sat in a comer, visibly shaken.

  “What’s happened here?” asked Randall.

  Standish looked up momentarily from the girl, who seemed to be on the point of recovering from a fainting spell. “Sh-h,” he warned. “This girl went out like Stark did and I think we’ve found a way of bringing them back—or even preventing it. See the blocks o f foam rubber under the bed legs, and the cotton in the girl’s ears? This does it.”

  “It insulated her from the floor vibration and muffled the sound of the beat,” Donley was explaining. “She came around fast.”

  Randall stared. “Where’s Stark?” he inquired.

  “Across from here,” said Donley. “He’s out cold again.”

  Across the corridor,” Captain Stark was in the same state as when first struck down. In a deep stupor.

  “How come this hits only certain people?” Donley wondered aloud.

  “Beats me,” said the mate. “But we’ll find out eventually. Must have something to do with makeup of individual nervous systems.”

  “Guess you haven’t seen some of the kooks in the saloon.”

  “You mean some of the passengers are emotionally disturbed?”

  “Understatement of the century.”

  “Hm-m.” It was obvious that Standish was a real medical man.

  “Well,” proposed the mate, “let’s get the captain going again.”

  “Wait a minute,” drawled Randall, entering the room. “First, where do we get all the foam rubber and cotton? Second, won’t it be better to leave Stark as he is for a while?”

  The mate stammered. To him this smacked of mutiny.

  Randall brought out his identification. “World Space Authority gives me the power to take over if necessary. Meanwhile, you Mr. Standish are the skipper. I so authorize it.”

  Randall gave them the facts as he had determnied them in the navigating cabin. Consulting his watch, he wound up with the information that they now had but five and a half hours to prepare for whatever kind of landing they might be able to make.

  “One thing I haven’t checked,” he admitted, “is the state of our rocket fuel supply. And, as you know, we can’t land with neutrino drive; it’s strictly for steady acceleration in the reaches of space outside planetary gravities.”

  “I’ll check the fuel at once, Sir,” said Standish and was off down the corridor.

  “And I,” Donley decided, “am getting after one Phil .Carter. Whether he owns any of it or not, he knows something about the cargo. We need foam rubber and ear plugs or cotton.”

  In the main saloon things were hardly different than before. Two or three passengers seemed to sleep in their recoil seats. One was muttering in morbid depression. Two more, who had unstrapped and were roaming about, cheerfully chattered nonsense. Phil Carter and his Amanda were holding hands and talking happily of the future. Jack noted that Miss Barrett had become a real good looker. Yes, she had removed her eyeglasses but that wasn’t all—you could see that she had been a real beauty in her day. Or was it the pulse from the ray stream that had him bewitched? Miss Barrett, too, reminded him somehow of Mera; it seemed that all females resembled his sweetheart. Resolutely, he turned his gaze from the rejuvenated spinster to Phil Carter.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, “is there any foam rubber or other vibration dampening material in your portion of the cargo?”

  “Foam rubber, yes, lots of it. Sheets and blocks of all sizes. Plastic sponge, too. But why—”

  “Let’s get it, man!” Donley enthused. “But wait—come along and we’ll find out just what is needed.”

  It took Carter but a moment to loosen his straps and jump to his feet. He too was a different man than when he had come aboard.

  “I’m coming too,” said Miss Barrett, unstrapping.

  The two followed Donley as he went looking for Mr. Standish and Randall.

  They were all in the navigating cabin, all solemnfaced as the mate revealed that the rocket fuel reserve was not ten percent above what is req
uired for a normal landing. If anything went wrong such as might require an extra orbit they were sunk!

  “We’ll make it,” Randall averred. Then, seeing Donley and his two companions, he drawled, “What brings you here?”

  “Foam rubber. Plenty of it,” Donley exulted. “How much and what kind do we need?”

  “Enough recoil seats must be protected, and we should resole everybody, whether they are now ambulatory or not.”

  “Let’s go!” Donley could press for action when necessary.

  For a moment the scurrying of their departure drowned out the lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. But the mysterious pulse was still there, relentless in its effects and its implications.

  “How are we fixed for space suits?” Randall asked the mate when the sounds of hurrying feet had died out in the corridor.

  “Okay Sir. We have at least twenty-five spares. Do you think we may have to bail out?”

  “No, I don’t expect we’ll need the suits for emergency bailout—but you never can tell. We’ll need them for sure on this airless planet, though. Do they have rocket packs?”

  “Yes. And there’s a portable oxygen generator available,” the mate remembered. “So we could, if we had to, remain for a long time on this strange body.”

  “If there are no other dangers—like living enemies.” Doc was remembering a stay on the satellite Juno. “But I don’t look for anything like that either.”

  “Like to see the suit lockers and airlock facilities?” asked Mr. Standish.

  “Yes, I’d better. Just to be familiar with the layout.” They went below and it seemed to Randall that the steel threads of the companionway were telling him gently, “lub-dub, lub-dub.…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Donley and Phil Carter came in accompanied by Brand and Davidson, all four loaded down with tools and materials. Miss Barrett followed with a package that seemed not at all heavy, though of fairly large size. Absorbent cotton, no less. Enough for an army.

  “We’ll have to clear out this room,” Jack announced, dropping a couple of wrenches and a bale of plastic sponge. “Have to do some work on the recoil seats.”

  There was the ring of authority in his voice and the passengers began moving toward the exit.

  “Let’s get going,” he said to Davidson and Brand, who were ridding themselves of their impedimenta. “We’ll take the empty seats first.”

  Again the ever present cyclic quiver was drowned out, not only by the scurrying feet of the departing ones but by the sound of hammer and wrenches as the alterations to the recoil seats were started.

  Donley had been wondering what happened to Amanda Barrett, when she swung around the comer of the passageway with an arm clasped firmly about the waist of sister, Byrl, who tottered a bit on what were unusually high-heeled shoes. They were both laughing delightedly.

  For that erstwhile owlishly solemn spinster had gone into the girl’s cabin and provided her shoes with three inch soles of foam rubber.

  That they worked was obvious. What was likewise obvious was the change in Amanda Barrett. Love works miracles. Or was this a side effect of the cosmic pulse? Donley wondered anew; there certainly were differing effects on different personalities; some cracking up, some sinking into a coma, others—like this.

  Hearing a commotion in the passageway just outside, Jal Tarjen, who was working with Davidson and Brand on one of the seats, rose up to find out what it was about. Which was a fortunate move, because immediately an entirely berserk Lunarian, evidently one of the crew, burst in on them wild-eyed. On his heels was the steward, whose grasp just missed him.

  “Watch out!” warned the steward. “He’s dangerous.”

  Phil ducked just in time as the moon-man swung a heavy iron bar in an arc that would have brained him. Jack and the Martian, coming at him from opposite sides, had the man down and disarmed in short order and then secured him in another of the recoil seats in the same manner as the first man. He quieted down, whether from the effect of the seat modification or from sheer exhaustion was not apparent.

  The unremitting lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, in the silence following this outburst, seemed more pronounced than before.

  “Attention, all those aboard. Attention, please!” It was the voice of the mate, calling out from the optophone audios. The discs were not alight but the voice was unmistakable. “This is a request that all passengers meet at once in the main saloon and that all crew members pay close heed to the optophone nearest them. Randall is to explain what the immediate future involves for all of us.”

  The audios went dead and passengers began filing into the main saloon. Soon all had gathered together and there was a buzz of excited speculation as to what it was all about. Jack and Phil had hustled the second unconscious passenger into a recoil seat and stood watching him without bothering with the straps. The imprisoned moon-man was quiet and the steward remained standing nearby.

  When the large optophone disc lighted up with the faces of Randall and the mate, the main lighting of the saloon was dimmed and the buzz of conversation lulled to a whisper.

  “Thank you all,” came the voice of the mate. “Before I turn the discussion over to Randall I must ask that any of you whose hearing has been deadened remove the cotton or ear plugs temporarily. All right Doctor, proceed.”

  “First off,” said Randall, “I shall picture on the disc before you what is showing here in the navigation cabin.”

  There was a click and the faces of the two men were replaced by a picture of the starry firmament with a bright orb in the center which, save for the difference in markings, might have been earth’s moon.

  “This body,” said the WSA man, “is in our path and we will have to make a landing on it. We do not know where it came from nor for what reason, but we do know it is about the size of our planet Venus and that it does not have an atmosphere. We have enough fuel for a landing, as well as plenty of space suits with rocket packs and oxygen supply, also an oxygen generator with which to replenish their tanks. Our electronic feelers and optical scanners reveal that there are living breathing beings there and it must be presumed that they are underground or in surface enclosures where an artificial atmosphere can be maintained. So we do not have too much to fear; we can surely live on this body until the help arrives that has been requested from World Space Authority. WSA is fully advised as of now and will be informed when we have made our landing. Any questions? Jack Donley, you had better take over there in the passenger quarters.”

  Donley faced the now solemn-visaged groups of people. He saw that the first of the unconscious passengers they had brought here was straining against his bonds and he motioned to the Martian to release him. The second man was sitting up, returned to full awareness. Even the Lunarian crewman was out of his frenzy and the steward unloosed him at Donley’s bidding. Those passengers who had been oddballs a few short minutes ago now seemed to be themselves, ensconced as they were in the newly equipped recoil seats. It occurred briefly to Donley that none of these had ear plugs but the significance of this escaped him.

  He moved to the nearest optophone voice pickup station. “To me,” he said, “it seems the most important question is when do we get to make the landing?” Several of the nearby passengers nodded agreement. Randall spoke from the disc above. “In less than three hours, Donley. So we haven’t much time.”

  “Well, Doc, we have enough of the seats insulated and will get at the shoe soles at once. Guess the hearing bit isn’t so important.”

  “Watch for that, Donley. The pulsation has strange effects on some. It may be that certain ones will require ear stoppage.”

  “How about a space suit drill?”

  “We all went through that before we could board—remember?”

  “Yes. Guess there isn’t anything else, then.” Donley spread his arms wide before the assemblage. “Anything else?”

  “When do we eat?” asked Lantag, seeming perfectly sober.

  This brought a general laugh and eased the tensio
n.

  “Buffet rations have been set up in the dining saloon,” the steward told them gravely. “Help yourselves, everybody.”

  A few sauntered off in that direction. But mostly they remained where they were; not many seemed to have an appetite. The optophone vision flicked off as Doc said over the audio, “I’ll be needed here until we land. But I’d like to have you drop around, Donley.”

  “Will do. In a few minutes.”

  Brand, Davidson and the Martian asked to go along and the four left as soon as Jack had convinced himself that everybody else was in satisfactory shape—and comfortable.

  The room quieted down as they departed and the alien pulse again became noticeable, hub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

  Miss Barrett and Phil Carter busied themselves with the task of vibration-soling the shoes of one after another of their fellow passengers. Eula and Byrl seemed to be enjoying a sort of game, the latter taking the cotton from her ears and her sister replacing it repeatedly.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the navigating cabin, Doctor Randall and the mate were examining the greatly enlarged images projected by the optical scanners as the surface of the body they were nearing was explored. It was not an inviting prospect, that of landing in such a wasteland; there were no signs of life visible, either animal or vegetable. The surface was a hodgepodge of bare flatlands interspersed with rugged territory whose mountains were not strung together in ranges but were staggered eminences broken up by great jagged crevices in a manner that betokened widespread seismic activity in ages past. The feelers had determined that the body was traveling less swiftly than the energies of the beam, due to its mass and other as yet undetermined influences, and that the approach of the Meteoric, which is to say the relative speed of the two, was leisurely as compared to usual interplanetary velocities. And yet they would be in the body’s immediate vicinity in just two hours, forty-nine minutes, six seconds as shown by the last printout of the computer. A relatively leisurely approach but fast enough! “What are our chances of making the landing?” the mate wondered.