Space Station 1

The door of the ladies’ lounge opened and two young women came out. They were laughing and talking with great animation and were quickly lost to view as other passengers changed their position in front of the viewscreen.

The door remained visible, however — a rectangle of shining whiteness only slightly encroached upon by dark blue drapes. Corriston found himself staring at it as his mind dwelt on the startling implications of Clakey’s almost unbelievable statement.

“Biggest man on Mars,” Clakey was saying. “Cornered uranium; froze out the original settlers. They’re threatening violence, but their hands are tied. Everything was done legally. Ramsey lives in a garrisoned fortress and they can’t get within twenty miles of him. He’s a damned scoundrel with tremendous vision and foresight.”

Corriston suddenly realized that he had made a serious psychological blunder in sizing up Clakey. The man was a blabbermouth. True, Corriston’s uniform was a character recommendation which might have justified candor to a moderate extent. But Clakey was talking outrageously out of turn. He was becoming confidential about matters he had no right to discuss with anyone on such short acquaintance. Corriston suddenly realized that Clakey was slightly drunk.

“Look here,” Corriston said. “You’re talking like a fool. Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Sure I know. Miss Ramsey is a golden girl. And I’m her bodyguard . . . important trust . . . sop to a man’s egoism.” An astonishing thing happened then. Clakey fell silent and remained uncommunicative for five full minutes. Corriston had no desire to start him talking again. He was appalled and incredulous. He was debating the advisability of getting up with a frozen stare and a firm determination to take himself elsewhere when the crazy, loose-tongued fool leapt unexpectedly to his feet.

“She’s taking too longl” he exclaimed. “It just isn’t like her. She’d never keep the captain waiting.”

As he spoke, another woman came out of the ladies’ lounge. She was small, dark, very pretty, and she seemed a little embarrassed when she saw how intently Clakey was staring at her. Then a middle-aged woman came out, with a finely-modeled face, and a second, younger woman with haggard eyes and a sallow complexion who was in all respects the opposite of attractive.

“She’s been in there for fifteen minutes,” Clakey said, starting toward the lounge.

“It takes a good many women twice that long to apply makeup properly,” Corriston pointed out. “I just don’t see — ” “You don’t know her,” Clakey said, impatiently. “I may have to ask one of those women to go in after her.”

“But why? You can’t seriously believe she’s in any danger. We both saw her go into the lounge. She made the decision on the spur of the moment and no one could have known about it in advance. No one followed her in. You were sitting right here watching the door.”

But Clakey was already advancing across the cabin. He was reeling a little, and a dull flush had mounted to his cheekbones. He seemed genuinely alarmed. Corriston was about to follow him when something bright flashed through the air with a faint swishing sound.

A startled cry burst from Clakey’s lips. He clutched at his side, staggered, and half-swung about, a look of incredulous horror in his eyes.

Corriston’s mouth went dry. He stood very still, watching Clakey lose all control over his legs. The change in the stricken man’s expression was ghastly. His cheeks had gone dead white, and now, as Corriston stared, a spasm convulsed his features, twisting them into a horrible, unnatural caricature of a human face — a rigidly contorted mask with a blanched, wide-angled mouth and bulging eyes.

A passenger saw him and screamed. His knees had given way and his huge frame seemed to be coming apart at the joints. He straightened out on the deck, jerking his head spasmodically, propelling himself backwards by his elbows. Almost as if with conscious intent, his body arched itself, sank level with the floor, then arched itself again.

It was as though all of his muscles and nerves were protesting the violence that had been done to him, and were seeking by muscular contractions alone to dislodge the stiff, thorned horror protruding from his flesh.

He went limp and the barbed shaft ceased to quiver. Corriston had a nerve-shattering glimpse of a swiftly spreading redness just above Clakey’s right hipbone. The entire barb turned red, as if its feathery spines had acquired a sudden, unnatural affinity for human blood.

Corriston started forward, then changed his mind. Several passengers had moved quickly to Clakey’s side and were bending above him. Someone called out: “Get a doctor!”

Corriston turned abruptly and strode toward the ladies’ lounge. Brushing aside such scruples as he ordinarily would have entertained, he threw open the door and went inside.