The Voyage of the Space Beagle

CHAPTER THREE

Back on the ship, Elliott Grosvenor headed for his own department. The sign on the door read, “SCIENCE OF NEXIALISM.” Beyond it were five rooms measuring altogether forty by eighty feet of floor space. Most of the machines and instruments that the Nexial Foundation had asked the government for had been installed. As a result, space was rather cramped. Once through the outer door, he was alone in his private preserve.

Grosvenor seated himself at his work desk and started his brief to Director Morton. He analysed the possible physical structure of the catlike inhabitant of this cold and desolate planet. He pointed out that so virile a monster should not be regarded merely as a “biological treasure house”. The phrase was dangerous in that it might make people forget that the beast would have its own drives and needs based on a non-human metabolism. “We have enough evidence now,” he dictated into the recorder, “to make what we Nexialists call a Statement of Direction.”

It took him several hours to complete the Statement. He carried the wire to the stenography section and put in a requisition for an immediate transcription. As head of a department, he got prompt service. Two hours later, he delivered the brief to Morton’s office. An under-secretary gave him a receipt for it. Grosvenor ate a late dinner in the commissary, convinced , that he had done what was possible to him. Afterwards, he inquired of the waiter where the cat was. The waiter wasn’t sure, but he believed the beast was up in the general library.

For an hour, Grosvenor sat in the library watching Coeurl. During that time, the creature lay stretched out on the thick carpet, never once moving his position. At the end of the hour, one of the doors swung open, and two men came in carrying a large bowl. Following close behind them was Kent. The chemist’s eyes were feverish. He paused in the middle of the room, and said in a weary yet harsh voice, “I want you all to watch this!”

Though his words included everyone in the room, he actually faced a group of top scientists who sat in a special reserved section. Grosvenor stood up and had a look at what was in the bowl carried by the two men. It contained a brownish concoction.

Smith, the biologist, also climbed to his feet. “Wait a minute, Kent. Any other time I wouldn’t question your actions. But you look ill. You’re overwrought. Have you got Morton’s permission for this experiment?”

Kent turned slowly. And Grosvenor, who had seated himself again, saw that Smith’s words had conveyed only a part of the picture. There were dark circles under the chief chemist’s eyes. And his cheeks seemed sunken. He said, “I invited him to come up here. He refused to participate. His attitude is that if this being does willingly what I want, no harm will be done,”

Smith said, “What have you got there? What’s in that bowl?” “I’ve identified the missing element,” Kent said. “It’s potassium. There was only about two-thirds or three-quarters of the normal amount of potassium left in Jarvey’s body. You know how potassium is held by the body cells in connection with a large protein molecule, the combination providing the basis for the electrical charge of the cell. It’s fundamental to life. Usually, after death the cells release their potassium into the blood stream, making it poisonous. I proved that some potassium is missing from Jarvey’s cells but that it did not go into the blood. I’m not sure of the full significance of that, but I intend to find out.”

“What about the bowl of food?” somebody interrupted. Men were putting away magazines and books, looking up with interest.

“It’s got living cells with potassium in suspension. We can do that artificially, you know. Maybe that’s why he rejected our food at lunch time. The potassium was not in a useable form for him. My idea is he’ll get the scent, or whatever he uses instead of scent—”

“I think he gets the vibrations of things,” Gourlay interjected with a drawl. “Sometimes when he wiggles those tendrils, my instruments register a distinct and very powerful wave of static. And then, again, there’s no reaction. My guess is he moves on to a point higher or lower on the wave scale. He seems to control the vibrations at will. I’m assuming the actual motion of the tendrils does not in itself generate these frequencies.” Kent waited with obvious impatience for Gourlay to finish, then he went on. “All right, so it’s vibrations that he senses. We can decide what his reaction to this vibration proves when he starts reacting.” He concluded in a mollifying tone, “What do you think, Smith?”

“There are three things wrong with your plan,” the biologist replied. “In the first place, you seem to assume that he is only animal. You seem to have forgotten he may be surfeited after having fed on Jarvey — if he did. And you seem to think he will not be suspicious. But have the bowl set down. His reaction may tell us something.”

Kent’s experiment was reasonably valid, despite the emotion behind it. The creature had already shown that he could respond violently when suddenly stimulated. His reaction to being locked up in the elevator could not be dismissed as unimportant. So Grosvenor analysed.

Coeurl stared with unblinking eyes as the two men set the bowl before him. They retreated quickly, and Kent stepped forward. Coeurl recognized him as the one who had held the weapon that morning. He watched the two-legged being for a moment, then gave his attention to the bowl. His ear tendrils identified the thrilling emanation of id from the contents. It was faint, so faint as to have been unnoticeable until he concentrated on it. And it was held in suspension in a manner that was almost useless to him. But the vibration was strong enough to point at the reason for this incident. With a snarl, Coeurl rose to his feet. He caught the bowl with the suction cups at the end of one looping tentacle, and emptied its contents into the face of Kent, who shrank back with a yell.

Explosively, Coeurl flung the bowl aside and snapped a hawser-thick tentacle around the cursing man’s waist. He didn’t bother with the gun that hung from Kent’s belt. It was only a vibration gun, he sensed — atomic powered, but not an atomic disintegrator. He tossed the squirming Kent into a corner, and then realized with a hiss of dismay that he should have disarmed the man. Now he would have to reveal his defensive powers.

Kent furiously wiped the gruel from his face with one hand, and with his other hand reached for his weapon. The muzzle snapped up, and the white beam of the traced light flashed at Coeurl’s massive head. Ear tendrils hummed as they automatically cancelled out the energy. Round black eyes narrowed as he caught the movement of men reaching for their vibrators.

From near the door, Grosvenor said sharply, “Stop! We’ll all regret it if we act hysterically.”

Kent clicked off his weapon and half turned to send a puzzled glance at Grosvenor. Coeurl crouched down, glowering at this man who had forced him to reveal his ability to control energies outside his body. There was nothing to do now but wait alertly for repercussions.

Kent looked again at Grosvenor. This time his eyes narrowed “What the hell do you mean by giving orders?”

Grosvenor made no reply. His part of the incident was finished. He had recognized an emotional crisis, and he had spoken the necessary words in the right tone of peremptory command. The fact that those who had obeyed him now questioned his authority to give the command was unimportant. The crisis was over.

What he had done had no relation to the guilt or innocence of Coeurl. Whatever the eventual result of his interference, any decision made about the creature must be made by the recognized authorities, not by one man.

“Kent,” said Siedel coldly, “I don’t believe you actually lost control of yourself there. You deliberately tried to kill pussy, knowing that the Director has ordered him kept alive. I have a good mind to report you, and to insist that you suffer the penalties. You know what they are. Loss of authority in your department, ineligibility for any of the dozen elective offices.”

There was a stirring and murmur in a group of men whom Grosvenor recognized as Kent supporters. One of them said, “No, no, don’t be foolish, Siedel.” Another was more cynical. “Don’t forget there are witnesses for Kent as well as against him.”

Kent stared grimly at the circle of faces. “Korita was right when he said ours was a highly civilized age. It’s positively decadent.” He went on passionately. “My God, isn’t there a man here who can see the horror of the situation? Jarvey dead only a few hours, and this creature, whom we all know to be guilty, lying here unchained, planning his next murder. And the victim is probably here in this room. What kind of men are we? Are we fools, cynics, or ghouls? Or is it that our civilization is so steeped in reason that we can contemplate even a murderer sympathetically?” He fixed his brooding eyes on Coeurl. “Morton was right. That’s no animal. That’s a devil from the deepest hell of this forgotten planet.”

“Don’t go melodramatic on us,” Siedel said. “Your analysis is psychologically unstable. We’re not ghouls or cynics. We’re simply scientists, and pussy here is going to be studied. Now that we suspect him, we doubt his ability to corner any of us. One against a thousand hasn’t got a chance.” He glanced around. “Since Morton isn’t here, I’ll put this to a vote here and now. Do I speak for all of you?”

“Not for me, Siedel.” It was Smith who spoke. As the psychologist stared in astonishment, Smith continued. “In the excitement and momentary confusion no one seems to have noticed that when Kent fired his vibration gun, the beam hit this creature squarely on his cat head, and didn’t hurt him!”

Siedel’s amazed glance went from Smith to Coeurl, and back again to Smith. “Are you certain it hit him? As you say, it all happened so swiftly — when pussy wasn’t hurt I simply assumed that Kent had missed him.”

“I was pretty sure it hit him in the face,” Smith said. “A vibration gun, of course, can’t even kill a man quickly, but it can injure him. Pussy is showing no sign of injury; he’s not even trembling. I don’t say that’s conclusive, but in view of our doubts—”

Siedel was briefly distracted. “Perhaps his skin is a good insulation against heat and energy.”

“Perhaps. But in view of our uncertainty, I think Morton should be requested to order him locked in a cage.”

While Siedel frowned doubtfully, Kent spoke up. “Now you’re talking sense, Smith.”

Siedel said swiftly, “Then you would be satisfied, Kent, if we put him in a cage?”

Kent considered, then said reluctantly, “Yes. If four inches of micro-steel can’t hold him, we’d better give him the ship.” Grosvenor, who had remained in the background, said nothing. He had discussed the problems of imprisoning Coeurl in his brief to Morton, and found the cage inadequate, principally because of its lock mechanism.

Siedel walked to a wall communicator, talked in a low voice to someone, and then returned. “The Director says if we can get him into the cage without violence, it’s fine with him. Otherwise, just lock him up in any room that he’s in. What do you think?”

“The cage!” A score of voices spoke in unison. Grosvenor waited for a moment of silence, then said, “Put him outside for the night. He’ll stay around.”

Most of the men ignored him. Kent glanced at him and said sourly, “You don’t seem to be able to make up your mind, do you? One moment you save his life, the next you recognize him as dangerous.”

“He saved his own life,” said Grosvenor shortly. Kent turned away, shrugging. “We’ll put him in the cage. That’s where a murderer ought to be.”

Siedel said, “Now that we’ve made up our minds, how are we going to do this?”

Grosvenor said, “You definitely want him in the cage?” He didn’t expect an answer to that, and he didn’t get one. He walked forward and touched the end of the nearest of Coeurl’s tentacles.

It shrank away from him slightly, but Grosvenor was determined. He grasped the tentacle again firmly, and indicated the door. The animal hesitated a moment longer, and then started silently across the room.

Grosvenor called, “There’s got to be exact timing here. Get set!”

A moment later Coeurl trotted docilely after Grosvenor through another door. He found himself in a square metal room, with a second door on the opposite wall. The man went through that. As Coeurl started to follow, the door slid shut in his face. Simultaneously, there was a metallic clang behind him. He whirled, and saw that the first door was shut also. He felt the flow of power as an electric lock clicked into place. His lips parted in a grimace of hate as he realized the intent of the trap, but he gave no other outward indication. He was aware of the difference between his earlier reaction to a small enclosure and his present one. For hundreds of years he had been intent on food, and food only. Now a thousand memories of the past were reawakening in his brain. There were powers in his body that he had long since ceased using. In remembering them, his mind automatically fitted their possibilities to his present situation.

He sat back presently on the thick, lithe haunches into which his body tapered. With his ear tendrils he examined the energy content of his surroundings. Finally he lay down, his eyes glowing with contempt. The fools!

It was about an hour later when he heard the man — Smith — fumbling with some mechanism on top of the cage. Coeurl leaped to his feet, startled. His first feeling was that he had misjudged these men, and that he was to be killed out of hand. He had counted on being given time, and on being able to do what he planned.

The danger confused him. And when he suddenly sensed radiation far below the level of visibility, he stimulated his entire nervous system against possible peril. Several seconds went by before he realized what was happening. Somebody was taking pictures of the inside of his body.

After a while the man went away. For a time, then, there were noises of men doing things far away. These died away gradually. Coeurl was patient as he waited for the silence to envelop the ship. In the long ago, before they had achieved relative immortality, coeurls also had slept at night. Watching some of the men dozing in the library, he had remembered the habit. There was one sound that did not fade away. Long after the great ship was generally silent, he could hear the two pairs of feet. They paced rhythmically past his cell, receded to some remote distance, and then came back. The trouble was, the guards were not together. First one pair of footsteps walked past. Then, about thirty feet behind, came the second pair.

Coeurl let them come by several times. Each time he estimated how long it took them. Finally, he was satisfied. Once again he waited for them to make their round. This time, the moment they were past, he switched his senses from concentration on human-made vibrations to a vastly higher range. The pulsating violence of the atomic pile in the engine room stammered its soft story to his nervous system. The electric dynamos hummed their muffled song of pure power. He felt the whisper of that flow through the wires in the walls of his cage, and through the electric lock of his door. He forced his quivering body into straining immobility, while he tried to tune in on that sibilant tempest of energy. Abruptly, his ear tendrils vibrated in harmony.

There was a sharp click of metal on metal. With a gentle touch of one tentacle, Coeurl pushed open the door. Then he was out in the corridor. For a moment he felt a return of contempt, a glow of superiority, as he thought of the stupid creatures who dared to match their wits against a coeurl. And in that moment he suddenly remembered that there were a few other coeurls on this planet. It was a strange and unexpected thought. For he had hated them and had fought them ruthlessly. Now he saw that vanishing small group as his kind. If they were given a chance to multiply, no one — least of all these men — would be able to stand against them.

Thinking of that possibility, he felt weighted down by his limitations, his need for other coeurls, his aloneness — one against a thousand, with the galaxy at stake. The starry universe itself beckoned his rapacious, vaulting ambition. If he failed, there would never be a second chance. In a foodless world he could not hope to solve the secret of space travel. Even the builders had not freed themselves from their planet.

He padded along through a large salon and into the adjoining corridor. There he came to the first bedroom door. It was electrically locked, but he opened it noiselessly. He pounced inside and smashed the throat of the sleeping man in the bed. The lifeless head rolled crazily. The body twitched once. The id emanations from it almost overwhelmed him, but he forced himself to go on.

Seven bedrooms; seven dead men. Then, silently, he returned to the cage and locked the door behind him. His timing was beautifully precise. Presently, the guards came along, peered through the audioscope, and went on their way. Coeurl emerged for his second foray, and within minutes had invaded four more bedrooms. Then he came to a dormitory with twenty-four men sleeping in it. He had been killing swiftly, aware of the exact moment when he must again return to the cage. The opportunity to destroy a whole roomful of men confused him. For more than a thousand years he had slain all the living forms he could capture. Even in the beginning, that had yielded him no more than one id creature a week. And so he had never felt the necessity for restraint. He went through that room like the great cat he was, silent but deadly, and emerged from the sensuous joy of the kill only when every man in the dormitory was dead.

Instantly, he realized he had overstayed his time. The tremendousness of the blunder made him cringe. For he had planned a night of murder, each wave of deaths timed exactly so that he would be able to return to his prison and be there when the guards glanced in at him, as they had done on every round. That hope of seizing this monster ship during one sleep period was now jeopardized.

Coeurl caught at the vanishing remnants of his reason. Frantically, careless now of the accidental sounds, he raced through the salon. He came out into the cage corridor, tense, half expecting to be met by energy blasts too powerful for him to handle.

The two guards were together, standing side by side. It was obvious that they had just discovered the open door. They looked up simultaneously, briefly paralysed by the nightmare of claws and tentacles, the ferocious cat head and hate-filled eyes. Far too late, one of the men reached for his blaster. But the other was physically frozen by the doom he could not avoid. He uttered a shriek, a shrill cry of horror. The eerie sound floated along the corridors, awakening a shipload of men. The sound ended in a frightful gurgle as Coeurl flung the two corpses with one irresistible motion the full length of that long corridor. He didn’t want the dead bodies found near the cage. That was his one hope.

Shaken to the depths, conscious of his terrible mistake, unable to think coherently, he plunged into the prison. The door clicked softly shut behind him. Power flowed once more through the electric lock. He crouched down on the floor, simulating sleep, as he heard the rush of many feet and caught the sound of excited voices. He knew when someone actuated the cage audioscope and looked in at him. The crisis would come when the other bodies were discovered.

Slowly, he stiffened himself for the greatest struggle of his life.