Part 1

The Great Green Blight

By EMMETT McDOWELL

The Empire of Earth was crumbling. Space-liners fell prey to savage phantom crews. A weird, green wave of terror engulfed the Universe. Enslavement of the Empire was near, and only a handful of men could halt the final blow ... a handful of men who could not act--for a single movement would mean their death.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Somewhere aboard the Super Space Liner, _Jupiter_, a resonant gong sounded three times. Norman Saint Clair started, glanced uneasily about the magnificent lounge. A gray fear gnawed at his vitals. With a sinking heart, he watched the crowd, who had come to see off the passengers, hurry out the port. This was his last chance to get off the ship.

"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.

Norman Saint Clair spun around, recognized a Universal Lines steward, grinned embarrassedly.

"First trip?" asked the yellow-clad steward.

The young man nodded.

"I wouldn't be too uneasy, sir. We'll pick up our escort this side of the moon. A full ship of the line, sir. We're carrying radium, you know. They wouldn't dare attack a ship of the line. May I see your book, sir?"

Norman Saint Clair fumbled in his wallet, handed the steward his book. Since Terra's ships had begun to disappear on the Earth to Jupiter run, the Terrestial Intelligence Service required them of everyone traveling through space. It contained his photograph, a three-dimensional likeness showing a gaunt likeable face crowned by short, crisp blond hair, a photostatic copy of his birth certificate, his description, nationality, business, fingerprints, history.

Satisfied, the steward said: "This way, sir," and led him to an acceleration chair at the after end of the lounge. "Strap yourself in, sir. We start in a few moments."

The young man eased his lank, six-foot-two frame into the seat, nervously fastened the belt. In spite of the steward's words, he was not reassured. Ship after ship had vanished into the blue. Nor had the vaunted Terrestial Navy or the T.I.S. been able to discover any trace of them thereafter. Somewhere beyond the orbit of Mars their radios crackled and blanked out. Space opened and swallowed them. It was unprecedented. Never before in the history of space travel had anything remotely like it occurred.

His eyes roved among the few passengers strapped in their chairs. They were subdued. The sailing, unlike the gay hectic affairs before the coming of the terror, was grim, quiet. No one, he realized, was making the trip unless it was unavoidable.

With a touch of panic, he considered demanding to be set back on Terra while there was yet time, but a stubborn streak made him hold to his course. It was the same stubborn streak which had led him to book passage aboard the _Jupiter_ in spite of the terror. A hundred times he had regretted accepting the post of Lecturer on Ancient History at distant Ganymede. He loved the quiet sanctuary of his library with its collection of twentieth century authors. He had no ambition to exchange his secure academic life for the uncertainty of a crude, rowdy frontier. But the post had offered a good salary, much better than he could expect on Earth for years.

A party of Colonial Guards swaggering across the lounge drew his attention. They were a hard-faced lot, recruited from Earth's far-flung frontiers. They constituted, he knew, a special armed guard, traveling aboard the _Jupiter_ at the company's request. Universal was taking no risk with the precious cargo of radium.

* * * * *

From the Colonial Guards his eyes strayed across to the occupant of the seat next to his. A girl. He stared, lost in admiration. He'd never seen a creature so beautiful. Her black curly hair framed a pale oval face. Her eyes were blue, her features delicate, chiseled. She was, he realized with a start, regarding him with a mixture of amusement and solicitude.

"First trip?" the girl asked, liking the frank scholarly face of the young man.

He nodded.

"Just relax in your chair," she advised him. "The acceleration's pretty fierce at first."

A second gong advised them the port was sealed. Several passengers hurried into the lounge, flung themselves into acceleration chairs. A voice, coming over the public address system, announced: "Strap yourselves in carefully. Acceleration begins in three minutes." Twice more the warning was repeated.

Norman Saint Clair's pulse beat rapidly. He felt frightened. Then a faint hum made itself felt rather than heard.

The girl said, "Listen, the engines."

He thought they sounded like the hum of bees on a warm summer day. He shivered, feeling that cold knife of fear slide into his vitals.

A giant hand slammed him in the chest, thrust him deep into the folds of the acceleration chair. His breath was driven from his lungs. He gasped, strained for air painfully. The die was cast, he realized bitterly. There could be no turning back now. They were off.

In a few minutes the pressure slackened. He could turn his head. The girl, he saw, had uncoupled her safety and was rising. He followed her example, stood up unsteadily. The artificial gravity, two-thirds that on Earth, was in effect. It gave him a light giddy sensation. He didn't think he was going to enjoy the voyage.

"Isn't it delightful?" said the girl. "It always makes me feel positively sylph-like."

Now that she was standing he could see how slim was her waist, how full her hips, how long her legs. She stirred some atavistic sense in him. A vein throbbed in his throat. I'm reacting like an animal, he thought. Disgusting.

The girl held out her hand, said, "I'm Jennifer Scott. I'm going home to Ganymede."

He took her hand, introduced himself. "I've been employed to lecture on Ancient History at the Ganymede Seminar."

Jennifer clapped her hands. "Grand. Papa is commandant of the military post. The fort is only a short distance from the Seminar. We'll be neighbors. You'll love Ganymede. It's so wild and primitive."

"No doubt," he replied dryly.

Jennifer glanced at her watch, said, "It's time for lunch. I'm ravenous. Shall we try the saloon or the grill." She seemed to have assumed proprietorship of him. He rather liked it. He said, "Let's try the dining saloon."

As he piloted her across the lounge, he observed again how few people had booked passage. The fear returned, squeezed at his stomach. He said:

"Do you think it was wise to make the crossing at a time like this?"

"What?" said Jennifer. "Oh. You mean the terror. No, I suppose it wasn't, and papa will be frantic. He sent me a spaceogram absolutely forbidding me to return. But I was fed up."

"Fed up?"

"Yes, fed up with Earth and their dull stuffy ways," said the girl passionately. "They're dead. They've forgotten how to play, or fight or make love."

Norman Saint Clair was shocked. People who went to the Colonies, he had always supposed, were driven to some such drastic step by the force of circumstance--economic, possibly, as was his case. This view came as a revelation, an unpleasant one.

"Anyway," continued the girl; "we're off. It's too late now."

They fell in behind a fat Earth woman, entered the passage which led to the dining saloon. He started to ask the girl what she had found so unpleasant about Earth, when the fat woman stopped, said: "Oh, my God!" Then she began to scream. The screams lifted the hair right off Norman Saint Clair's neck.

Jennifer cried, "What is it? What happened?"

Hesitantly, he peered over the screaming woman's shoulder, saw a man stretched on the deck. He lay on his stomach, his head on one side, disclosing a pale classical profile. He appeared young, little older than Norman himself.

"I don't know," the young man replied. "Someone's hurt, I think."

He forced himself to push past the fat woman, kneel at the unconscious man's side. What he saw made him sick. He looked away. A gout of blood had spurted from the man's neck, dyed the green fiberon carpet scarlet. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

* * * * *

Several passengers, alarmed by the Earth woman's screams, dashed into the passage.

"What's wrong?"

"Something happened?"

"Dead!" the fat woman gasped. "My God, I almost stepped on him!" She burst into strangling sobs.

A yellow-clad steward appeared. He couldn't see the body because of the press. "What's the trouble, sir?"

Norman stared at him. "Murder," he said in a shocked voice. "This man has been murdered. His throat's cut."

"Murder!" repeated the steward. "I'll get the captain." He scuttled off down the corridor. The fat woman went into hysterics.

"Who could have done it?" breathed Jennifer. "Why?"

Norman Saint Clair shook his head. He rose from his knees, feeling weak, shaken. He had never seen a dead man before.

"Here," said a man brusquely. "I'm a doctor. Let me see that man." He shouldered to the front, knelt beside the body. Norman Saint Clair relinquished his place with relief.

"Powerful man did that," the doctor pointed out. "Almost cut his head off."

With a gulp Norman looked away.

"Here!" ejaculated the doctor. "Look at this!"

Curiosity dragged his eyes back. The doctor had rolled the body over, turned back the lapel of the dark gray business suit. Norman saw a small green disk pinned to the underside of the lapel. It was about the size of a dime and died out to represent one of Earth's hemispheres. Three letters in raised silver stood out on the green surface. "_T.I.S._" he made out.

"An agent of the Terrestial Intelligence Service," breathed Norman.

The doctor rose, drew a handkerchief, wiped his hands. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Norman, with gray hair. His brown eyes sought the young man's. "He must have been working on the terror."

Norman nodded, thought that it didn't require any brilliant deduction to guess that. Ninety percent of the T.I.S. force was trying to solve it. The entire resources of the Empire were being drawn upon to uncover the solution. Vital trade was at a standstill, and last week the _Nebulae_, a crack luxury liner, had disappeared between Earth and Mars with the Martian ambassador aboard. The incident had very nearly severed diplomatic relations between the two worlds.

The doctor bit his lip, frowned, "I wish the Captain would get here," he said. He glanced anxiously at the gaping crowd, discovered the blue-eyed, black-haired girl by Norman's side.

"Jennifer!" the doctor exclaimed.

"Hello, Doctor Pequod. I didn't want to interrupt your examination."

The doctor's frown deepened. "Jennifer, what's your father thinking to let you travel at a time like this? He should realize it's dangerous."

"He doesn't know," replied Jennifer simply. "Doctor, this is Mr. Saint Clair. He's going to lecture in the Ganymede Seminar."

Norman shook hands automatically. Although he refused to look at the body his mind persisted in picturing it. He said, "Doctor, do you realize there's a killer loose among us?"

"What do you take me for? A simpleton?" snorted the doctor.

"But Doctor," put in Jennifer; "if he was working on the terror, he must have discovered something. Else, why should they have killed him?"

"I'd thought of that," interrupted Norman. "Do you suppose we're headed for the same fate as those other ships? We're carrying radium."

"Nonsense," grunted the doctor. "That agent might have been on the trail of smugglers, anything. Oh, here comes the Captain."

The Captain, a brusque little man who appeared to be in his fifties, glanced briefly at the body, said: "Who found it?"

Several passengers pointed out Norman.

"I?" said Norman in haste. "I didn't find it. That--that...." He flung his eyes over the crowd in search of the fat woman, but she had been carried to her stateroom. He took a breath, began again. "Miss Scott and I were going to lunch. We were right behind an Earth woman. She saw the body first."

"You didn't see anyone enter or leave this passage?"

He emphatically shook his head.

"Steward!" called the Captain, turning away. "Get this body into the meat box."

"Yes, sir." The steward started to go for help.

"Here! Wait a moment. Clear these people out first."

Norman said to Jennifer, "Let's get out." More than anything else, he wanted to get away from that body. His voyage to Ganymede was turning out even worse than he had anticipated.

"Not you," said the Captain. "I want to see your book."

Norman could feel the eyes of everyone on him as he handed it over.

* * * * *

The Captain examined it, looked up into the pale scholarly face of the young man. "No," he said with a trace of contempt, "I suppose you wouldn't have seen anything at that. You may go."

Norman flushed, took his book back. A surge of anger welled up inside him at the Captain's tone. He was of a mind to register a complaint with the company.

"I said you may go," repeated the Captain.

"I am waiting for Miss Scott," replied Norman stiffly.

For a moment the two men's wills clashed. It was the Captain, oddly enough, who yielded. "Very well. May I see your book, Miss Scott?"

Norman felt a sense of triumph as Jennifer passed over her book.

The Captain accepted it, scanned it briefly. "I see your father is Commandant Scott. I know him very well. A capable man. We need more administrators like him in the Colonies. But Earth doesn't produce the men she used to. If it weren't for the Outlanders, the Empire would fall to pieces. Decadency; that's the sickness of Earth. Be sure to convey my respects to your father, Miss Scott."

Jennifer smiled, said, "Thank you, Captain."

"I believe you were with Mr. Saint Clair. Did you seen anyone ahead of you?"

Jennifer frowned in an effort to remember, shook her curly black hair. "I'm sorry, Captain."

Before he could reply an officer pushed his way into the group. Norman recognized him as the colonel in charge of the Armed Guard.

"Hello, Captain," said the Colonel. "One of my men just informed me of the murder." He glanced at the body. "I suggest you close off this corridor and take these people's names."

"I've done both," said the Captain tartly. "Since you've arrived, Colonel, I can leave the investigation in your hands. Meanwhile this must be reported to the T.I.S. You'll excuse me, Colonel?"

The Colonel nodded indifferently. He was a small wiry man with cold blue eyes. He requested all three of their books, examined them minutely while the doctor fidgeted and Norman sweated to get away from that still form on the deck. After questioning them again, he took their names in a notebook, dismissed them.

Once in the lounge, Norman lit a cigarette, inhaled it gratefully.

The doctor said, "I prescribe a stiff shot of brandy."

Norman didn't drink. He believed alcohol impaired thinking. Nevertheless, he seconded the doctor's suggestion. Spirits, he decided reluctantly, had their uses.

The murder had riven a crack in Norman Saint Clair's complacency. His safe world was crumbling about his ears. He recalled the Captain's charge that Earth was decadent. It was true that more and more Outlanders, men born in the colonies, were grasping power. Could it be possible that in his academic isolation he had missed the real pulse of life.

Jennifer said, "Whatever are you thinking, Norman? Your eyes look as if you were miles away."

With a start, he realized that the pair of them were waiting for him. "I? I was thinking that--that. Oh bother thinking. Let's get that drink."

II

Aboard the _Jupiter_ day and night were artificially simulated. Norman Saint Clair awoke the next morning with a sense of disaster strong in his mind. He rose, stretched, went to the quartzite port. They had picked up their escort during the night.

The Terrestian warship paced the _Jupiter_ silently, grimly. She wasn't half the size of the colossal liner, but her speed he knew to be fabulous, and he could count a hundred gun ports along her starboard side alone. A lean gray wolf of space, he thought. Nothing could stand up against that brutally efficient machine of destruction. Reassured, he began to dress himself carefully.

In the dining saloon he discovered the girl, Jennifer Scott. She was seated at a table having breakfast with a young man to whom Norman took an immediate dislike although it was possible to see only the back of his head. He felt surprised at himself. He wasn't in the habit of making snap judgements like that.

Jennifer saw him, waved gaily, beckoned him to come sit with them. The informality of the Outlanders never ceased to amaze him. They brushed aside conventions like cobwebs.

He said, "Good morning, Miss Scott. I trust yesterday's tragedy didn't disturb your rest too much." There was a touch of resentment in his tone. The girl appeared too buoyant, too vivacious. His own sleep had been wretched.

The girl's blue eyes were bright. She said, "Not too much;" and introduced her companion. "This is Mr. Vermeer. He's an agent of the Venusian Export Lines."

Norman observed Vermeer coolly, saw a black-eyed, black-haired man whose gray coat fit his chunky shoulders too tightly. There was a white scar on his upper lip, another above his right eyebrow. Mr. Vermeer extended his hand without enthusiasm, said, "Sit down, Saint Clair."

Norman eased his lank frame into the chair. "Have they caught the murderer, yet?"

Jennifer shook her head.

"Not likely," observed Vermeer with scorn. "There was a time when it would have been suicide to kill a T.I.S. agent. From Mercury to Pluto Earthmen were known as the scourge of the Universe. But now. Pah! They've grown fat and spoiled. The Empire isn't able to protect its own ships anymore."

Norman fidgeted angrily. "You're an Earthman, yourself," he accused.

"Not I," denied Vermeer. "I'm of Terrestial descent, but I was born on Venus. I'm an Outlander."

A waiter approached, took Norman's order.

Jennifer leaned forward. "Mr. Vermeer, do you believe this murder has any connection with the terror?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. I'd say the T.I.S. agent had stumbled across some information which made it necessary that he be silenced."

Although that was Norman's idea he said perversely, "I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill. The agent was probably on the track of smugglers."

Jennifer opened her blue eyes in surprise. Vermeer shrugged, turned to the girl, said: "They're giving a dance tonight. Would you be my partner?"

The girl hesitated, glanced roguishly at Norman who sat stiff-faced. "Thank you, Mr. Vermeer, but Mr. Saint Clair has already asked me."

Norman's mouth fell open. He had wanted to ask her but had hesitated because he didn't know her well enough. His heart leaped now with pleasure.

Vermeer glanced at Norman sourly, excused himself, left the table.

When he was out of earshot, the girl said, "There's something about that man that doesn't ring true. I hope you don't mind me using you as an excuse, Norman. You don't have to take me."

"Not take you?" he echoed. "Of course, I'm going to take you. You can't very well refuse now." He grinned triumphantly, feeling something of a devil. He rather liked the sensation.

The girl was suddenly serious. "Have you heard the news?"

"News? I haven't heard any news."

"It just came over the radio. The _Comet_ disappeared three days out from Ganymede. She was escorted by a corvette of the Martian Navy, too."

The _Comet_, he knew, was a semi-passenger freighter of Martian register. "But the corvette?" he echoed blankly, feeling suddenly a bit frightened and confused.

"It vanished too." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that. But before they disappeared, they reported three flashes in space dead ahead. Then their signals stopped."

He opened his mouth.

"Wait," said the girl. "You haven't heard it all. The Observatory on Ganymede had them in sight all the time. A short while after the ship's radio messages stopped coming through, they noticed that the _Comet_ was disappearing just as if she were disintegrating. The disintegration started at the stern and slowly worked forward until the ship was completely gone." She shuddered. "When I heard the news coming over the caster it reminded me of an old, old story of a grinning cheshire cat. The cat disappeared tail first until even the grin was gone."

"Alice in Wonderland," said Norman mechanically. "That was written by Lewis Carroll, a famous writer of antiquity."

"What do you think it is?"

He shook his head. "I'm no scientist, Jennifer. It sounds like atomic disintegration."

"But why?"

Again he shook his head. His food, he realized, was growing cold. He began to eat mechanically. He thought that if he ever reached Ganymede, he'd never venture into space again.

The girl said, "Vermeer was right about one thing. The Empire's crumbling. This never could have happened a hundred years ago." She hesitated, then added with a rush, "I wasn't going to tell you because I'm not sure, but Mr. Vermeer's stateroom is next to mine. When I first came aboard and was putting away my things, I noticed a man leave his stateroom. Norman, it wasn't Mr. Vermeer. I think it was that T.I.S. agent who was murdered."

"By Jupiter," ejaculated Norman, "do you think the T.I.S. man could have been making an investigation of this Vermeer?"

She nodded her head, wide-eyed.

"Have you told the Captain?"

"No," said the girl.

"But he should know."

She shook her head. "He'd think I was imagining things. The passengers have been reporting all sorts of nonsense since the murder. If I could only be sure." She bit her lip. "Norman, the dance tonight. He'll be there. We could search his room."

He looked at her aghast. "Search his room? Me? Suppose he walked in on us?"

"We could pretend we'd entered by mistake. My cabin is next door."

He shook his head. "I still think it should be reported to the Captain."

"He'd never believe me."

He glanced at her helplessly. "But...."

Jennifer rose. "I'll meet you at the dance tonight. We'll make sure he's there first."

He nodded unhappily. When the girl had left he pushed back his plate, called the waiter. "You can take this away," he said. "I've lost my appetite."

III

In spite of all the preparations by the Stewards Department, the dance was not a success. Everyone drank too much, tried too hard to be gay, but the shadow of the terror hung over the little floating world turning the celebrations tawdry.

Norman and Jennifer were seated at a table against the bulkhead. The orchestra was playing _My Man's Done Left For Outer Space_ while a Martian girl gyrated in a barbaric dance which stirred Norman's pulse and shocked him beyond measure.

"There he is," said Jennifer in a low excited voice. "There's Vermeer now."

The Venusian Export Lines man had just entered the saloon. Norman saw him glance casually about the hall, saunter across to the bar.

"Come on," said Jennifer. "Let's get started."

Norman gulped down a last drink of the brandy, rose from the table. Jennifer took his arm. He could feel her grip tighten. They passed out a side entrance, down a companionway to the deck where Vermeer's cabin was located. Before the door of 312 they paused.

"This is it," said Jennifer in a whisper.

Norman gingerly tried the door. "It's locked," he said with relief. "Let's get back to the dance."

"Here," said Jennifer fumbling in her purse. "Try this. It's a pass key."

He stared at the little sliver of metal in consternation. "Where did you get it?"

"I bribed the steward."

Norman took the key. The door opened easily. Vermeer's stateroom contained a bunk, desk, two chairs, and a dresser. A spot reading light threw a round beam from the overhead to the desk. A door on the right opened into the bath. There was a second door on the left, but it was closed.