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The HELL SHIP
By Ray Palmer
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of ScienceFiction March 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _The passengers rocketed through space in luxury. But theynever went below decks because rumor had it that Satan himself mannedthe controls of The Hell Ship._]
The giant space liner swung down in a long arc, hung for an instant oncolumns of flame, then settled slowly into the blast-pit. But no hatchopened; no air lock swung out; no person left the ship. It lay there,its voyage over, waiting.
The thing at the controls had great corded man-like arms. Its skin wasblack with stiff fur. It had fingers ending in heavy talons and eyesbulging from the base of a massive skull. Its body was ponderous, heavy,inhuman.
After twenty minutes, a single air lock swung clear and a dozen armedmen in Company uniforms went aboard. Still later, a truck lumbered up,the cargo hatch creaked aside, and a crane reached its long neck in forthe cargo.
Still no creature from the ship was seen to emerge. The truck driver,idly smoking near the hull, knew this was the _Prescott_, in from theJupiter run--that this was the White Sands Space Port. But he didn'tknow what was inside the _Prescott_ and he'd been told it wasn't healthyto ask.
Gene O'Neil stood outside the electrified wire that surrounded the WhiteSands port and thought of many things. He thought of the eternal secrecysurrounding space travel; of the reinforced hush-hush enshroudingCompany ships. No one ever visited the engine rooms. No one in all thenation had ever talked with a spaceman. Gene thought of the glimpse he'dgotten of the thing in the pilot's window. Then his thoughts driftedback to the newsrooms of Galactic Press Service; to Carter in his plushoffice.
"Want to be a hero, son?"
"Who, me? Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day."
"Don't be cute. It's an assignment. Get into White Sands."
"Who tried last?"
"Jim Whiting."
"Where is Whiting now?"
"Frankly we don't know. But--"
"And the four guys who tried before Whiting?"
"We don't know. But we'd like to find out."
"Try real hard. Maybe you will."
"Cut it out. You're a newspaperman aren't you?"
"God help me, yes. But there's no way."
"There's a way. There's always a way. Like Whiting and the others. Yourpals."
Back at the port looking through the hot wire. _Sure there was a way.Ask questions out loud. Then sit back and let them throw a noose aroundyou. And there was a place where you could do the sitting in completecomfort. Where Whiting had done it--but only to vanish off the face ofthe earth. Damn Carter to all hell!_
Gene turned and walked up the sandy road toward the place where thegaudy neons of the Blue Moon told hard working men where they couldspend their money. The Blue Moon. It was quite a place.
Outside, beneath the big crescent sign, Gene stopped to watch the crowdseddying in and out. Then he went in, to watch them cluster around theslot machines and bend in eager rows over the view slots of the peepshows.
He moved into the bar, dropped on one of the low stools. He ordered abeer and let his eyes drift around.
A man sat down beside him. He was husky, tough looking. "Ain't you theguy who's been asking questions about the crews down at the Port?"
Gene felt it coming. He looked the man over. His heavy face was flushedwith good living, eyes peculiarly direct of stare as if he was trying tokeep them from roving suspiciously by force of will. He was welldressed, and his heavy hands twinkled with several rather largediamonds. The man went on: "I can give you the information you want--fora price, of course." He nodded toward an exit. "Too public in here,though."
Gene grinned without mirth as he thought, _move over Whiting--here Icome_, and followed the man toward the door.
Outside the man waited, and Gene moved up close.
"You see, it's this way...."
Something exploded against Gene's skull. Even as fiery darkness closeddown he knew he'd found _the way_. But only a stupid newspaperman wouldtake it. Damn Carter!
Gene went out.
He seemed to be dreaming. Over him bent a repulsive, man-like face. Butthe man had fingernails growing on his chin where his whiskers shouldhave been. And his eyes were funny--walled, as though he bordered onidiocy. In the dream, Gene felt himself strapped into a hammock. Thensomething pulled at him and made a terrible racket for a long time. Thenit got very quiet except for a throbbing in his head. He went back tosleep.
* * * * *
She had on a starched white outfit, but it wasn't a nurse's uniform.There wasn't much skirt, and what there was of it was only the backpart. The neckline plunged to the waist and stopped there. It was apeculiar outfit for a nurse to be wearing. But it looked familiar.
Her soft hands fixed something over his eyes, something cold and wet. Hefelt grateful, but kept on trying to remember. Ah, he had it; the girlswore that kind of outfit in the Blue Moon in one of the skits they did,burlesquing a hospital. He took off the wet cloth and looked again.
She was a dream. Even with her lips rouge-scarlet, her cheeks pink withmakeup, her eyes heavy with artifice.
"What gives, beautiful?" He was surprised at the weakness of his voice.
Her voice was hard, but nice, and it was bitter, as though she wantedhard people to know she knew the score, could be just a little harder."You're a spaceman now! Didn't you know?"
Gene grinned weakly. "I don't know a star from a street light. Nobodygets on the space crews these days--it's a closed union."
Her laugh was full of a knowledge denied him. "That's what I used tothink!"
She began to unstrap him from the hammock. Then she pushed back hishair, prodded at the purple knob on his head with careful fingertips.
"How come you're on this ship?" asked Gene, wincing but letting herfingers explore.
"Shanghaied, same as you. I'm from the Blue Moon. I stepped out betweenacts for a breath of fresh air, and wham, a sack over the head and hereI am. They thought you might have a cracked skull. One of the monsterstold me to check you. No doctor on the ship."
Gene groaned. "Then I didn't dream it--there is a guy on this ship withfingernails instead of a beard on his chin!"
She nodded. "You haven't seen anything yet!"
"Why are we here?"
"You've been shanghaied to work the ship, I'm here for a differentpurpose--these men can't get off the ship and they've got to be keptcontented. We've got ourselves pleasant jobs, with monsters forplaymates, and we can't get fired. It'll be the rottenest time of ourlives, and the _rest_ of our lives, as far as I can see."
Gene sank down, put the compress back on his bump. "I don't get it."
"You will. I'm not absolutely sure I'm right, but I know a little moreabout it than you."
"What's your name?"
"They call me Queenie Brant. A name that fits this business. My realname is Ann O'Donnell."
"Queenie's a horse's name--I'll call you Ann. Me, I'm Gene O'Neil."
"That makes us both Irish," she said. He lifted the compress and saw thefirst really natural smile on her face. It was a sweet smile,introspective, dewy, young.
"You were only a dancer." He said it flatly.
For a long instant she looked at him, "Thanks. You got inside the gateon that one."
"It's in your eyes. I'm glad to know you, Ann. And I'd like to know youbetter."
"You will. There'll be plenty of time; we're bound for Io
."
"Where's Io?"
"One of Jupiter's moons, you Irish ignoramus. It has quite a colonyaround the mines. Also it has a strange race of people. But AnnO'Donnell is going to live there if she can get off this ship. I don'twant fingernails growing on _my_ chin."
O'Neil sat up. "I get it now! It's something about the atomic drive thatchanges the crew!"
"What else?"
Gene looked at Ann, let his eyes rove over her figure.
"Take a good look," she said bitterly. "Maybe it won't stay like thisvery long!"
"We've _got_ to get off