Island of Fear Read online

  All tracking stations were kept on the alert. Until the sixty hours planned for the return journey were over, there was no thought of giving up.

  And suddenly, five hours and fifty-four minutes after the capsule's disappearance, it began sending loud and clear; its pip was once again picked up by the Sugar Grove telescope, and Davenport's voice finished the sentence which had abruptly been cut off nearly six hours ago: "Hello, you blue, beautiful old earth; here I come."

  The tapes clicked over smoothly, efficiently; the instruments recording perfectly, every one of them taking up where they'd left off five hours and fifty-four minutes earlier.

  Questions were immediately put to Davenport — and it was then the puzzle deepened. He insisted there'd been no interruption whatsoever, that the return flight was exactly on schedule. He expressed astonishment when told he'd disappeared completely for nearly six hours. He could not explain the disappearance of the capsule from all tracking stations or what had occurred during those lost six hours when his own voice had been silent.

  Approaching earth sixty hours later, Davenport quietly announced he was making the delicately precise maneuvers for slipping into the re-entry corridor, and exactly as programmed, the big capsule was seen drifting down well within the impact area in the South Atlantic.

  Davenport and the capsule were snatched from the ocean by 'copter, deposited aboard a carrier, from which they were flown by special jet to Patrick AFB.

  Again Davenport insisted that at no time had he ceased sending, nor had he missed any contact from Earth. He had slept some hours —but long after the mysterious disappearance had been reported. The instruments and tapes aboard the capsule corroborated Davenport's firm denial that anything had gone wrong. They all showed uninterrupted identical data: speeds, times, orientation in space, a continuous functioning of the UHF tracking signal—no break whatsoever in any of the life-support systems.

  A capsule, moving at speed, does not suddenly cease sending and disappear from every tracking station on earth and just as suddenly reappear — all unknown to its occupant —without good and sound reason. A persistent and patient survey of all the telemetered data finally disclosed that the capsule had undergone an intense "storm" of highly-charged subatomic particles—of what sort, unknown. A storm of this magnitude must have existed as a long band stretching between the moon and earth.

  Furthermore, the capsule had apparently drifted within this enormous ribbon of high-intensity magnetic forces for the exact length of time the capsule had disappeared from the tracking scopes, dropping out of it six hours later.

  It was thought that radar beams and radio signals must have simply been "bent" around this field and, instead of bouncing back to disclose a blip, would have gone on uninterrupted, thereby causing the observers to believe that the capsule was not there.

  A field of this intensity would also, of course, cause instantaneous stoppage of all electrical instruments — including that most sensitive electrical instrument of all, Davenport's brain.

  This somewhat tenuous theory is now the officially accepted explanation of the dramatic disappearance and reappearance of America's first successful manned orbit of the moon.

  However, it was an alert film technician, Harry Wyckoff, who discovered the curious discrepancy which led to my being called into the case. As you know, within the manned capsule, and focused so as to cover the entire capsule interior, there is a spring-operated, high-speed microminiature camera, geared to take films at certain intervals in order to record the various body positions the astronaut might assume under zero gravity conditions.

  In developing this film, Wyckoff noted what appeared to be a discontinuity in the series of tracks which were placed on the edges of the film as correlating data to be used in conjunction with other instrument readings. These tracks, instead of continuing in even series, terminated with one set of co-ordinates and abruptly started with another, much later, series.

  He ran the tiny film through a magnifier and immediately discovered that there had been a break in the film, a break which had been spliced so expertly as to be unnoticeable to the casual inspection.

  Wyckoff ran the film at an exceedingly slow speed and discovered that four of the tiny frames showed not the bulky figure of Davenport floating in space but, rather, an empty capsule interior. Four frames, just before the splice, which seemed to indicate that for at least a short time Davenport had been absent from the space capsule.

  Obviously this was impossible. A man encased in bulky spacesuit, dependent for his very life on the umbilical cords tying him to his life-support system —such a man does not disengage those cords, breach his sealed hatch and crawl out of a capsule moving through a hard vacuum at speeds of many thousands of miles an hour. And then, after all that, crawl back in, resealing his hatch—a job which must be done by techs from outside —and survive. No, no.

  The only solution appeared the obvious one — there'd been a mix-up. A double exposure, either during camera-loading or after the camera had been off-loaded. But both jobs had been done by Wyckoff. That film had been whole and unspliced prior to blast-off. It looked very much as if someone had edited that film and missed those last four frames. But how? And—why? He shrugged it off; the whole shot had been a weirdy. Nevertheless, he did mention it to Colonel Friend, project co-ordinator, a deeply worried man at the moment.

  Colonel Friend viewed the film in slow motion, stopping the camera on the four views of the empty capsule interior. Several of the "umbilical cords," wires that led to Davenport's body, were plainly visible, hanging loose, floating in the zero gravity of outer space.

  It was then the colonel requested that Davenport be questioned under hypnosis in an attempt to discover what really had occurred, two hundred thousand miles from earth, during those six hours of silence.

  Colonel Friend's request was channeled through Rand Corporation, the Air Force's research and development facility at Santa Monica, and through Rand (and your good offices, Jim) I was contacted and asked to perform the deep hypnosis and subsequent questioning of Davenport.

  At first glance Captain Paul Davenport didn't appear a promising subject for hypnosis. About five feet ten inches tall, alert green eyes, he moved with the poise of a fine athlete.

  He hadn't been told the reason for this hypnosis attempt — only that it was hoped he'd have made some subconscious observations during his six-hour blackout which might reveal themselves under hypnosis; observations which could be of inestimable value to the astronauts to follow.

  I was surprised at the ease with which he slipped into a light trance. It seemed to indicate that he'd undergone prior hypnosis, though I'd been told he never had. A person once hypnotized achieves initial trance rather quickly.

  Davenport lay back on the couch, concentrating intently on the whirling spiral disk I held before him, and within a few minutes he was in the very deepest trance known as "somnambule." In this state Davenport would actually relive and re-enact any incident in his past at my bidding.

  I told Davenport he was back in the space capsule, preparing for final countdown. Immediately he stretched out on the couch in the reclining position he assumed within the capsule. In a conversational tone I then read the long list of items to be checked off by an astronaut about to ride a spaceship into deep space.

  And quickly, eyes blank and indrawn, Davenport reached here, there, above him and to the side, making twisting motions, snapping imaginary switches, turning dials, reading instruments off to me, reliving, totally, the last moments prior to launch.

  "Fire!"

  At the moment of blast-off he sank down into the couch, jaw slack, eyes receding deeper and deeper into his head. He actually flattened under the force of his relived gravity pull of the Saturn's million and a half pounds of thrust. He grimaced, groaning slightly, holding his abdomen.

  "What is it, Davenport?"

  "Pain. Pressure hurts here." He touched his right abdomen.

  Finally, the g-pull eased; he
resumed his normal reclining position, eyes flicking from one imaginary instrument to another, speaking coolly, a look of growing elation on his face. Suddenly a wide grin split his face. "A-okay," he murmured. "Booster separated on course, on altitude." He listened to an unheard voice, nodding. "It looks good."

  "Captain Davenport — Paul," I said quietly, "what's happening?"

  Instantly the elation dropped from his voice, and in the flat tones of the submerged personality he said, "In synergic ascent above the tip of Africa and heading for the hole. Altitude —"

  I snapped my finger softly, and he ceased speaking. "This is thirty-five hours later," I told him. "You have transited the far side of the moon; have released the second flare. The earth is coming into view again. What's happening now?"

  Again he assumed the alert position, checking his nonexistent instruments. "Full thrust," he said crisply. He peered ahead, and grinned. "Hello, you blue, beautiful old —." He froze, staring into space ahead of him, a surprised look on his face.

  "What's happening?" I said quickly.

  "Gravity," he murmured. "I — I'm feeling gravity, and there's been an interruption from Sunnyvale monitoring station—" He stared before him, blinked hard, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "No," he said. "No!"

  "What do you see, Davenport?" I snapped.

  "It's a — a ship. Dead ahead. As though I'm tailing it. And now—" He punched savagely at something in front of him.

  "Engine," he gasped. "Burping."

  He waited, a look of helplessness on his face. "It's cut out," he muttered, still staring ahead, as though through the capsule window. "The engine's not firing. I'm moving up on it." His eyes bulged. "There's a hatch opening — and—I'm going into it. The spaceship;— I'm inside it!"

  He waited, rigid, then slowly his head swiveled to one side. "Don't open that hatch!" He was trying to roar, but it came out a faint, breathless shout. He watched in horror as something —the hatch apparently—was dropped out of the capsule. He closed his eyes, then snapped them open again. He suddenly lashed out, slowly, awkwardly, as though retarded by a clumsy spacesuit. "Stay away— My oxygen!"

  He stiffened for a moment, as though having difficulty breathing; then slowly he took a tentative breath, then another. Surprised, he breathed deeply. "Air," he said. "There's air on this."

  "Where are you, Davenport?" I asked softly.

  "Big spaceship," he said. "Like a small hangar. Empty? No — those are people?" This last questioningly.

  "Describe them," I said sharply.

  He shook his head. Squinting his eyes as though peering beyond a brilliant light. He put a hand up to shade his eyes. "Can't see a thing. Blurred." Suddenly he lifted both elbows as though fighting something off. He flailed ineffectively.

  I snapped my finger and abruptly he was quiet. 'What's happening, Captain?"

  "Taking me out of the capsule — " He stopped, staring, amazement on his face. "We're moving up on another ship— " His voice dropped, became awestruck. "My God! This is a spaceship?" His head moved slowly from side to side, as though surveying a great bulk. "This thing is bigger by far than the Forrestal. It's like a mountain of metal. We're going into it. It's immense. Immense. What sort of power do they use? Why doesn't it register on our trackers? A thing this size, no matter how distant — stop!" He lashed out, slowly, dreamily, like a man moving under water.

  He closed his eyes, shuddering slightly. "God! Don't touch me. Don't." He shrank away; then he lashed out, swinging his big fists violently. Gradually he relaxed, arms down.

  "What's happening, Paul?"

  "They're talking to me. Soothingly. Quietly. One of them — " his face wrinkled in disgust. "He's patting me on the head like I'm a scared dog or something. An infant."

  "He's patting you? Then you can see them? Describe them."

  He shook his head, his limbs moving slowly. Walking motions. "I can't see them," he mumbled.

  "Try, Davenport. Look at them closely. Closely. You can see them perfectly, can't you?"

  "No," he whispered, after a moment's intense straining. "No. I can see everything else. This wall. Metal. Warm. And this room — low table, bright lights, like a lab, maybe? Wall with a big chart or graph on it. But not them. I can't see them." He squinted painfully. "Blur. Just a blur."

  He thrashed about again, making those same slow-motion fighting actions. He grunted, sweat pouring off his face.

  "What's happening, Paul?"

  "Taking off my suit. My clothes. Tape. Naked." The perspiration vanished, and suddenly he shivered, teeth clicking. "Man, it's colder than hell now. Naked. Standing alongside —" A puzzled frown on his face, and then the clearance of sudden recognition. "Like a police line-up," he muttered, scowling. "There's a chart or outline hanging on the wall. I'm standing next to it. Light coming through it. Smell of electricity—ozone." He remained rigid, arms at his side. Then, reluctantly, his arms spread out, his fingers apart. He opened his legs. He scowled.

  "Some sort of fluoroscope. They're measuring me, taking pictures of my insides."

  "Who are they?" I snapped my fingers. "Paul. Listen. I want you to see them. Look right at them. Look at them"

  He half sat up, peering as though through blinding lights. "Nothing," he said softly. "Can't see them. Just a blur."

  "All right. You're up against a screen. You feel that it's a fluoroscope of some sort — an X-ray machine. Go on."

  He shivered again, goose flesh popping out all over his arms. "Counting my ribs," he said. "Toes, fingers, teeth. What is this — hey!"

  He went on, describing in great detail what appeared to be a very thorough physical examination. Nothing external, apparently, was left unnoticed. He described the feeling of a viscous, slimy substance which hardened over him. At this point his body assumed a slowly stiffening position.

  "What do you feel now, Captain?"

  His voice was choking, panicky. "It's like a tight pressure suit," he gasped. "Tight. Tighter. I can't breathe." He went rigid, arms down at his sides, fingers extended, toes stretched out, chin back. He remained that way for long seconds, and then he relaxed, took a deep breath.

  "Paul? What's happening?"

  "Ah, feels good. Thought I'd had it." He winced slightly. "Peeling it off. I'll be — " He got up on an elbow and stared. "It's me—a mold of me. Split in half. It looks like ... a mummy case. Soft material, a little like foam rubber. A mold of my body." His muscles bulged again, and he made frantic flailing motions.

  "What is it?"

  "It's an operating room," he said, and his voice was flat, dead, filled with suppressed terror. "They're putting me on a table. No!" He half rose, mouth wide open in a scream.

  I snapped my finger, and he subsided, looking up at the ceiling, eyes wide, staring.

  "Tell me, Paul. What's happening now?"

  "Something — They're putting something on my temples. Wires. Electricity again."

  I watched him intently. Suddenly on each side of his head the hairs stood straight out; the skin over the temples became completely white, bloodless.

  He went limp, and his arms lay at his sides, unresisting, palms out, fingers curled slightly. He was apparently in a deep, electrically-induced coma. He breathed slowly, evenly. I took his pulse. It had dropped to nearly a quarter of normal. His temperature was also way down. He remained, unmoving, looking at the ceiling, but I noticed a curious horripilation, a spasmodic shudder of his stomach muscles, and on impulse I opened his shirt.

  I stared. A fine red line ran from his breastbone down to his lower abdomen. Even as I watched, the vivid red streak faded until it became a thin white scar line that might have been only a creased imprint from the couch. And in a moment even that vanished; nothing remained but matted hair.

  Gradually his pulse and heartbeat returned to normal. He began breathing heavily again. Eventually, he opened his eyes, and I saw the pupils expand, then begin a slow circling movement, exactly as they'd done when I'd been putting him in trance.


  "Davenport," I said sharply. "Quick! What's happening?"

  "They are telling me — " his voice seemed dragged from deep within. "When I return to flight, I will not remember. I—will—not—remember." He nodded agreement.

  I snapped my finger. He relaxed. "What's going on now?"

  He came up on one elbow, then swung off the couch, a look of pleased surprise on his face. "My spacesuit. My clothes. They're trying to dress me. Okay, okay." He made irritable brushing motions. "I can get the damned things on."

  He put his hands up over his head and made careful wriggling motions, as though slipping into a tight-fitting suit. He adjusted various clips and snaps and finally reached up and guided something down over his head and onto his shoulders, obviously his hel met. "Careful," and he nodded again. "That's good. That does it."

  "Paul?" I said questioningly.

  "They're taking me back. There's the capsule."

  "Where are you now?"

  He craned his head around, slowly, awkwardly, as though fully encased in space gear. "Looks like the hangar deck of an aircraft carrier," he murmured, "if there could be a carrier this big, that is. Gad! It looks like the runway at Patrick. Miles long." He made curious twisting contortions.

  "What's going on now, Paul?"

  "Back in the capsule," he said, his voice straining as he grunted and adjusted himself. He glanced around. "One thing, they know the manual as well as anyone."

  He sucked in a breath and sank down onto the couch, seeming to flatten as he did so. He remained that way for a long moment, his cheeks sunken, eyes receded, and slowly, slowly, his features began to fill out again, his breathing became regular, and he opened his eyes. Instantly a grin came on his face, and he said, "Hello, you blue, beautiful old earth."

  "Paul," I said, "where are you?"

  He looked at me, then quickly glanced beyond, as though still staring at a far-distant, but rapidly approaching, earth. "In the can heading for home," he said matter-of-factly. "Sixty hours to re-entry."

  "How about the big spaceship?" I said. "The operating room?"

  He flicked switches and exarnined dials. "I don't follow you at all, friend," he said impatiently.