Island of Fear Read online

  Obviously the experience, and it was a valid one, was over. He'd been put into flight once again and all memory of the past six hours obliterated at the conscious level. I snapped my finger. "When I count three, Captain Davenport," I said slowly and distin ctly, "you will come back, with no memory of anything you have said here. One, two, three—"

  He sat perfectly still, then he said, "All over?" I nodded, and he said, "Funny. I don't remember any of it."

  "There's nothing to remember, Captain," I told him.

  Afterward I compared notes with Colonel Friend. I asked him if Davenport had undergone a fluoroscopic examination after the space flight. Friend shook his head.

  "I'd like a complete gastro-intestinal series," I said. "As soon as possible."

  "But why the G.I. series?" he asked. "Has Davenport complained of anything?"

  "No, he hasn't," I said. "And that's just the point — he should have."

  The series was made. Davenport was given the usual dosage of chemicals which are used to make the internal organs visible to X rays. Under the fluoroscope two very strange things were noted: From breastbone to lower abdomen a long thin line glowed noticeably. Also, in the cecum—the first portion of the large intestine located in the lower right part of the abdomen—the entire area glowed with the same pulsant light.

  Davenport's medical records show that he has never had an appendectomy — or surgery of any kind, in fact.

  Close interrogation elicited the admission from Davenport that just after his having been selected to take the "big ride" (as he puts the moon shot) he had felt some nasty pains and a slight rigidity of the right lower quadrant of his abdomen. In other words, he'd been exhibiting definite symptoms of appendicitis. He attributed the pains, however, to nervous excitement.

  He admitted that the pain was quite bad directly after the rocket lifted; the strain of the heavy g-pull pressing down on his abdomen undoubtedly would have aggravated this condition. But he says that after he'd orbited the moon and come in sight of the earth again, the pain vanished.

  An exploratory operation was performed on Davenport in order to ascertain the source of the strange glow within his body cavity, and it was then we discovered that Davenport's appendix had been expertly removed —and apparently quite recently. Fresh pink tissue covers the incised area.

  But odder still, there is a long row of regular geometrical figures or designs, triangles, loops, dots and dashes, outlined in pale blue on the cecum, just above where the appendix had been. I would say it is a tattoo in inert, ineradicable ink.

  The source of the glow has been unidentified to date, but I feel certain it is the residual effect of some radioactive process used to regenerate tissues, to heal incisions instantaneously.

  Some very faint scar tissue did remain inside, however, enough to show beyond doubt that Davenport's abdomen had been opened at one time.

  My conclusions are these: Davenport actually underwent the traumatic experience he so vividly relived for me.

  By some beings, species unknown (attracted by the flares?), the space capsule was snagged in mid-flight and taken aboard a huge spaceship of some kind, obviously equipped with radar-deflection devices, as well as the powerful subatomic forcefields which completely stopped all instruments (but not the spring-operated camera as they discovered, necessitating editing the film).

  This ship, doubtless a scout, then transferred Davenport to an immensely greater "mother" ship, and there Davenport was subjected to a thorough physiological examination, complete to having a mold made of his body.

  In the course of internal examination (the opening undoubtedly made with an instrument operating on the principle of the electron scalpel which makes a microscopically thin incision) Davenport's diseased appendix was discovered and removed and the queer "tattoo" placed on the conveniently broad cecum.

  He was then closed up and the incision treated by some process which virtually instantaneously regenerated the tissues. Davenport was revived, put into a deep trance, given a post-hypnotic command to forget everything that had occurred since his capture, then placed back into the capsule and put into flight at the precise spot his schedule called for.

  His inability to describe his captors seems to have been due to some brilliant emanation that came from them, making it impossible for him to look directly at them without a blurring of his vision. When I ordered him to look at them, he peered painfully, as into some intolerably dazzling light.

  One last conclusion I offer gratuitously:

  Zoologists, and other interested individuals concerned with the study of many types of wildlife, follow the practice of capturing a selected few of whatever particular animal is under study, attaching small harmless identifying tags to them and then releasing them.

  These tags, along with specific coded information, usually contain a request to whomsoever might later capture the tagged animal to return the tag, along with pertinent data such as date of capture, location, size and weight of the animal, etc.

  In this way growth patterns, migratory habits, longevity and other technical data are gradually amassed concerning the particular species under study. Such tagged animals are known as "controls."

  Do you follow me? It would appear from Davenport's queer tattoo that he was seized in mid-flight, swiftly and expertly examined — inside and out— tagged and then released.

  By whom — and for what purpose—remains to be seen.

  Sincerely,

  Amos Fineman, M.D.

  A Distant Shrine

  I cannot prove what I am about to tell you. I only know that much of what Kurt Von Seigert told me that predawn day in Moscow has been verified by our own intelligence sources. There has been a rumor that Von Seigert vanished from Lubyanka prison, in Moscow, under mysterious circumstances; his family is known to be in North America, under heavy guard at all times. There is increased activity among American missile men, with a curious corresponding decrease in Russian missile activity.

  I do have certain photographs; one an aerial photograph showing a modest little village beneath a disquieting blue-black sky, a village of red stone houses, half-timbered, of an oddly medieval appearance. And another photograph, this one of a strange metallic object, somewhat saucer-shaped, crumpled, but recognizable as a very large artifact of quite advanced design—this lying on a low base of reddish rough sandstone blocks, with deep, barely distinguishable letters cut into it and running about the base out of sight. All this within an apparently huge but crude building, with fierce sunlight streaming down from slitted embrasures high above. And I have a third photograph of this crude building's doorway.

  All very odd.

  I also know from my scientific sources (I am a minor U.S. Embassy official in Moscow, with certain other duties not usually mentioned) that an unprecedented pall of radioactive material is orbiting the earth at a considerable height above the atmosphere (1,025 miles, to be exact) as though a thermonuclear device had been detonated, something on the order of five megatons or so.

  That and what I know about Von Seigert:

  I was awakened one freezing, dark predawn by a continuous but soft knocking on my door. I hesitated. After all, American Embassy officials in Russia have been known to disappear. But after a few moments, I shrugged and padded barefooted to the door,-drawing the latch. Instantly the door flew open, and a short, slim man popped in and shut the door behind him, one finger on his lips for silence. I stared at him, astonished, and then I recognized him. It was Kurt Von Seigert, but not the Von Seigert I'd known when, after the collapse of Germany during World War Two, I'd tried to persuade him to join the other rocket experts who were coming to the West. That Von Seigert was husky, shrewd-eyed, secure in the knowledge that his genius would assure a comfortable living wherever he sold his services. He'd gone to Russia.

  But this Von Seigert was shrunken, thin, his face so darkly tanned as to be nearly black. His eyes glowed with the familiar sharp intelligence; there was even the same faint arrogance there.
And something else.

  "Listen," he said sharply, "only listen. I have no time for arguments. Listen, and remember. I was a fool not to have gone to America —I know that now. But—" he made a typical gesture. I fumbled for cigarettes, lighting them, staring at him. He was even more incredibly sun-tanned in the light of the match.

  He stood before me, and even (I know now) with the possibility of imminent death hanging over his head, he couldn't help a faint grin as he said, "Last night I returned from the planet Mars."

  I gaped at him, and he nodded seriously. "So now, either one of two things will occur, the first directly dependent upon the failure of the second to happen." He held up two fingers. "A: The Russians will claim possession of the planet Mars by right of exploration and show video tapes, quite excellent ones, and complete —or nearly complete—aerial photographic maps of the entire globe, as well as photos of Lenin I, a nuclear-powered spaceship I personally designed and built— " He waved me off as I grabbed his arm.

  "To continue with A" he went on, his voice calm and unhurried, "they will go on to say that Mars is uninhabited, but a fertile, mineral-rich planet which they claim wholly and in toto. And they'll express regret that upon his return from that historic flight one of the members of the four-man expedition—Kurt Von Seigert—became insane and fled from Russia. That his journey through space has caused his complete mental collapse, and he is dangerous, both to himself and others and should be immediately returned to Russia for 'hospitalization'." He paused; his faint grin widened. "Or—" He stopped.

  "Or — ?" I said, intensely curious, the biting cold forgotten. I knew this man. I knew how desperately his services.had been wanted by the West, how badly he'd harmed our prestige time and again by his series of brilliant rocket advances made in the name of the dark god communism.

  "Or B" —his voice dropped and became regretful — "there will be an explosion on the order of five megatons about one thousand and twenty-five miles above the earth" —he glanced at his watch—"in about four hours from now. In which event the Russians will say absolutely nothing about Mars or the Lenin I —their proof will have been vaporized. And my life will then be worth even less than it is at this moment; they know of what value I can be to the West."

  I stared at him. His eyes held mine, keen, unwavering, definitely sane. He took a small plastic pouch from his pocket and opened it. "Here are some photographs in color I managed to salvage," he said. "In the event A happens, you must somehow manage to convey to the United Nations, indeed to all civilized people of good intentions throughout the world, that Russia has no claim on Mars because Mars is inhabited; that it has a civilization— backward in most respects but flourishing—and that this civilization came from earth nearly seven hundred years ago."

  I reached numbly for the little packet of pictures, but he held them away, his face intent, his eyes piercing in his near-black face. "Above all," he said solemnly, "Russia must not be permitted to return to Mars without supervision. It is their intention, using my Lenin I, to destroy those brave, struggling villages that dot that lonely planet. I repeat— Mars is inhabited and by children of Earth. Mars belongs to them by prior right of colonization no matter how accidental it might have been."

  "Accidental?" I caught him as he sprang toward the window, peered out, then quickly returned. "What is this, Von Seigert?" He rubbed his eyes, sat down on my bed and began to talk.

  The Lenin I, Von Seigert told me, was a nuclear-powered spaceship built in total secrecy far above the Earth. Generating a thrust of some ten-million pounds, continuously —it was designed to operate only in outer space; the exhaust from its engines was highly lethal in an atmosphere. It carried a large payload: besides the four-man crew there were a small two-man hypersonic glider for atmospheric flights, several monoatomic ramjets—scout and survey ships, each equipped with sub-miniaturized TV and audio equipment, as well as wide-angle precision cameras. There were also several tiny robot tanks for geological survey work.

  But the Lenin I's most precious cargo by far was the hundreds of spools of extremely sensitive electronic tapes and fine-grained film— all packed carefully into heavy lead-lined boxes vitally necessary to deflect the damaging impact of the high-energy radiation encountered in space flight.

  The pictures these tapes and films were meant to record, of course, would be Russia's sole proof of the success of the expedition. A powerful rocket glider, designed and built by Von Seigert and manned by a crack crew, would be waiting on a launching pad in Russia, waiting to go into orbit alongside the Lenin I upon its successful return from Mars, specifically to take off this precious load of tapes and film for re-entry and landing on Earth.

  Operating on an exceedingly tight schedule, the Lenin I had completed the flight to Mars in a little over forty-four days, a bit behind schedule. The intention had not been to land men at all on this flight but merely to map the globe, pick up samples of minerals, etc., by means of the remote-controlled robots and, finally, to return to Earth after two days of orbiting Mars. A very tight schedule made necessary by the steady accretion of ash on the fuel rods in the nuclear engines.

  The first results of the aerial survey exceeded their wildest hopes. The planet had an atmosphere, thin but emimently breathable. While the Lenin I orbited above this atmosphere, they launched their mono-atomic survey ships, unique gold-catalyst ram-jets which operated by recombining "stripped" nitrogen atoms in the upper atmosphere, thereby gaining thrust and unlimited fuel.

  The first few passes showed that Mars was a rich prize indeed, far from the barren, airless planet the astronomers pictured. Near the poles were great belts of trees, forests in all stages of growth, with pleasant streams meandering through broad meadows. Further down the globe were huge rolling prairies, covered with rippling vegetation resembling grain. There were immense areas near the equator that were bare bleak deserts of sandstone and reddish sand. But mainly, the planet was fertile.

  On the fourth pass over a vast desert area, one of the ram-jets showed a picture of something that looked too square and regular to be a mere outcropping of rock. The picture was zoomed up, and the men in the Lenin I cried aloud. It was a building, large and square, with curiously familiar towers and flying buttresses about it. And surrounding the building, they observed under extreme magnification, were upright stones, laid out in ordered precision. About the building were walks and meager decorations, also orderly in appearance.

  All in all it looked remarkably like a graveyard about a church. A medieval church, long abandoned. Desolate.

  It was decided to land at once, using the hypersonic glider. In Mars reduced gravity it would be possible to return to the Lenin Is orbit even with the comparatively feeble thrust the small glider possessed. Because he was the smallest, Von Seigert was one of the two chosen to go. The expedition commander, Evekoff, remained on the Lenin I. The men wore spacesuits with direct communication and no switch-offs.

  The landing was fast but uneventful. When they approached the great sandstone edifice, sharp and clear in the dry, dry air, Von Seigert gave a gasp of disbelief. There was a single word and a date chiseled above the doorway — in writing he understood. And on each side of the word-— -a frieze depicting an unmistakable animal, the most common creature on Earth.

  Inside they paused, staring. The building was a shrine, a shrine covering a crumpled, battered, metallic object, perhaps three hundred feet in diameter, that even then, pitted with ancient rust, disintegrating slowly under what must have been the impact of many hundreds of years of time's slow passage, was obviously a spaceship of incredibly advanced design.

  A spaceship.

  "What is it?" Evekoffs harsh Russian jarred in Von Seigerfs ears. Calmly, as quickly as he could, Von Seigert told what he was seeing, while his companion recorded it all with a minature TV transistorized camera. And from the Lenin I came the muffled gasps of surprise. It was all going into the tapes, he knew.

  But one thing didn't go into the tapes — the crudely letter
ed words, carved deeply into the rough, red sandstone base which supported the shattered remains of the spaceship. The camera recorded the words on electronic tape but only their image. Von Seigert stood for long moments, puzzling over the inscriptions, reading the archaic language with difficulty, but reading it. To himself.

  They walked about the silent, empty shrine, their footfalls causing tiny tinkling sounds as bits of the spaceship fell to the ground under their tread. Outside there were names chiseled on all the many upthrust stone monuments. Names with a familiar ring to Von Seigert, in writing he understood. He looked again at the animals carved above the door and the name chiseled there, and suddenly he shook with silent laughter. Incredible, but it was all in the books. A matter of record for all who chose to delve deeply enough—and put the pieces together.

  They stopped, peering about. As far as they could see stretched the barren desert of middle Mars. Nothing moved. Above, the dazzling sky arched overhead, blue, deep, dark blue, approaching black. But empty. Empty.

  He stared once again at that enigmatic building. At that one word, that date and those identical animals. His mind whirled back through the centuries, imagining their fear, their total terror. Those who had survived the crash of that ship within this building, being young, little by little had regained their courage. Perhaps even he—the pilot— perhaps he had survived long enough to give them some of his great knowledge. Perhaps not. In any event they'd survived; they'd build this edifice in memory of their friends, their home—and that animal which had led to their tragedy. Was it possible, after all these centuries, that some of them, their descendants, still survived?

  Through his earphones he heard some rapid talk from Evekoff and an inarticulate cry from the navigator still aboard. Then the distinct words: "My god —look! A town! Houses! People!" After that, a harsh word from Evekoff and stillness. Then the order, "Return to the ship."