Gallifa kept close to the shacks in a futile effort to protect himself from the rain, which was really driving now. A single light burned in the Administration Building, but the rest of the compound was dark and quiet.
He skirted the deserted equipment building and paused for an instant in the lee of a truck to light his pipe. There was a loud tinkle of glass, and the windshield on the vehicle magically spouted a hole.
Gallifa ducked instinctively and only just in time. The windshield spouted a second hole—and then a third. A faint, bluish flash located his attacker. It was uncomfortably close.
Gallifa lashed out, and fell over a crouching figure. In a moment the two men were thrashing in the mud. The unseen attacker was strong and he fought like a maniac. But Gallifa was even stronger and his determined anger quickly gave him the advantage. He wrested the pellet gun from the other's grasp, and brought the butt down hard—brought it down twice. The man slumped, and was still.
Gallifa snapped on his wrist torch and played the tiny, luminous glow over the sprawled figure. The man who had tried to kill him was Cummings. Gallifa numbly wiped the mud from his pipe and lit it with a flickering lighter. The flame made a weird, cameo-like oval of his gaunt face, with the olive-toned skin of his ancestry stretched tightly across the high cheekbones.
Why? Bradshaw ... Samuels ... Cummings ...
A pattern was forming. And it was forming with a viciousness and a regularity which left little doubt as to the probable outcome.
Did that pattern embrace the space ship with its ring of rain-washed skeletons? Had they disintegrated under a pressure as relentless as the swiftly-tightening jaws of a vise. Something was forcing normal men into homicidal insanity. But what?
Gallifa didn't know. But he did know that someone had better come up with some answers—intelligent ones, and very much to the point. Or was it already too late? Was the compound already infected—with each man only waiting to be struck down?
Gallifa draped the limp body of Cummings over his shoulder, and sloshed his way back to the hospital. The doctor grimly made room in the ward room for the new patient. While he was treating the gash in Gallifa's cheek, MacFarland, Hawkins, and some of the early-rising camp cooks brought in two more men from the weather group.
Gallifa watched in tight-lipped silence as the corpsmen administered hypos and set the new cots end to end in the already overcrowded sickbay.
"There were only two restraint jackets," Dr. Thorndyke said jerkily. "We'll have to secure the rest of them to the bunks."
MacFarland nodded. When he spoke, his voice was low and strained. "This is getting out of hand. I think we'd better get everybody over to the Administration Building as soon as possible."
"All right," Gallifa said quietly. "Only—"
"Only what?" MacFarland asked sharply.
"What if everybody in camp isn't available," Gallifa said flatly. He opened the door and stepped into the rain.
The Administration Building was hot. The windows were steamed over, and the men nearest to them had wiped clear spots with their hands, as if they could not bear the thought of not being able to peer out into the night.
The room buzzed with a kind of orderly confusion. The men were scared and they made no effort to conceal it. Gallifa studied a slip of paper covered with tally marks, and then quickly stuffed it into his pocket.
Ten men were now missing, not counting the ones already in the hospital. They couldn't be accounted for, so it had to be assumed they were either sick—or dead.
It had been decided that Gallifa and Dr. Thorndyke were the best qualified to take charge of the camp, until normality returned. Gallifa studied the men carefully.
"We haven't much to go on," he said with grim candor. "We're still in the dark as to what is happening. We only know that when it takes place, it happens damn fast—and without discrimination. Men have been affected both in and out of camp.
"So far, here are the facts. To the best of our knowledge none of the men have been bitten by animals and we haven't found any poisonous plants. Dr. Thorndyke is considering the possibility that some unknown virus which affects the brain may be responsible. He's over in the laboratory running tests now. If it is a virus, grouping together like this might be a mistake. We'll load everybody up with antibiotics and hope for the best. We've got to lick this!"
"Until now," Gallifa continued grimly, "no one has been hurt except the stricken men. We want to keep it that way. One fact stands out bluntly. All of the men have been damned anti-social. They want to be left alone, and will attempt to kill anyone who gets close to them. That should make them easy to spot. If we are to have a chance to cure them, we have to catch them first."
"We are going to have to consider the likelihood that more of us will be affected. We must do everything within our power to isolate those suspiciously-acting persons. Probably the ship Mac and I discovered didn't have the warning I am giving to you now. We can lick this thing if we're determined enough. The main thing is not to lose your head. Watch your neighbor, but don't jump to conclusions. Be sure before you act."
There was a stir and Gallifa paused. The doctor pushed his way through the men to the front of the room. His face was white and haggard.
"What about the tests?" Gallifa asked.
"There aren't going to be any tests," Dr. Thorndyke replied grimly. "At least not on the men in the hospital. They are all dead."
"What happened?" Gallifa urged, his eyes wide with shock.
Everyone was very quiet.
The doctor wiped his hand across his forehead. "Nolan was on duty in the wardroom. He went out for a smoke. I heard him go out. I didn't hear him come back. I was setting up some new equipment. When I finally went back to the ward Nolan must have caught—whatever it is. He was gone, and he'd slit every man's throat with a scalpel."
Gallifa faced the assemblage. "We're going to inoculate everyone here. As soon as we're through, I want each team to go to their own shacks and stay there. If you have to go somewhere, go in pairs. If you see anyone wandering around by himself, no matter who he is, bang him over the head with something and bring him over to the hospital. Otherwise, stay put."
The men received their shots in an uncomfortable silence and disappeared into the night. Gallifa, MacFarland, and Dr. Thorndyke remained in the Administration room.
"Any idea what it is, doc?" MacFarland asked huskily.
"I hardly had time to take care of the patients," Dr. Thorndyke replied bitterly. "Did you honestly expect me to find out what was wrong with them in a few short hours?"
"But—" Gallifa began.
MacFarland suddenly started, and leapt to his feet. The doctor moved away, his face paling.
"What's the matter?" Gallifa asked, alarmed.
"Don't be so old womanish," MacFarland snapped. "I'm not catching it. I just thought of something. Cummings had a gun. Where did he get it?"
"The storeroom!" Gallifa exclaimed. "I'd forgotten we had weapons and ammo in the storeroom! If things got bad enough, we could wipe ourselves out. We'd better check."
"I'm going back to the hospital," Dr. Thorndyke said bluntly. "I'm going to lock the door. If anyone comes banging around he damn well had better know who he is and talk intelligently—or I'll slice him from his wishbone to his crotch." He stalked out.
Gallifa stared blankly after Dr. Thorndyke. It was funny hearing him talk this way. He had always thought of the doc as being rather mild-mannered. Damned flexible, humans!