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.

He drew Jennifer inside, closed and locked the door.

"Look through the desk," he commanded. He went to the closed door, opened it, revealing a closet.

"Look," he said. "What's this?"

Jennifer glanced up from the desk. Norman had pulled out a single piece garment with shoes, gloves and helmet attached like a diver's suit. It was made of a very sheer translucent material resembling oiled silk. A zipper-like fastener ran up the back. The suit was pale green, even the eye pieces being the same color.

Jennifer shook her head. "I never saw anything like it before. It isn't heavy enough for a space suit. What do you suppose it could be?"

Norman shrugged, put it back on the rack. He went through the pockets of the remaining clothes, found exactly nothing. From the closet, he turned to the built-in dresser. Again his search was fruitless.

"Have you found anything, Jennifer?"

The girl shook her head. "Not a thing. Except papers from the Venusian Export Lines. He seems to be an accredited agent of theirs after all."

"Let's get out of here," said Norman uneasily.

Jennifer clutched his arm. "Listen!"

He heard the grate of a key in the lock. He and the girl looked at each other in consternation.

"Quick," said Norman, struck by an inspiration. He embraced Jennifer clumsily. "Put your arms around me! Hurry! Now kiss me!"

Bewildered but obedient, she held up her lips. Norman kissed her. He held it until a discreet cough behind them caused them to spring apart guiltily.

Mr. Vermeer was regarding them from the open door, his black eyes sardonic. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but you've got the wrong cabin."

"I know it," said Jennifer in confusion. "My stateroom's next door. Silly mistake, isn't it?"

"Sorry, Vermeer," apologized Norman hastily. "Come on, Jennifer." He led the girl into the corridor. Vermeer closed and locked the door after them.

Jennifer unlocked her cabin, said, "Come in."

Norman limply followed her inside, collapsed on a chair.

"You were wonderful," she cried. "I never would have thought of that. It explained everything, even our confusion."

He began to feel rather proud of himself. He glanced about the girl's room. It was similar to Vermeer's except that it was not so tidy. Gauzy white undergarments of finest spun microweb lay on the chairs. He recognized a tiny vial of Venusian perfume on the dresser surrounded by a litter of brushes, mirrors, combs. There was a picture of a tall elderly man in a uniform.

"That's papa," exclaimed Jennifer.

"I wish I knew what that suit was used for," said Norman thoughtfully. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"You know," said the girl seating herself on the edge of the bed, "you're not like most Earth men. You're not stodgy and patronizing. You're cute."

He felt ridiculously pleased. He was convinced that he'd never met a more intelligent, a more charming, a more beautiful girl than Jennifer Scott. He said, "I've had to revise all my opinions of Outlanders since I met you."

Jennifer laughed, jumped to her feet. Stooping over, she kissed him lightly. "That's for a very pretty compliment. Now let's get back to the dance before I lose all my maidenly modesty."

IV

Beyond the orbit of Mars a tension gripped the passengers of the Jupiter. The killer of the T.I.S. agent remained at large, and the passengers were beginning to regard each other suspiciously. They were now in the zone where the terror operated. The battle ship had edged in closer. Constant radio contact was maintained between the two vessels.

Norman Saint Clair and Jennifer were on the observation deck in the forepeak. The quartzite dome arched flatly overhead. The chill immensity of space crowded all around them, black infinity pricked with a million blazing suns. It was Norman's first visit to the observation deck. Jennifer had brought him up.

"There's Jupiter," she exclaimed pointing to a large bright star dead ahead. Norman gazed at it, fascinated.

The lookout, a lean spaceman, stirred restlessly, then stiffened. Norman followed his gaze, saw three brief pin pricks of light stab out of the void.

"Look!" He clutched Jennifer's shoulder, but she had seen the flashes already.

The lookout grabbed the phone, said, "Observation deck reporting, sir. Three flashes two points on the port bow. Yes sir. Two points on the port bow." He hung up the phone.

Norman and Jennifer exchanged glances.

Jennifer said, "The Comet reported three flashes before she disappeared. It must be a signal?"

Overhead the general alarm rang furiously. A file of Armed Guards poured onto the observation deck, took up their posts. Norman pointed to the battle ship. Its guns were run out like bared fangs.

"Attention!" blared a voice over the public address system. "All passengers return immediately to their staterooms. Attention! All passengers return immediately to their staterooms."

"Come on," urged Norman. "We'd better go below."

"Do you mind if I stay with you?" asked Jennifer.

"Of course not. I wouldn't leave you alone, anyway."

They descended the companionway to their deck, entered Norman's stateroom. Through his port he could still observe the warship pacing them noiselessly.

He padded back and forth across the fiberon carpet. "I wish I had a dart gun, anything. I feel so helpless." He went to the door, opened it a crack, peered out. "Jupiter!" he breathed.

"What is it?" cried Jennifer, starting up from her chair.

"Not so loud," he cautioned. "Come here."

The girl sprang lithely across the deck. On tiptoe, her body pressed against his, she stared over his shoulder through the inch wide crack.

A strange figure stood back to them at the turn in the corridor, a man clad in loose green coveralls with helmet, gloves and boots attached so that no part of his figure was exposed.

"Vermeer!" breathed Jennifer. "He's put on the suit we saw in his closet."

Vermeer remained motionless, half crouched at the end of the hall as if waiting for some signal. A poisoned dart gun was buckled around his waist.

Norman eased the door shut, not allowing it to click, faced Jennifer.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know. But I think we should have reported that suit to the Captain."

Jennifer sank to the edge of the bed. He looked at her, thought again, how striking was the contrast between blue eyes and black hair. He felt dizzy, said, "Jennifer, do you notice anything?"

"I feel faint!" she gasped.

A numbing sensation spread through his limbs. The room tilted crazily, darkened. He cried, "Jennifer!" and fell forward limply on his face. He wondered vaguely, just before consciousness left him, if he were being disintegrated. Then the blackness of infinite space engulfed him.

When Norman Saint Clair returned to consciousness, he was still lying face down on the green fiberon carpet. He groped to his feet, swayed groggily. He glanced at the bed. Jennifer was gone.

Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs, he staggered to the door. It was locked. He was a prisoner in his own room.

Still something was missing, something intangible. Then he heard the silence. It screamed at him. The soft overtones of the motors were dead. The engines had been stopped.

He sprang to his port hole, glanced out. The bulk of the battle ship floated a little above the wounded Jupiter. His eyes opened wide in consternation. Half of the warship appeared to have been sheared off as if by a giant cleaver. Even as he watched she was slowly disintegrating.

Then he made out dozens of figures swarming over the hull like ants. They were men in space suits, he realized, and they were spraying the battle spacer with a film which no sooner solidified than it became invisible, hiding ship and all. A light absorbent matter, he guessed.

The warship was not disintegrating. She was being coated with a film which absorbed all the light rays and so rendered it invisible. That was the answer to the strange disappearance of the Comet and her escort. He looked closer, realized that the invisible stern of the warship was blocking out a patch of stars.

Above the battleship he saw a port open in space and from nowhere a two man tender was launched into the void. It was uncanny. Then he realized he was looking at the ship of the terror, invisible of course. That was how they had approached their prey without being detected. It was one chance in a million that anyone would notice the momentary blotting out of a star.

"Pirates," he thought. The word was archaic. It had almost disappeared from the vocabulary. He shuddered. They must have approached unseen, bathed the two ships in a ray which knocked everyone unconscious. The vaunted warship, the pride of the Empire, had been taken without firing a shot.

Vermeer, he thought. Of course, they would need a man aboard to shut down the engines, bring the Jupiter to a stop so they could board her. Vermeer's odd suit must have protected him from the effects of the paralysis ray.

He crossed to his bunk, sat down. He felt strangely indifferent to his own fate, but Jennifer! He clenched his hands until the nails bit into his palms. What were the beasts doing with Jennifer?

Abruptly the door opened. Norman sprang to his feet, saw a strange figure blocking the entrance.

It was a man dressed from head to foot in black. Black trousers were tucked into black boots. Blouse and helmet, all a somber black. His eyes though, were blue, his face clean shaven. He had a dart gun in his hand.

"Come along." He motioned with the dart gun. "You're wanted above." He stepped back, indicated that Norman should precede him.

They went silently along the corridor, the pirate collecting more men from the staterooms on either side. By the time they reached the companionway he was herding ahead of him quite a number of frightened prisoners.

"What are they going to do with us?" asked a fat man beside Norman.

They had reached the companionway.

"Up!" said their guard.

They mounted the stair, came out into the dining saloon.

A scene of wildest disorder burst upon Norman's shocked gaze. A throng of black clad pirates moved among the passengers who had been routed from all parts of the ship. The missing women, he saw, were huddled in a frightened group at the opposite end of the hall. They had been brought to the saloon in whatever state of undress the ray had caught them; in evening dress, scant undergarments, in gowns and shorts, and one frightened girl, clutching a large bath towel about herself.

The passengers of the captured ship had been brought to the saloon in whatever state of undress the ray had caught them.

Norman was pushed into the group of men. His eyes, though, kept searching for Jennifer. With a sigh of relief, he discovered her at the same time she found him. She waved rather forlornly, and Norman almost dislocated his shoulder waving back.

The fat man said, "Pirates! The effrontery of those rogues. When the Terrestial Navy locates their lair, they'll blast them to atoms."

Norman recognized Dr. Pequod at his elbow. The doctor was clad nattily in the hair on his chest and a flaming pair of shorts.

"It's not so simple as that," the doctor answered the fat man. "You fail to realize the size of the Universe. Nine tenths of it remains unexplored, unmapped. And how will the Terrestial Navy trail an invisible enemy?"

The fat man blew himself up, said, "The resources of the Empire are unlimited."

"Sounds good," agreed the doctor; "but the Empire these days is living on its reputation."

A crowd of the frightened passengers were gathered about the two men.

"And I've a notion," the doctor went on, "that this is more than piracy. The Empire is crumbling. Some faction may be nibbling at its edges, growing strong from its life blood, the trading lines. Has it occurred to you that with every ship lost, the pirates are that much stronger and we that much weaker!"

"Nonsense," retorted the fat man, but his tone had lost conviction.

"Break it up," commanded one of their guards. "Silence!"

The main entrance to the saloon had swung open, admitting the strangest creature that Norman had yet seen. It appeared human, but obviously it was not from any known planet. Short and squat, with yellow wrinkled skin, it looked more like a rutabaga than a man. The pirates snapped to attention.

"Jupiter," breathed Norman. "Is it a man?"

Dr. Pequod scratched the shag on his chest. "Odd specimen. Wonder what corner of the Universe it hails from?"

The creature regarded the prisoners without any expression whatever on its parchment-like face. It was clothed in a harness which gave no clue to its sex. With a scrawny hand it beckoned the renegade Earthman who had been directing the operations, said something in a voice too low for anyone to overhear.

The Earthman nodded, turned to the captives. "Every able bodied man between the ages of nineteen and forty, step out," he shouted. As no one moved, he frowned, said, "In any case your books will be examined and your correct age determined. Get a move on!"

Norman accompanied by perhaps thirty percent of the male passengers advanced into the center of the room.

"That's far enough," advised the creature in a high reedy voice.

They halted uncertainly.

"Gentlemen," said the leader, for such the creature seemed to be; "I am here to offer you a choice of two courses. We are coming into possession of more vessels than we have recruits to man. Consequently, it is our custom to offer all able bodied humans between the ages of nineteen and forty the opportunity to join us. As a further inducement, the new recruits will share equally in the proceeds of this venture with the regular crew." He paused. Not a flicker of expression had marred the creature's face.

Norman Saint Clair's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. A forlorn hope presented itself, if only he had the courage to grasp it.

"Now, gentlemen," the turnip shaped leader continued; "it would only be fair to give you the opposite side of the coin. You are bound to us for life; not by anything so puerile as an oath. In fact you are at liberty to escape any time," he paused, "if you can.

"You will be given good quarters and food. Money for any pleasure or vices you wish to indulge will come as your share of the prizes taken. The alternative, gentlemen, which I mentioned at first, is slavery. We also need men and women to work our factories, maintain our living quarters. The fighting men do not work."

With a faint bow the creature turned on his heel, disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

A low buzz sprang up in the hall as everyone turned to his neighbors, questions tumbling from their lips. The pirates dropped their stiff pose, returned to their duties. The men grouped in the center of the floor shifted uneasily.

Norman bit his lip, frowned. He might be able to protect Jennifer as one of the pirates and eventually escape. He wished he could talk it over with her.

"All right," said the burly renegade. "How many of you are volunteering? Step forward."

Norman Saint Clair stepped out of the group. He did it like a man plunges off a high dive, quickly before his nerve departed. Nine of his fellow passengers straggled beside him.

"Is that all, gentlemen?" inquired the pirate. "This is your last chance. Either piracy or slavery. And let me warn you, slaves don't live an easy life."

Twenty-three more men straggled uncertainly around Norman.

"All right," said the pirate. "The rest of you can return to your fellows. Baldy! Hey, Baldy!"

A second Earth man strolled across the deck. He was short, older than most of the freebooters.

"Take these men aboard the Rocket," the first renegade directed. "You know what to do with them."

Baldy grinned, saluted. "Come along, you buccaneers," he commanded.

Norman caught Jennifer's eyes. She was staring at him in astonishment. He waved, trying to convey reassurance across the space that separated them. Slowly a flush burned up from the girl's throat. With a look of scorn, Jennifer deliberately turned her back.

Norman gaped after her in consternation. He had expected her to realize that he was joining the pirates in order to help her. He certainly had no ambition to go gallivanting through space capturing space ships.

"Hey you," said Baldy, "move along there."

Norman jumped, trailed after the new recruits. He would help the girl in spite of herself. He visualized himself standing off a dozen black clad figures while Jennifer boarded a small space craft. Then he tumbled in beside her, wrenched the controls wide open: "You're wounded," Jennifer cried. "Norman, I didn't understand. Can you forgive me?"

"Hey," growled the man in front. "For God's sake, quit tramping on my heels."

They had arrived at the air lock, he saw with a start. Baldy opened the port, revealing a small space tender. They wedged themselves inside. With the pirate at the controls the craft launched into space, speeding toward a shadow which blocked off half the heavens.

A port snapped open in space dead ahead. Norman blinked his eyes. Although he knew this was the pirate's ship coated with the light absorbent film the sight of an air lock appearing suddenly where nothing had been before was disconcerting. The tender eased into the lock, settled to the deck.

"Here we are, you volunteers," observed Baldy.

They passed from the lock through a corridor into a large square room. Half of the room was railed off. Behind the railing a man in a black uniform sat working at a desk. It reminded Norman of an employment bureau. The rest of the space was filled with benches set in evenly spaced rows.

"Sit down," said Baldy.

The recruits seated themselves nervously.

"You," said Baldy, indicating Norman. "Go up to the desk."

Norman rose, approached the middle aged pirate who sported a spade beard and dark brown eyes.

"Your book," he said.

Norman handed it over.