Kenneth Bulmer (11 page)

"Good
night," said Ramsy. His smile was peculiar; the smile of a man conscious
of wielding power.

"That takes care of number-one engine
room," said Ramsy. "I don't believe this detail to be necessary; but
we can't take the chance that they've installed separate air-circulation
systems for each engine compartment."

The
three men prowled the ship, covering every single separate air system, making
sure that not a cubic inch of
Poseidon's
capacious
interior should be free from the viruses. Ramsy's knowledge was vital; without
him the two scientists, despite their own specialized knowledge, would have
been helpless.

Presendy
it was done. Howland went off to his cabin tired and slept late the following
ship morning.

Then, after a wash, shave, and shower he
dealt firmly with
a
light breakfast and sauntered down to the
swimming pool.

He
felt in need of the sensation of clean sparkling water running freely over his
body.

Dressed
in a pair of green bathing trunks, he stood on the rim of the pool idly looking
at the animated scene where bathers bobbed about, shouting and laughing, throwing
balls and rings, hearing the splash of water, blue in the sparkling pool. Many
girls in scraps of costume dived in, swam, or just posed gracefully on the lido
for effect. He drew in a deep breath, lifted his arms and leaned forward.

A voice, shocked,
incredulous, joyous . . .

"Peter! Good Lord—what
are you doing here?"

He
managed, going forward off-balance, to look sideways. Dressed in a miniscule
diamond-blue costume that emphasized to the full her magnificent figure,
Professor Helen Chase stood staring at him, wide-eyed, flushed, incredibly
lovely.

Then Howland fell in.

CHAPTER NINE

"No
permanent
damage is done to the brain, Peter!"
Professor Randolph was annoyed. He turkey-strutted up and down his suite,
watched by a nervous Willi Haffner and an exasperated Colin Ramsy. Stella had,
Ramsy mumbled, not been around. Sammy Larssen, the electronics wizard, smoked
and said nothing. As for Peter Howland, he didn't know what to say or do about
Helen Chase.

"I
know that," he said at last. "I'd never have agreed to the scheme if I'd
imagined permanent damage could ensue. But Helen knows we're aboard! When the
money is missing, and you buy equipment—"

"Oh,
come now, Peter! A respectable professor of science taking part in a
high-space robbery! Really!"

"If
Willi's viruses do what he claims for 'em," put in Ramsy, "She won't
do a thing. There'll be no proof."

"Precisely." said
Randolph. "No proof."

"I
suppose she's going to this planet of hers to pick up those famous
manuscripts." Howland tried to think straight. "I suppose we might
have guessed, especially when she said she was leaving on the twenty-ninth.
That would give her nice time to catch
Poseidon.
And
she'll be making for Santa Cruz Two—that odd world with its own social system.
They must have the manuscripts there—"

"I
don't care a fig for musty manuscripts." Randolph was not put out over
this sudden unforseen happening. "All I want to do is go to Pochalin Nine
and prove to a doubting galaxy that I can create life. And that is what I am
going to do—financed by the cash aboard this ship."

"I don't quarrel with
that," said Howland slowly.

"You
don't quarrel with it! By all the patron saints of science—isn't that what
we're doing all this for?"

"Yes. Yes, of course.
But I don't want Helen hurt."

"You
and Willi developed the virus from my original work. It won't harm anyone. Now,
let's talk about something more to the point—"

The
door chimes rang and Stella identified herself. She was all smiles and charm
and curves.

"The captain was a
pushover," she reported gleefully.

"How much did you yield?" asked her
husband nastily.

"Now,
ColinI Really, a girl can't do a little work helping along the cause without
her old man getting jealous."

"Well, Mrs.
Ramsy?" asked Randolph coldly.

"The
captain's become quite a buddy. Oh—a little mild flirtation, nothing
serious." She shook one elegant shoulder and her ship-board fur slipped
around her shoulders. It was the fashion. Randolph hadn't spared the expense in
this particular fifth column. "The draw is to be made by little old me!"
Stella radiated a genuine excitement about that, too, and that tiny piece of
humanity in her redeemed much of her womanhood in Howland's eyes. ''It's going
to be a big party and I'm to make the draw and announce the winners."

"Very
good," Randolph said drily. "Of the three thousand people aboard
those unable to be in the grand salon in person will be in smaller lounges all
watching the closed circuit TV. This gambling fever grips every one—just another
sign of our moral decay." His smile was thin and reflective. "Well,
that ties up all the loose ends, then. Well have to signal Terence
immediately—"

"Don't worry, prof. He'll come with all
jets blazing," Ramsy said with easy confidence. But his eyes hadn't left
his wife.

"Then we take the
cash—"

The
call chimed. Everyone looked around and then Randolph said, "Yes? Who is
it?"

"Just
me, prof. Tim Warner. Is Willi there? Thought we could have a little noggin
before lunch."

Randolph flashed a
ferocious glance at Haffner.

"He's
here. Half a minute . . ." Randolph turned on Ramsy and Stella. "Into
the other room—fast."

When
Randolph released the catch Howland was sitting leafing through a book and
Haffner stood before the door, all smiles.

"Good idea, Tim!" enthused Haffner.
"I'm right with you. You coming, professor, Peter?"

"Excuse me,
please," said
Randolphs
"I've work to
do."

"Count
me out, please, Willi, Tim." Howland threw down the book. "Headache
coming on."

"Can't
blame that on the old ship's air," said Wamer, smiling, casual. "Come
on, Willi. I've a thirst."

Only
when they had gone and Stella re-entered the suite did Howland see her
lightweight ship-board fur, lying across the back of a chair.

After
the recriminations, Randolph said, "Well, all this proves is that we're no
born conspirators. No harm done. Warner is only a journalist."

"I wonder," said Howland, fresh
fuel added to just one of his many problems. "I wonder."

"Now
what the deuce do you mean by that cryptic utterance?" demanded Randolph.
"I know you were hit over the head and we decided not to notify the
captain. It was probably a petty thief working the starliners; we must avoid
publicity now. I'm not concerned that Warner saw the three of us—and the fur
could have belonged to any woman."

"That's
true," said Ramsy. "You tend to lose sight of the fur when Stella
wears it."

"Compliments,
yetl" Stella flashed her eyes at her husband. "And I wonder what
sort of morals that man Warner thinks the professor has? I don't like
him."

Howland,
through his own problems, felt a stab of pity for Colin Ramsy. The chap ought
to give Stella a whale of a hiding once on a while; that sort derived benefit
from the treatment, like the proverbial fig-tree. Not Helen, though. Helen's
fiber was too fine for that psychical as well as physical onslaught.

"As
soon as the draw party is at the nodal point," Randolph said in his
damn-you voice, "Mrs. Ramsy, you will have to take charge down here,
seeing to things like stopping people from falling off chairs too hard or
burning their gowns with cigarettes. You'll only be able to handle the obvious
cases; the others can't be too bad. It's a tough assignment. Can you do
it?"

"On my head, prof. On
my little old head."

The
impromptu conference broke up for lunch, with Howland still worried and
unconvinced about Helen. He had swum straight to the other side of the pool,
ducked out and around and avoided her after that catastrophic meeting. He
guessed what she'd do now. In that pretty printed booklet the starline company
handed to each passenger every passenger's name was listed along with cabin
numbers. Who read through better than three thousand names, apart from
husband-hunting matrons? But Helen would go through it carefully now finding
Randolph there, and Haffner, and wondering. Then she'd be along to Howland's
cabin.

Women always were nosey.

He ate lunch moodily, aware of uneasiness and
tension closing in on him, as though black disaster was about to break.
Avoiding his cabin he lost himself in a gay throng watching a tri-di film; what
the film was about he didn't bother to seek, he didn't bother to look past the
image filling his mind's eye with the face and figure of Helen Chase. That
bathing costume had been really something. Staid professors of literature, it
seemed, really let their back hair down on holiday.

At
dinner he sought the most secluded table he could find and toyed with a fine
meal, to his annoyance seeing Tim Warner sitting at a table across the aisle.
The journalist was in profile and Howland hunched his chair around, presenting
his back. He was in no mood for brash conversation.

A
party of middle-aged women sat at an adjoining table. Each one towed in convoy
a young, vapid, nubile girl dressed uncomfortably in the ludicrous height of
current fashion. A fleeting second of thankfulness possessed Howland that he
was not a marriage target.

"And
it's so exciting!" One of the bosomy females brayed to her companions.
"I'm sure I shan't win a thing, I'm so unlucky at gambling."

"I
can't see why," said her friend, "gambling like this doesn't need
intelligence."

"Everyone's
gone in," butted in the third, patting her daughter's hand. "But I'm
surprised the captain chose this— this Mrs. Ramsy to make the actual draw. I
mean—who is she?"

On
firm ground the three matrons discussed the shortcomings of Stella—who flamed
like a billion-volt searchlight compared to the one candle-power of the three
daughters. Howland looked away and noticed that Warner had left his table and
was walking quickly with a ship's officer towards the exit. A vague,
indefinable alarm stirred Howland. He tossed his napkin down and rose.

Passing the table full of matrons and young
hopefuls, he heard one say, "We'd best go along and find a good seat. Only
another half hour."

"Yes—isn't
it thrilling! Who's going to win all that lovely money?"

Howland didn't care.

He
was walking quickly and carefully through the after dinner crowds following
Warner's chunky figure at a safe distance when Helen Chase found him.
Helplessly, he watched Warner and the officer, somehow remote from everyone
else about them, walk away out of sight.

"Peter!
You miserable scoundrel! I believe you've been deliberately avoiding me."

"Of course not, Helen. Just that—"
But he couldn't explain. Now, for the first time he had a tangible excuse to
offer, and he couldn't use it. "I didn't realize you were sailing aboard
Poseidon."

"Obviously.
I don't flatter myself you've been following me. So—what are you doing here?
And Professor Randolph and that Haffner man?"

"So you have looked
down the passenger list."

"Women
are nosey, Peter." She took his arm. "Come and have a drink. We've
just time before the draw. I want to know all about it."

"All about what?"

"Really, Peter! What the
extraterrestrial micro-biology department of Lewistead is doing out here in
space." "A suitable place, don't you think?"

She
looked fabulous. She wore a sheath dress of deep flamed-copper green, backless,
almost frondess, with a long softly swishing skirt. Her hair glittered with
artfully concealed brilliants. He looked at her and knew he wanted her. But
not now. Not when they were going to strike tonight. Later, perhaps, when he
was as famous as she was going to