"They were killed by a hometown ghost," Gregor replied nastily. "It must have stowed away on their ship. Maybe there was a curse and —"
"Calm down," Arnold said. "There aren't any ghosts in this. Is the solution boiling yet?"
"No."
"Tell me when it does. Now let's take your animated clothing. Does it remind you of anything?"
Gregor thought. "Well," he said, "when I was a kid — no, that's ridiculous."
"Out with it," Arnold insisted.
"When I was a kid, I never left clothing on a chair. In the dark, it always looked like a man or a dragon or something. I guess everyone's had that experience. But it doesn't explain —"
"Sure it does! Remember the Purple-striped Grabber now?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Because you invented him! Remember? We must have been eight or nine, you and me and Jimmy Flynn. We invented the most horrible monster you could think of — he was our own personal monster and he only wanted to eat you or me or Jimmy — flavored with chocolate sauce. But only on the first of every month, when the report cards were due. You had to use the magic word to get rid of him."
Then Gregor remembered and wondered how he could ever have forgotten. How many nights had he stayed up in fearful expectation of the Grabber? It had made bad report cards seem very unimportant.
"Is the solution boiling?" Arnold asked.
"Yes," said Gregor, glancing obediently at the stove.
"What color is it?"
"A sort of greenish blue. No, it's more blue than —"
"Right. You can pour it out. I want to run a few more tests, but I think we've got it licked."
"Got what licked? Would you do a little explaining?"
"It's obvious. The planet has no animal life. There are no ghosts or at least none solid enough to kill off a party of armed men. Hallucination was the answer, so I looked for something that would produce it. I found plenty. Aside from all the drugs on Earth, there are about a dozen hallucination-forming gases in the Catalogue of Alien Trace Elements. There are depressants, stimulants, stuff that'll make you feel like a genius or an earthworm or an eagle. This particular one corresponds to Longstead 42 in the catalogue. It's a heavy, transparent, odorless gas, not harmful physically. It's an imagination stimulant."
"You mean I was just having hallucinations? I tell you —"
"Not quite that simple," Arnold cut in. "Longstead 42 works directly on the subconscious. It releases your strongest subconscious fears, the childhood terrors you've been suppressing. It animates them. And that's what you've been seeing."
"Then there's actually nothing here?" Gregor asked.
"Nothing physical. But the hallucinations are real enough to whoever is having them."
Gregor reached over for another bottle of brandy. This called for a celebration.
"It won't be hard to decontaminate Ghost V," Arnold went on confidently. "We can cancel the Longstead 42 with no difficulty. And then — we'll be rich, partner!"
Gregor suggested a toast, then thought of something disturbing. "If they're just hallucinations, what happened to the settlers?"
Arnold was silent for a moment. "Well," he said finally, "Longstead may have a tendency to stimulate the mortido — the death instinct. The settlers must have gone crazy. Killed each other."
"And no survivors?"
"Sure, why not? The last ones alive committed suicide or died of wounds. Don't worry about it. I'm chartering a ship immediately and coming out to run those tests. Relax. I'll pick you up in a day or two."
Gregor signed off. He allowed himself the rest of the bottle of brandy that night. It seemed only fair. The mystery of Ghost V was solved and they were going to be rich. Soon he would be able to hire a man to land on strange planets for him, while he sat home and gave instructions over a radio.
He awoke late the next day with a hangover. Arnold's ship hadn't arrived yet, so he packed his equipment and waited. By evening, there was still no ship. He sat in the doorway of the prefab and watched a gaudy sunset, then went inside and made dinner.
The problem of the settlers still bothered him, but he determined not to worry about it. Undoubtedly there was a logical answer.
After dinner, he stretched out on a bed. He had barely closed his eyes when he heard someone cough apologetically.
"Hello," said the Purple-striped Grabber.
His own personal hallucination had returned to eat him. "Hello, old chap," Gregor said cheerfully, without a bit of fear or worry.
"Did you eat the apples?"
"Dreadfully sorry. I forgot."
"Oh, well." The Grabber tried to conceal his disappointment. "I brought the chocolate sauce." He held up the can.
Gregor smiled. "You can leave now," he said. "I know you're just a figment of my imagination. You can't hurt me."
"I'm not going to hurt you," the Grabber said. "I'm just going to eat you."
He walked up to Gregor. Gregor held his ground, smiling, although he wished the Grabber didn't appear so solid and undreamlike. The Grabber leaned over and bit his arm experimentally.
He jumped back and looked at his arm. There were toothmarks on it. Blood was oozing out — real blood — his blood.
The colonists had been bitten, gashed, torn and ripped.
At that moment, Gregor remembered an exhibition of hypnotism he had once seen. The hypnotist had told the subject he was putting a lighted cigarette on his arm. Then he had touched the spot with a pencil.
Within seconds, an angry red blister had appeared on the subject's arm, because he believed he had been burned. If your subconscious thinks you're dead, you're dead. If it orders the stigmata of toothmarks, they are there.
He didn't believe in the Grabber.
But his subconscious did.
Gregor tried to run for the door. The Grabber cut him off. It seized him in its claws and bent to reach his neck.
The magic word! What was it?
Gregor shouted, "Alphoisto??"
"Wrong word," said the Grabber. "Please don't squirm."
"Regnastikio?"
"Nope. Stop wriggling and it'll be over before you —"
"Voorshpellhappilo!"
The Grabber let out a scream of pain and released him. It bounded high into the air and vanished.
Gregor collapsed into a chair. That had been close. Too close. It would be a particularly stupid way to die — rent by his own death-desiring subconscious, slashed by his own imagination, killed by his own conviction. It was fortunate he had remembered the word. Now if Arnold would only hurry...
He heard a low chuckle of amusement.
It came from the blackness of a half-opened closet door, touching off an almost forgotten memory. He was nine years old again, and the Shadower — his Shadower — was a strange, thin, grisly creature who hid in doorways, slept under beds and attacked only in the dark.
"Turn out the lights," the Shadower said.
"Not a chance," Gregor retorted, drawing his blaster. As long as the lights were on, he was safe.
"You'd better turn them off."
"No!"
"Very well. Egan, Megan, Degan!"
Three little creatures scampered into the room. They raced to the nearest light bulb, flung themselves on it and began to gulp hungrily.
The room was growing darker.
Gregor blasted at them each time they approached a light. Glass shattered, but the nimble creatures darted out of the way.
And then Gregor realized what he had done. The creatures couldn't actually eat light. Imagination can't make any impression on inanimate matter. He had imagined that the room was growing dark and —
He had shot out his light bulbs! His own destructive subconscious had tricked him.