Blind, embittered anger again boiled up in Corriston.
Had the man waited, he would have rejoiced and been less angry. He would have taken a calm, deep breath and slowly set about the almost pleasant task of killing him.
He felt cheated, outraged. Then his concern for Helen Ramsey made him forget his rage. Had she been felled with a blow, or had she simply fainted? He started down, then hesitated.
The ladder first. Before he descended it was necessary to make sure that the ladder would be in the same compartment with him, set firmly against the wall, directly under the aperture. If he were prevented from leaving the compartment by the corridor door, he might find himself needing the ladder. Without it he might be descending into a trap that could close with a clang and abruptly imprison him.
Getting down into the compartment was the worst part, just putting the ladder into place and not knowing how badly hurt she was.
What if she’s dead? he thought. What if he killed her with a single blow? He looked strong enough. He could have killed her. God, don’t let me think of that. 1 mustn’t think it.
His feet touched the floor. He let out his breath slowly, turned and crossed the floor to where she was lying. He went down on his knees and lifted her into his arms. She lay relaxed in his arms, face up, quiet, her lips slightly parted.
He looked down into her face, and for a moment his mind went numb, became still, so that there was no longer a whirling inside his head — only a chilling horror.
She seemed to have two faces. One was shrunken and almost tom away, a shredded fragment of a face. But enough of it remained for him to see the shriveled flesh of the cheeks, the puckered mouth, the white hair clinging to the temples. It was the face of an old woman but so fragmentary that it could not even have been called a half-face.
And even though it had been almost ripped away, it seemed still to adhere firmly to the face to which it had been attached, and to blend with it, so that the features of both faces intermingled in a quite unnatural way.
Not quite, though; Helen Ramsey’s face was sharper, more distinct — all of the features stood out more clearly. And when Corriston’s stunned mind began to function normally again, he realized that the old woman’s face was — had to be — a plastic mask.
It took him only an instant to remove the ghastly thing from features which he could not bear to see defaced.
He had to pry it loose, but he did so very gently, exactly as a sculptor might have pried loose a life mask from the face of a recumbent model.
He held it in his hand and looked at it, and a little of the horror crept back into his mind.
It was the merest fragment, as he had thought. Thin, flexible, a tissue-structure of incomplete, aged features, and with an inner surface that was very rough and uneven, as if something had been tom from it.
He could have crumpled it up in his hand, but he did not do so. With a lack of foresight which he was later to regret — a lack which was to prove tragic — he simply flung it from him, as though its ugliness had unnerved him so that he could no longer endure the sight of it.
Helen Ramsey was a dead weight in his arms, and for a moment he feared that she had stopped breathing. So great was his fear, so paralyzing, that his hand on her pulse became rigid, and for a moment he could neither move nor think.
Then he felt the slow beat of her pulse and a great thankfulness came upon him.
He knew then that he must get help as quickly as possible. He eased her gently to the floor, walked to the door and locked it securely. Then he returned to her and took her into his arms again. He spent several minutes trying to revive her. But when she did not open her eyes, did not even stir in his arms, he knew that he could not wait any longer.
8
AN INEXORABLE kind of determination enabled Corriston to get to the Station’s central control compartment, and confront the commander, when the latter, absorbed by matters of the utmost urgency, had triple-guarded his privacy by stationing executive officers outside the door.
Commander Clement was a small man physically, with a strangely bland, almost cherubic face. But his face was dark with anger now — or possibly it was shock that he was experiencing — and the heightened color seemed to add to his dignity, making him look not merely forcibly determined, but almost formidable. His white uniform and the seven gold bars on each epaulet helped a good deal too. It was impossible to determine at a glance just how great was his inner strength, but Corriston knew that he could not have gotten where he was had he not possessed unalloyed resoluteness.
He was standing by a visual reference mechanism which looked almost exactly like a black stovepipe spiraling up from the deck. There was a speaking tube in his hand, and he was talking into it. He seemed completely unaware that he was no longer alone.
Had Corriston been less agitated he would have felt a little sorry for the officer who had admitted him. The officer had been so impressed by Corriston’s gravity and the earnestness with which he had pleaded his case that he had stepped forward and opened the door without question, assuming, no doubt, that Clement would look up instantly and see Corriston standing just inside the doorway.
Now the door had closed again, Clement hadn’t looked up, and the officer was going to be in trouble. But Corriston had no time and very little inclination to worry about that. What Commander Clement was saying into the speaking tube had a far stronger claim on his attention.
“It’s the worst thing that could have happened”, Clement was saying. “We can’t just brazen it out. It’s going to mean trouble, serious trouble. What’s that? How should I know what happened? When you’re carrying a certain kind of cargo a thousand things can go wrong. The ship went out of control, that’s all. The first radio message didn’t tell me anything. The captain was trying to cover up to save himself. He didn’t even want me to know”.
“You bet it can happen again. We’ve got to be prepared for that, too. But right now” —
Commander Clement saw Corriston then. His expression didn’t change, but it seemed to Corriston that he paled slightly.
“That’s all for now”, he said, and returned the speaking tube to its cradle.
He looked steadily at Corriston for a moment. A glint of anger appeared in his eyes, and suddenly they were blazing.
“What do you mean by coming in here unannounced, Lieutenant?” he demanded. “I gave strict orders that no one was to be admitted. If I didn’t know you were suffering from severe space shock...”
“I’m sorry, sir”, Corriston said quickly. “It’s very urgent. I think I can convince you that I am not suffering from space shock. I’ve found Miss Ramsey. She’s been badly hurt and needs immediate medical attention”.
The Commander looked as if a man he had thought sane was standing before him with a gun in his hand. Not Corriston, but some other, more violent man. For a moment longer he remained rigid and then his hand went out and tightened on Corriston’s arm.
“By heaven, if you’re lying to me!”
“I would have no reason to lie, sir. It proves I’m not a space-shock case. But that’s unimportant now. She’s safe for the moment. No one can get to her. I bolted the door on the inside. Unless” —
Corriston went pale. “No, there’s no danger. I drew the ladder up and returned it to the Selector compartment. Then I threw the lock on the emergency door”.
“Start at the beginning”, Clement said. “If she’s in danger we’ll get to her. Take it easy now, and tell me exactly what happened”.
Corriston went over it fast. He said nothing about the mask. Let Clement find that out for himself.
Commander Clement walked to the door, threw it open and spoke to the executive officer who was stationed outside. The officer came into the control room.
“Stay with Lieutenant Corriston until I get back”, Clement said. “He’s not to leave. He understands that”.