“Well, the conditioning of men for Rhea is about done,” said Shelton, in relief. He and his assistant were in their laboratory, after having seen the excitement of an emergency landing at the port. “Another score for ETBI, and for adaptene. It’s laboratory evolution, in a way.”
“Yes, Dr. Shelton.”
Myra Benning slipped microscope slides into a cleansing bath of alcohol. Surreptitiously, however, she was watching his face. It was an interesting face to watch, with its glow of inspired feelings. It was the face of a leader and organizer, one whose mark would be left in the history of man’s conquest of space. But to Myra Benning, it was also just the face of—a man.
“Let’s see”—Shelton was counting on his fingers—“that’s the eleventh world outside of Earth to which ETBI has sent its graduates. Iapetus will be next, to make it an even dozen. That will be soon now.” His eyes glowed, as one who envisions ever greater horizons. “Exploring and mineral survey have gone on for several years. They’ll want bio-conditioned men soon, when the Navy has established an outpost. It’s like clockwork. World after world.”
The opti-phone bell rang.
Shelton snapped the “on” stud. The bewhiskered, jowled face of Grant Beatty, director of ETBI, flashed on the milky screen. One of the six men who, under the Earth Union’s president, ruled the spaceways, his forceful personality reflected from a habitually grave face. Iron-gray hair framed his piercing eyes and thin, firm lips. But his expression was more than just grave at the moment; it was tense.
“Shelton,” he barked out of the speaker, “drop whatever you’re doing. Something vital has just come up. We’ve got an assignment that sounds more important than anything we’ve tackled before. The space ship Tycho just docked, emergency landing.”
“The exploration ship?” queried Shelton, glancing at his assistant to see her head swing up sharply. “The one that went to Saturn for an official survey of Iapetus ore?”
“That’s it,” corroborated the director. He went on slowly, biting off the words incisively: “It’s back with only two men alive out of ten.”
Myra Benning’s hand went to her throat, but she said nothing. Shelton had to admire the way she waited calmly for the rest, though her own brother might be one of the victims.
Shelton was shaking his head. It always hurt to hear of brave men meeting doom out in the spaceways—young, spirited men who had much to live for. Some of them were important, too; scientists, technicians. Now they were martyrs to mankind’s steady march toward complete dominion of the Solar System.
“Two alive and the rest dead,” Shelton muttered. “On Iapetus—the next colony world on our list. What happened up there on Iapetus?” He shrank from asking which men were dead, with Myra Benning’s horrified eyes on him.
“No, not dead,” boomed Director Beatty, going back to the first thing Shelton had said.
Shelton stared. “But you just said that there were only two alive—”
“Yes, but the others are not dead,” Beatty insisted. “I had a look at the bodies. They aren’t alive; they aren’t dead.” His eyes looked shocked, as though he had seen the incredible. “And that’s our job, Shelton; finding out what it means. Come to the hospital ward at once. The bodies have been brought here.”
“I’ll be over in a moment.” Shelton switched off the phone. “Steady now!” he said to the girl.
He slipped off his stained smock and wrestled into his coat. As he stepped to the door, he found her waiting to go along.
“You’d better stay,” he admonished gently.
“I must go,” she insisted nervously. “No matter what it means, if Hugh’s one of them, I must see him.”
Shelton nodded. They stepped out into the hall and wound their way through the busy corridors, arriving at their destination a few minutes later. The hospital ward, in which ailing men from the bio-conditioning process were looked after, was spacious and modern, second to none on Earth.
Director Beatty greeted Shelton, a scowl of worry on his face. A physician with a stethoscope and puzzled eyes was going over the bodies, lying in a row of beds. One of the two men who had come back alive from Iapetus stood on one side, haggard from days of sleepless driving across space. But his eyes lighted up suddenly.
“Rod! Rodney Shelton!” he exclaimed, striding forward eagerly. “Your old roommate at Edison College. Remember me?”
Shelton stared at the gigantic young man blankly for a moment.
“Mark Traft!” he cried, in recognition, a broad grin spreading over his face.
“Pilot Mark Traft,” informed the tall man. “In the Planetary Survey. I went to the training docks, when we graduated. I remember you went back for research. I’d heard you were here at ETBI, but never had the chance to drop in. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Rod.”
They stared at each other for a moment, their minds crowding with renewed memories of college days.
“Good to see you again, Mark,” said Shelton. “But we’ll talk later. Right now—”
He turned to watch Myra Benning. Her eyes had flicked over the seven still figures. She had stood stiffly, then, breathing hard. Now she ran up and grasped the big pilot’s arm, squeezing with frantic fingers.
“My brother—Hugh Benning,” she cried. “Another man came back alive. Was it Hugh?”
Traft’s face instantly became sorrowful.
“No, Miss Benning,” he said softy. “One man was lost on Iapetus—”
He shifted his feet awkwardly, tried to go on, but the words stuck. The girl’s eyes dilated. Her lips trembled. Shelton wished the news had been broken to her less abruptly, but it was too late now.
“Hugh—” she choked. But suddenly she straightened up, shaking herself slightly. “I’m all right,” she said firmly. “Tell me what happened up there on Iapetus—about Hugh.”
As briefly and sympathetically as he could Traft gave the details to Shelton and the girl.
“Seeing we couldn’t revive them ourselves,” he concluded, “we decided to get the men to ETBI as soon as possible. We refueled at Titan, took on two men as engine crew, and ripped for Earth, triple-acceleration all the way.” He waved a hand. “Here we are. Greeley, my co-pilot, went to report to our superiors. I came here with the bodies. I had a hunch all along they weren’t—dead.”
Shelton stepped to the nearest bedside, touched a hand to the forehead of the still man who lay there.
“Cold,” he whispered. “Cold as death.”
The examining physician straightened.
“Medically,” he pronounced, “they are dead. They don’t breathe, their hearts have stopped, and their blood has cooled. Yet there is no rigor mortis.”
To demonstrate, he raised a limp arm of one of the men and let it fall. There was no stiffness apparent.
