When we published Carl Jacobi's last story we had no assurance he would bewith us so soon again. For when a uniquely gifted science-fantasy writerbecomes radio-active on the entertainment meter and goes voyaging into theunknown, he may be gone from the world we know for as long as yesterday'stomorrow. But Carl Jacobi has not only returned almost with the speed oflight—he has brought with him shining new nuggets of wonder and surmise.
The secret lay hidden at the end of nine landings,and Medusa-dark was one man's search for it—inthe strangest journey ever made.
A soft gentle rain began to fallas we emerged from the darkwoods and came out onto the shore.There it was, the sea, stretching asfar as the eye could reach, gray andsullen, and flecked with green-whitefroth. The blue hensorr trees,crowding close to the water's edge,were bent backward as if frightenedby the bleakness before them. Thesand, visible under the clear patchesof water, was a bleached white likethe exposed surface of a huge bone.
We stood there a moment in silence.Then Mason cleared histhroat huskily.
"Well, here goes," he said."We'll soon see if we have anyfriends about."
He unslung the packsack fromhis shoulders, removed its protectiveouter shield and began to assemblethe organic surveyor, anegg-shaped ball of white carponiumsecured to a segmented forty-footrod. While Brandt and I raised therod with the aid of an electric fulcrum,Mason carefully placed hiscontrol cabinet on a piece of outcroppingrock and made a last adjustment.
The moment had come. Evenabove the sound of the sea, youcould hear the strained breathingof the men. Only Navigator Norrisappeared unconcerned. He stoodthere calmly smoking his pipe, hiskeen blue eyes squinting against thebiting wind.
Mason switched on the speaker.Its high-frequency scream rose deafeninglyabove us and was tornaway in unsteady gusts. He beganto turn its center dial, at first aquarter circle, and then all theway to the final backstop of thecalibration. All that resulted wasa continuation of that mournfulululation like a wail out of eternity.
Mason tried again. With stiffwrists he tuned while perspirationstood out on his forehead, and therest of us crowded close.
"It's no use," he said. "Thispickup failure proves there isn'ta vestige of animal life on Stragella—onthis hemisphere of the planet,at least."
Navigator Norris took his pipefrom his mouth and nodded. Hisface was expressionless. There wasno indication in the man's voicethat he had suffered another greatdisappointment, his sixth in lessthan a year.
"We'll go back now," he said,"and we'll try again. There mustbe some planet in this system that'sinhabited. But it's going to be hardto tell the women."
Mason let the surveyor rod downwith a crash. I could see the angerand resentment that was gatheringin his eyes. Mason was the youngestof our party and the leader ofthe antagonistic group that wasslowly but steadily undermining theauthority of the Navigator.
This was our seventh exploratorytrip after our sixth landing sinceentering the field of the sun Ponthis.Ponthis with its sixteen equal-sizedplanets, each with a singlesatellite. First there had been Coulora;then in swift succession, Jama,Tenethon, Mokrell, and R-9. Andnow Stragella. Strange names ofstrange worlds, revolving about astrange star.
It was Navigator Norris whotold us the names of these planetsand traced their positions on a chartfor us. He alone of our group