The HELL SHIP
By Ray Palmer
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of ScienceFiction March 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The giant space liner swung down in a long arc, hung for an instant oncolumns of flame, then settled slowly into the blast-pit. But no hatchopened; no air lock swung out; no person left the ship. It lay there,its voyage over, waiting.
The thing at the controls had great corded man-like arms. Its skin wasblack with stiff fur. It had fingers ending in heavy talons and eyesbulging from the base of a massive skull. Its body was ponderous, heavy,inhuman.
After twenty minutes, a single air lock swung clear and a dozen armedmen in Company uniforms went aboard. Still later, a truck lumbered up,the cargo hatch creaked aside, and a crane reached its long neck in forthe cargo.
Still no creature from the ship was seen to emerge. The truck driver,idly smoking near the hull, knew this was the Prescott, in from theJupiter run—that this was the White Sands Space Port. But he didn'tknow what was inside the Prescott and he'd been told it wasn't healthyto ask.
Gene O'Neil stood outside the electrified wire that surrounded the WhiteSands port and thought of many things. He thought of the eternal secrecysurrounding space travel; of the reinforced hush-hush enshroudingCompany ships. No one ever visited the engine rooms. No one in all thenation had ever talked with a spaceman. Gene thought of the glimpse he'dgotten of the thing in the pilot's window. Then his thoughts driftedback to the newsrooms of Galactic Press Service; to Carter in his plushoffice.
"Want to be a hero, son?"
"Who, me? Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day."
"Don't be cute. It's an assignment. Get into White Sands."
"Who tried last?"
"Jim Whiting."
"Where is Whiting now?"
"Frankly we don't know. But—"
"And the four guys who tried before Whiting?"
"We don't know. But we'd like to find out."
"Try real hard. Maybe you will."
"Cut it out. You're a newspaperman aren't you?"
"God help me, yes. But there's no way."
"There's a way. There's always a way. Like Whiting and the others. Yourpals."
Back at the port looking through the hot wire. Sure there was a way.Ask questions out loud. Then sit back and let them throw a noose aroundyou. And there was a place where you could do the sitting in completecomfort. Where Whiting had done it—but only to vanish off the face ofthe earth. Damn Carter to all hell!
Gene turned and walked up the sandy road toward the place where thegaudy neons of the Blue Moon told hard working men where they couldspend their money. The Blue Moon. It was quite a place.
Outside, beneath the big crescent sign, Gene stopped to watch the crowdseddying in and out. Then he went in, to watch them cluster around theslot machines and bend in eager rows over the view slots of the peepshows.
He moved into the bar, dropped on one of the low stools. He ordered abeer and let his eyes drift around.
A man sat down beside him. He was husky, tough looking. "Ain't you theguy who's been asking questions about the crews do