*

  The bottle was half-empty and Gordon Kent scowled at it remembering a joke he had once been told, a philosophical concept which hadn’t amused him then and didn’t now. A bottle half-empty was just that and calling it one half-full didn’t alter the amount of the contents. Well, to hell with it, when it was all gone maybe he could get more or, at least, would be out of the ward, the bed, the whole damned prison the Medical Section had become.

  Lifting the bottle, he drank, swallowing the neat alcohol it contained; surgical spirit intended to ease the pain of bedsores, to clean surface areas of skin. A product of the yeast vats which helped to provide their food and which he had stolen to use as an anodyne for boredom.

  He glowered at the lowered level and gently moved his injured leg. Days now and still the damned thing hadn’t healed. Alan Guthrie had gone, smiling, eager to get back to work, making a joke as he left to see about getting a crutch. A joke in bad taste — surely it couldn’t come to that, a broken leg, a gash which was slow in healing.

  Quickly he took another drink.

  The nurse, damn her, had closed the door so that he couldn’t see out of the ward and so was left in a form of solitary confinement foreign to his nature. He had always liked company, the boisterous comradeship of his fellow crewmen, the challenge of gymnastic activity. A big man, proud of his body, enjoying the euphoria of fitness, of using the fine engine of flesh and blood which was his own.

  Again he moved his leg, wincing at the stab of pain. Throwing back the cover he examined it, frowning at the ugly red streaks running from the wound, the skin distended and tender. The doctors had seen it, had muttered over it, and had filled him with antibiotics and other assorted junk all with no apparent success. Tomorrow, so he had heard, he was to be given a complete blood-change and after that, if necessary, immersion in an amniotic tank where new tissue would be grown to replace that they would have to cut away.

  He wouldn’t die and he wouldn’t lose his leg but he would lose time and the championship would have been decided and he would still be in this or another ward fitted up with life-support mechanisms of one kind or another. Time which dragged past on leaden feet. Feet — the plural.

  He took another drink.

  And, remembering Guthrie’s parting joke, yet another and then, because it wasn’t worth saving the little which remained, he emptied the bottle and sank back with his head on the pillow staring at the central light the ward contained.

  A bright light which seemed to flicker and swell and pulse as if with a life of its own. To change even as he watched. To alter.

  Bain heard him scream.

  He had been studying a tissue sample from the man’s injured leg, frowning at the distortion of the cellular structure, testing a variety of agents and collating the results. The scream caught him as he was fitting a new slide and he swore as the glass shattered, a sliver cutting a finger so that blood dripped to stain the sterile instrument.

  It came again as he straightened, a shriek which sounded less than human, a thing compounded of naked terror and heart-stopping fear.

  ‘Doctor!’ A nurse came running towards him, her eyes enormous in the pallor of her face. ‘It’s Gordon Kent. I —’

  ‘Get help!’ Bain thrust past her, leaving a smear of blood from his cut hand on her uniform, the scarlet bright against the white sleeve. ‘Bring sedatives. Hurry!’

  He heard the scream again as he reached the ward and flinging open the door he ran inside.

  To see the figure crawling on the floor, face and one hand uplifted, jagged shards of broken glass held like a dagger towards the throat. A dagger which plunged even as he watched to release a fountain of ruby, a stream of blood from severed arteries which splashed on the wall and dappled the floor with a crimson rain.

  *

  ‘Seven injured,’ reported Claire. ‘Five in shock; two catatonics. And one dead.’

  Maddox frowned, ‘Dead?’

  ‘Gordon Kent. He killed himself with a broken boule. Ted saw him do it. Of the injured two are hospitalised; one caught his hand in a drill press, the other was burned. The other injuries are superficial and caused by collisions.’ She added, unnecessarily, ‘Their panic caused them to run.’

  And one to run further than most — right into the security of the grave. Maddox remembered the man, a fine crewman who would be missed. Not the type he would have taken for wanting nerve, but when true panic struck who could guarantee their reactions?

  Remembering he said, ‘How is Ted now?’

  ‘He is a doctor and a good one.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘A doctor gets used to the sight of blood, Carl. He has to.’

  And Bain was a good doctor — which said nothing about his potential human weakness and, doctor or not, he could have succumbed to the general panic as had the rest. Maddox drew in his breath, remembering a time of nightmare when fear had clogged his veins and he had cringed with the desire to run, to escape, to hide.

  If he had been weak and worried and afraid of personal hurt would he have yielded as Kent had done?

  Or was it that the man had owned a far more intense imagination?

  Questions, always questions, and still there were no answers. Bleakly he looked at the screens in Mission Control again seeing nothing but the cold burn of distant stars.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Nothing, Commander.’ She knew the implication of his call. ‘Space, as far as all instrumentation is concerned, is totally empty ahead of us.’

  ‘Saha, as far as the Computer is concerned, what are the extrapolations?’

  ‘None, Commander. There is insufficient data on which the Computer can work.’

  Maddox felt the fingers of his left hand beginning to close. It was useless to blame a machine for not having the intuitive faculty of a man — but how much data did the damn thing need?

  ‘Try again,’ he ordered. ‘Feed it all the information we have and, if nothing else, obtain an intelligent guess.’ An inconsistency, no machine could be intelligent despite the claims of those who served them, but Saha might find some factor he had previously overlooked. With relief he saw Manton enter Mission Control. ‘Eric! Anything?’

  ‘Yes, but all negative.’ Manton cleared his throat. ‘At least we can eliminate all thought of internal causes for the recent wave of panic. All equipment in the theatre was out of operation. I’ve checked all sources of electronic usage and none show any surge or loss which means we can eliminate all packets of energy-source such as spatial vortexes which could have created a high-order energy flow.’

  ‘Which could mean that nothing happened and we have one dead man and several others injured for no reason at all.’

  Maddox was being sarcastic and Manton knew it. Quietly he said, ‘There has to be a reason, Carl. All we’ve done so far is to eliminate sources of familiar energy, but there are others and they may be the cause.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Eric is thinking of the paraphysical, Carl,’ said Claire. ‘We know that some people possess the talent to move objects without physical contact but as yet we have no means of discovering what type of energy they use. Telepathy, also, requires a form of energy and that is equally unexplained even though we know that telepathy exists. The warning —’

  ‘Warning?’

  ‘It has to be that,’ she insisted. ‘Twice now we have known panic and the desire to run. The first time we heard, or thought we heard, an actual voice giving us instructions. Perhaps that was because of the unusual conditions in which we received the message.’

  And a man lay dead to show it should not be ignored.

  Maddox took a step forward and halted just behind where Weight sat at the main console. Before him lamps flashed in endless signalling, one of the circuits that continually monitored the ship and surround.

  ‘The big screen, Frank. Full magnification.’

  Maddox watched as the distant stars seemed to move aside, an optical illusion that gave the impression of hurtling at a fantastic velocity towards them in space. And still he saw nothing.

  ‘Try filters.’

  The stars flickered and changed colour as Weight obeyed, feeding selective filters over the scanners, blocking out various bands of the electro-magnetic spectrum while bolstering others.

  The results were the same.

  Nothing.

  Space remained as empty as before.

  Empty, but holding something which had warned them twice now to stay away. Something which could emit psychic energy to directly influence the brain. A power which warned of devastation and death unless they obeyed.

  ‘Commander?’

  ‘That’s enough, Frank. Order a Pinnace and crew to make ready for an investigation-flight. Douglas West will want to take command — let him pick his own co-pilot.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Put the ship on yellow alert — and keep it on until further orders!’

  CHAPTER 3

  Leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat, Ivan Gogol indulged in a dream. He was a chief of the Bandhaisai riding with Attila, the Kagan of the Hiung. Beneath the hooves of his horse the Steppes rolled back to the East while ahead, misted in rumour, lay the wealth of a decadent civilisation. Soon now they would reach the gates of Rome and, the world would be theirs to loot, to burn, to take and use as they wished.

  Even the thought of it sent the blood pounding in his veins to throb in his ears, sending adrenalin to stimulate nerve and muscle, sharpening his awareness, his aggression. The physical prelude to combat as it was a symptom of fear.

  ‘Ivan!’ From the pilot’s chair Douglas West glanced at his companion. ‘Keep alert there!’

  ‘I’m alert, Skipper.’

  ‘Then report on instrumentation during the past five minutes.’

  ‘All systems operating at optimum,’ said Ivan immediately. ‘Temperature of rear left lifting jet a little high but within tolerance. All clear on scanners. Radio contact at constant level. Humidity —’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Automatically West scanned his own instrument panel, a shift of the eyes which had become second nature to the Head of Spatial Reconnaissance. Ahead space, as far as he could determine, was clear. As clear as it had been when they left the Ad Astra an hour ago.

  Settling back, he thought about his co-pilot.

  Ivan Gogol was a dreamer and a romantic of the old tradition, living in imagination the glories of the past, fighting ancient battles and adopting the mantle of the great. In that there was no harm, only when it threatened his efficiency would there be cause to worry. His immediate report had meant little; any serious fluctuation in the operation of the Pinnace would have triggered an alarm and in such a case West would have acted. Yet he hadn’t actually lied, he had the facility of split-mind operation; turning a part of himself into a watchful automaton while allowing the rest of his mind to indulge in fantasies.

  A trait which could be an asset in certain conditions but dangerous in others. No pilot, West knew, could be expected to maintain total concentration for long periods at a time. It was mentally and physically impossible to do that; insidious fatigue would ruin finely balanced judgements and, unless recognised, would lead to fatal error. A man who could watch for hours at a stretch, who would spring into full and complete awareness at any moment when triggered by something wrong, was a man ideal for routine patrols.

  But for an investigation flight?

  West had made his decision and had chosen Gogol to accompany him. How he acted now would determine his future with Reconnaissance.

  He said, ‘Skipper, have you ever studied history? I mean really studied it?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was thinking of Attila. Of how he managed to unite the tribes and sweep across plains to reach Eastern Europe. You know that he actually managed to reach Rome and would have taken it if they hadn’t bought him off.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Think of it! A man, a barbarian in a sense, who managed to do the near impossible. He could have made himself Emperor, become a Caesar, ruled the entire known world!’

  ‘Instead of which,’ said West, dryly, ‘he died in pain to be burned by his followers. And after?’

  ‘Nothing,’ admitted Ivan. ‘He was a strong man and there was no one to follow him. All he had built vanished almost at once. The affiliated tribes, the vassal Germanic peoples, all those who had become one force beneath his horsetail standard, all dissolved as snow in the sun. But if he had lived another ten years, or if he had managed to leave a strong heir, or if the tribes had managed to work together instead of letting petty feuds destroy their unity — who knows?’

  ‘If pigs had wings they would fly.’ West scanned the instruments and threw a switch. ‘Pinnace One to Mission Control. Frank?’

  ‘Receiving.’ Weight’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Anything as yet, Douglas?’

  ‘No. We could be flying into a vacuum.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I was talking metaphorically. There’s nothing out here but nothing.’

  ‘Which is the way we want it to be.’ Weight smiled. ‘Maintain alignment, Douglas. It’s important.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The screen went blank as West broke the connection and again he checked his instruments. The target-star was a fraction out and he returned it to the centre of the crosshairs with a deft touch on the controls. It was a big, blue-white sun and it was known to have planets that they were on their way to investigate. That was when his small fleet of Pinnaces would come into their own as their mother ship, the Ad Astra, remained in orbit.

  ‘Skipper!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I — nothing.’ Ivan frowned at the instruments. ‘I thought I saw a flicker just then. One of the receptors registered. At least I thought it did.’

  Dreaming or not he would have caught it and it was proof of his efficiency that West had not. For a moment he hesitated, studying the instruments, then again made contact with the mother ship.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Here.’ Weight looked from the screen. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Could be. Did you spot anything?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘An energy emission of some kind. One of the receptors kicked just now. No repetition as yet which could mean an internal malfunction or a local nexus of limited extent.’

  ‘Nothing registered here, Douglas.’

  ‘Then it could be local, but you’d better maintain constant observation and monitoring. We could be heading into what we’re looking for.’

  West glared at what lay ahead. To the naked eye there was nothing, to the instruments the same, yet something was waiting there, he sensed it, felt it with every fibre of his being.

  Grimly he resisted the urge to run. To turn the Pinnace and head back to the Ad Astra as fast as the ship would travel.

  Ivan Gogol felt the same.

  He shifted in his chair, easing his body against the restraints, his hands reaching for the controls only to fall back as he realised that to touch them would be useless. West had the control and would retain it unless there was a good reason why he should not. And a feeling, no matter how strong, was not reason enough for the Skipper to abandon his authority.

  But, if he were dead?

  An odd thought and Ivan did his best to banish it. He liked West and admired him and envied the man his skill and position. One day, with luck, he too would be a master-pilot with a Pinnace of his own. One day, again with luck, he might reach up to become Head of a Section. One day.

  He shivered, conscious of a sudden chill, then was suddenly gasping for breath. Blinking he stared ahead, concentrating on the stars, seeing them appear to shift and form new patterns. A house, a ship, a horse, the lineaments of a woman’s face.

  A smooth, firmly contoured visage with enigmatic eyes and a mouth which betrayed sensuality. Hollow cheeks and strong jaw. The hint of Slavic ancestry. The ears and blonde helmet of the hair.

  Doctor Claire Allard!

  Smiling at him from the empty depths of space. Beckoning.

  ‘No!’ Douglas West reared in his chair, snarling at the jerk of forgotten restraints, freeing them with a blow as he lunged towards his co-pilot. ‘Don’t, you fool! Don’t!’

  Ivan Gogol was already on his feet and reaching for the door of the module. His helmet was open and his eyes were glazed. One hand was resting on the control which would open the port — and beyond lay nothing but the airless void.

  ‘Ivan!’ West grabbed at his shoulder, turned the man, threw him back towards his chair. ‘Seal up and strap down. That’s an order!’

  ‘I — no! I must go! I must!’

  Madness. It showed in his face, his eyes, the tormented knotting of skin and muscles and, with the mania came a maniacal strength.

  West was thrown back to crash against the hull head ringing from the impact, details blurring as he sank to his knees. Dazed, almost unconscious, he saw the other man tear at the portal, the sudden flood of ruby from the alarms, a red flush which accompanied the strident clangour of the warnings.

  ‘Ivan! The controls!

  ‘Too late!’ The man turned, foam at his lips, blood running from bitten flesh. ‘Wait for me! Please wait for me!’

  Then there was nothing but a roar of confusion and an overwhelming darkness.

  *

  ‘Eighty-nine hours, seventeen minutes and thirty seconds as from — now!’ Manton threw the time-control on the chronometer then looked up from where he sat at his desk. ‘That’s how long it will take us to reach the same point as Douglas did when he ran into trouble assuming, of course, that the area remains stationary relative to this region of space.’

  ‘The Forbidden Area,’ murmured Maddox. ‘What caused the trouble, Eric? A barrier of some kind?’

  ‘It could be that,’ agreed the professor. ‘And, coupled with the warnings, I think that it is. A final deterrent, the last warning before whatever lies behind the barrier is reached.’

  And what that could be was anyone’s guess. Restlessly Maddox paced the room. Normally he liked to spend time in Manton’s laboratory, enjoying the touch of familiar things, seeing the rows of old books, the scrolls of proven accomplishment, the models and small items which Manton had brought with him on their voyage.