The Dark Star

Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly hungry that his

dinner appeared unappetising; possibly because it had been standing in

the corridor outside his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to

its desirability.

The sun had set and the air in the room had grown cold. He felt

chilly; and, when he uncovered the silver tureen and discovered that

the soup was still piping hot, he drank some of it to warm himself.

He had swallowed about half a cupful before he discovered that the

seasoning was not agreeable to his palate. In fact, the flavour of the

hot broth was so decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and

sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further desire to eat

anything.

A glass of water from the carafe did not seem to rid him of the

subtle, disagreeable taste lingering in his mouth--in fact, the water

itself seemed to be tainted with it.

He sat for a few moments fumbling for his cigarette case, feeling

curiously uncomfortable, as though the slight motion of the ship were

affecting his head.

As he sat there looking at the unlighted cigarette in his hand, it

fell to the carpet at his feet. He started to stoop for it, caught

himself in time, pulled himself erect with an effort.

Something was wrong with him--very wrong. Every uneven breath he drew

seemed to fill his lungs with the odour of that strange and volatile

flavour he had noticed. It was beginning to make him giddy; it seemed

to affect his vision, too.

Suddenly a terrible comprehension flashed through his confused mind,

clearing it for a moment.

He tried to stand up and reach the electric bell; his knees seem

incapable of sustaining him. Sliding to the floor, he attempted to

crawl toward the olive-wood box; managed to get one arm around it,

grip the handle. Then, with a last desperate effort, he groped in his

breast pocket for the automatic pistol, freed it, tried to fire it.

But the weapon and the unnerved hand that held it fell on the carpet.

A muscular paralysis set in like the terrible rigidity of death; he

could still see and hear as in a thickening dream.

A moment later, from the corridor, a slim hand was inserted between

the door and jamb; the supple fingers became busy with the rubber band

for a moment, released it. The door opened very slowly.

For a few seconds two dark eyes were visible between door and curtain,

regarding intently the figure lying prone upon the floor. Then the

curtain was twitched noiselessly aside; a young woman in the garb of a

trained nurse stepped swiftly into the stateroom on tip-toe, followed

by a big, good-looking, blue-eyed man wearing a square golden beard.