'Stop!'
'Yes, Officer!'
'Back three degrees.'
'Back three degrees, Officer.'
The sphere wheeled slowly, cautiously.
'See it?' demanded Will Archer.
The others stared into the blackness.
'I believe I do,' finally said Yancey Mears. 'A sort of luminescence?'
'That's right. Like stars beginning to come out as a fog lifts. Anybody else see it?' 'I. It's changing shape—see the upper left there?'
'Portside of the universe, beyond any Earthly telescope. They could just barely see us from Andromeda with a thousand-incher. I'd say we're about on the edge of the cosmos. I'd give you the figures, only they wouldn't mean anything to you.'
'Ai-luh …'
'Now explain that one, Star.'
'The appearances are: we are approaching a body which is like no known star, nebula, planet, dust-tract or gas-cloud. It seems, furthermore, to be the source of cosmic rays. As out nearness to this body became significant, stresses have been appearing in the ship which make very alarming noises. Two of the complement passed out temporarily for no known reason and with no after-effects yet noticeable.'
'Fine. Take the specific gravity of that thing now.'
Star Macduff stared curiously, shrugged, and ran the observations off.
Silently he handed over the tape.
'Protoplasm,' said the executive officer.
'It could be. Then the cosmic rays are …'
'Mitogenic.'
The ship trembled again; the Psychologist stared in horror at Will Archer. 'What's happening to us?' she cried.
'I don't know. We're working out the problem assigned, however. I assume that you and Star succumbed to the mitogenic rays temporarily, the way yeast-buds die under a concentrated stare from a human being. Since you're both tougher than yeast-buds you recovered. I don't know what kept Yancey and me from going under.'
'Consider, Will,' said Star Macduff agitatedly. 'Think of what you're doing. This ship's going right into the eye of a monster piece of protoplasm that's nearly knocked off two of the complement without even trying.'
'If anybody has an alternative to suggest…?'
They were silent.
'Thanks for the endorsement. I wouldn't be driving us to death if there were any other course. It's not yet certain that we're going to die; it's not yet certain that this stuff is alive. But if it is, we're going to find out why and how. What's the size of it, Star?'
'I don't know—maybe in the decillion order.'
Again sounded the grating noise that shivered from every part of the ship. In words.
'I—live.'
Instantly the telephone jangled; the Clericalist snapped: 'E.O.'s office.
What is it?'
'Commons room, Officer. Is everything all right? We heard …'
'We'll call you when we need you, rating. Cut!'
'Cut, Officer.'
'Too bad we haven't got a psychic along,' said Yancey Mears. 'One of those'd be able to tell us what we're up against.'
The watch from Will Archer's pocket zipped through the fabric and clanged against a bulkhead, clinging. Rapidly there followed pencils, instruments and the pistol-weapon. They made a compact, quivering bunch on the metal wall.
'Magnetized,' mused Star Macduff. 'Now what did it?'
'I think,' said Yancey Mears, 'that at this point we'd better scrap logic.'
'What do you propose to substitute for it?'
'Nothing. I propose that we take things as they come. Mamie, would you be so good as to run an association series on me?'
'Certainly. You two men keep your ears open; when something strikes you, speak up.' Yancey Mears seated herself comfortably, not far from the heap of portables on the wall, closed her eyes, blanked her mind to go by pure intuition.
The golden-skinned woman scribbled hastily in a notebook, then began to read off the words clearly, Yancey Mears responding like an automaton.
' White. Road. ' 'Sing.'—'High.' ' Race. '—'Win. ' ' Pone. '—'
Damned.'
Further down the list they went, the Psychologist droning out the words in measured tones, the subject replying like a machine. In about five minutes the reaction time had reached its lowest and was nearly exactly equal in each case; the subject was drawing on her unconscious knowledge and those short-cuts that go by the name of 'intuition.'
Mamie Tung droned: 'Life.'
'Boat.'
'Round.'
'Lives …' The woman opened her eyes and stood up. 'That brought it out into the open. The whole ship's alive. Mitogenic rays, cosmic rays, whatever you want to call them now, they've done something to this awesome work of metal. I imagine impulses go by wire when there are wires, or by traveling fields. Like that magnetized plate there …'
'Where's its brain?' snapped Archer.
'I don't know. I don't know if it has a brain. But I'd advise you not to enter the calculations room up forward.'
'That would be it. And eyes—ears—memory …?'
'They have no bearing on us, Will. But I hope—I hope—that Sphere Nine hasn't got phagocytes.'
'Hi, microbe.'
'That's it. Meanwhile, let's send in for that Rating Seven you were going to dispose of.'
'Commons room?'
'Yes, Officer.'
'Rating Seven will pick up a blank tape from the calculations room and bring it to the E.O.'s office. Cut!'
'Cut, Officer.'
'We'll see if he survives it. It's his line anyway—mechanical vermin.
Though the ship's bigger than those tincs he made.'
They distributed themselves about the office, jumping like nervous cats whenever the ship strained or squeaked.
Eventually—after no more than five minutes—the face of Rating Seven appeared, pale, distorted.
'Reporting—with the tape, Officers,' he said shuffling nervously. 'The Gentleman in the computations room wished to see you.'
'What Gentleman, Rating Seven?'
'The—the—oh God!' sobbed the ordinary, dropping the tape, wrinkling up his face like a child. He sat on the floor and began to cry. He stopped as his eyes caught the tape-spool, unrolling along the floor. He poked it gently as it reached the end of the roll and ceased unreeling, he looked up at the officers like a puzzled baby, willing to be amused. The meaningless smile of infancy flickered across his face.
Steadily Mamie Tung unscrewed a bowl-shaped lamp shade.
'Hold this, Yancey. It's to catch the blood. Hold it still while …'
Silently the two men eased Rating Seven into a chair and leaned him over while Mamie Tung drew a slim knife
