SATELLITE OF FEAR
By FRED A. KUMMER, Jr.
Inside the crippled Comet, a hard-bitten
crew watched the life-giving oxygen run
low. Outside, on Ceres' fabled Darkside,
stalked death in awful, spectral form.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Comet's control-room was silent except for the monotonous beatof Ken Grant's restless pacing. Six months on Ceres' frigid, shadowyDarkside had driven the tan from his face, etched lines of worry abouthis mouth. Darkside had a way of doing that to people. A temperatureof five above absolute zero, the grim, eternal darkness, the insanelandscape, combined to give an impression of unreality that made onefeel he was living some terrible nightmare.
From time to time Grant glanced at the sidereal chronometer, shook hishead. Sixteen hours! Sixteen hours since Kennerly had left ... and theheating unit of his space-suit had been good for three! Kennerly hadvanished, just as Allers had vanished before him! Two men had left thedisabled ship to try and reach Bowman's Crater, that last tiny outpostonly twenty miles away, and both men had disappeared. Had either Allersor Kennerly been successful, a rescue ship from Bowman's Crater musthave come by now. But instead, the two spacemen had been swallowed upby the gloom, vanished, leaving no trace. The bitter silent darknessoutside was like some yawning limitless void into which men went, anddid not return. Their position was bad enough in any case, but with awoman in command....
Grant shot a glance at the stack of big lead chests in a corner of thecabin. Pitchblend—radium ore with an amazingly high metal content. Theore in those big chests, when refined, would yield over a million inthe rare element. Not that a million would do them much good if theycouldn't get it away. With the main fuel intake valve cracked, themotors, the radio, the air-regenerator, were all shut off. Death fromlack of oxygen faced them unless word got through.
A click of the cabin's door broke Grant's thoughts. He turned; aslender girl wearing riding breeches and leather jacket appeared in thedoorway. Pale, with deep smoke-gray eyes and auburn hair, she had afragile transcendental beauty that was very appealing, but her chin wasfirm, determined.
"Any news, Mr. Grant?" she asked quietly, stepping into the controlroom.
"None." He shook a gloomy head. "I don't like it! There's somethingstrange going on, Miss Conway! The trail's perfectly clear, there's nolife on Ceres that we know of. One man might conceivably meet with somesort of accident, but not two! They tell stories about Darkside; queerstories! About alien, unknown creatures."
"I ... I know," the girl said tightly. "Dad used to hear those stories,too, when he and Allers were prospecting here. When Dad died heleft me enough money to charter this ship, told me to come here toCeres for my legacy. Gave me the chart showing where this pocket ofpitchblend was located." She glanced at the lead chests. "Now Allers,Dad's closest friend, is gone. And Kennerly. And we're trapped, madevirtual prisoners in this ship by something unknown—out there. We'vegot to get word through, Mr. Grant! It's death to stay here until ouroxygen is gone. Death, maybe worse, waiting for us out there in thedarkness...." She broke off, suddenly, swaying.
"Steady!" Grant gripped the girl's shoulder. "It's the bad air! I'llgo tell Harris to c