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´╗┐Title: Competition
Author: Causey, James
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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COMPETITION

By JAMES CAUSEY


 _They would learn what caused
 the murderous disease--if it
 was the last thing they did!_


GRETA

_January 18, Earth Time_

I wish Max would treat me like a _woman_.

An hour ago, at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for
my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very
blue eyes, a porcelain smile. The head of WSC, the perfect example of
the politician-scientist.

"To the colony," he announced, raising his glass. "May Epsilon love them
and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble."

"Amen," Max said.

We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray
little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best
biochemist in the system. "Has Farragut hinted otherwise?" he asked
mildly.

Armitage frowned. "It would be scarcely prudent for Senator Farragut to
alarm the populace with disaster rumors."

Bishop looked at him out of his pale eyes. "Besides, it's an election
year."

The silence was suddenly ugly.

Then Armitage chuckled. "All right," he said. "So the Senator wants to
be a national hero. The fact still remains that Epsilon had better be
habitable or Pan-Asia will scream we're hogging it. They want war
anyway. Within a month--boom."

       *       *       *       *       *

For a moment, I was afraid he was going to make a speech about Earth's
suffocating billions, the screaming tension of the cold war, and the
sacred necessity of Our Mission. If he had, I'd have gotten the weeping
shrieks. Some responsibilities are too great to think about. But instead
he winked at me. For the first time, I began to realize why Armitage was
the Director of the Scientists' World Council.

"Hypothesis, Greta," he said. "Epsilon is probably a paradise. Why
should the test colony let the rest of the world in on it? They're being
selfish."

I giggled. We relaxed.

After supper, Armitage played chess with Bishop while I followed Max
into the control room.

"Soon?" I said.

"Planetfall in eighteen hours, Doctor." He said it stiffly, busying
himself at the controls. Max is a small dark man with angry eyes and the
saddest mouth I've ever seen. He is also a fine pilot and magnificent
bacteriologist. I wanted to slap him. I hate these professional British
types that think a female biochemist is some sort of freak.

"Honestly," I said. "What do you think?"

"Disease," he said bitterly. "For the first six months they reported on
schedule, remember? A fine clean planet, no dominant life-forms, perfect
for immigration; unique, one world in a billion. Abruptly they stopped
sending. You figure it."

I thought about it.

"I read your thematic on Venusian viruses," he said abruptly. "Good
show. You should be an asset to us, Doctor."

"Thanks!" I snapped. I was so furious that I inadvertently looked into
the cabin viewplate.

Bishop had warned me. It takes years of deep-space time to enable a
person to stare at the naked Universe without screaming.

It got me. The crystal thunder of the stars, that horrible hungry
blackness. I remember I was sort of crying and fighting, then Max had me
by the shoulders, holding me gently. He was murmuring and stroking my
hair. After a time, I stopped whimpering.

[Illustration: Illustrated by STONE]

"Thanks," I whispered.

"You'd better get some sleep, Greta," he said.

I turned in.

I think I'm falling in love.

       *       *       *       *       *

_January 19_

Today we made planetfall. It took Max a few hours to home in on the test
colony ship. He finally found it, on the shore of an inland sea that
gleamed like wrinkled blue satin. For a time we cruised in widening
spirals, trying to detect some signs of life. There was nothing.

We finally landed. Max and Armitage donned spacesuits and went toward
the colony ship. They came back in a few hours, very pale.

"They're dead." Armitage's voice cracked as he came out of the airlock.
"All of them."

"Skeletons," Max said.

"How?" Bishop said.

Armitage's hands were shaking as he poured a drink. "Looks like civil
war."

"But there were a hundred of them," I whispered. "They were
_dedicated_--"

"I wonder," Bishop said thoughtfully. "White and brown and yellow.
Russian and British and French and German and Chinese and Spanish. They
were chosen for technical background rather than emotional stability."

"Rot!" Armitage said like drums beating. "It's some alien bug, some
toxin. We've got to isolate it, find an antibody."

He went to work.

       *       *       *       *       *

_January 22_

I'm scared.

It's taken three days to finalize the atmospheric tests. Oxygen,
nitrogen, helium, with trace gases. Those trace gases are stinkers.
Bishop discovered a new inert gas, heavier than Xenon. He's excited. I'm
currently checking stuff that looks like residual organic, and am not
too happy about it. Still, this atmosphere seems pure.

Armitage is chafing.

"It's in the flora," he insisted today. "Something, perhaps, that they
ate." He stood with a strained tautness, staring feverishly at the
chronometer. "Senator Farragut's due to make contact soon. What'll I
tell him?"

"That we're working on it," Bishop said dryly. "That the four best
scientists in the Galaxy are working toward the solution."

"That's good," Armitage said seriously. "But they'll worry. You _are_
making progress?"

I wanted to wrap a pestle around his neck.

We were all in the control room an hour later. Armitage practically
stood at attention while Farragut's voice boomed from the transmitter.

It was very emetic. The Senator said the entire hemisphere was waiting
for us to announce the planet was safe for immigration. He said the
stars were a challenge to Man. He spoke fearfully of the Coming World
Crisis. Epsilon was Man's last chance for survival. Armitage assured him
our progress was satisfactory, that within a few days we would have
something tangible to report. The Senator said we were heroes.

Finally it was over. Max yawned. "Wonder how many voters start field
work at once."

Armitage frowned. "It's not funny, Cizon. Not funny at all. Inasmuch as
we've checked out the atmosphere, I suggest we start field work at
once."

Taylor blinked. "We're still testing a few residual--"

"I happen to be nominal leader of this party." Armitage stood very tall,
very determined. "Obviously the atmosphere is pure. Let's make some
progress!"

       *       *       *       *       *

_February 2_

This is progress?

For the past ten days, we've worked the clock around. Quantitative
analysis, soil, water, flora, fauna, cellular, microscopic. Nothing. Max
has discovered a few lethal alkaloids in some greenish tree fungus, but
I doubt if the colony were indiscriminate fungus eaters. Bishop has
found a few new unicellular types, but nothing dangerous. There's one
tentacled thing that reminds me of a frightened rotifer. Max named it
_Armitagium_. Armitage is pleased.

Perhaps the fate of the hundred colonists will remain one of those
forever unsolved mysteries, like the fate of the _Mary Celeste_ or the
starship _Prometheus_.

This planet's _clean_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_February 4_

Today Max and I went specimen-hunting.

It must be autumn on Epsilon. Everywhere the trees are a riot of scarlet
and ocher, the scrubby bushes are shedding their leaves. Once we came
upon a field of thistlelike plants with spiny seed-pods that opened as
we watched, the purple spores drifting afield in an eddy of tinted mist.
Max said it reminded him of Scotland. He kissed me.

On the way back to the ship we saw two skeletons. Each had its fingers
tightly locked about the other's throat.

       *       *       *       *       *

_February 20_

We have, to date, analyzed nine hundred types of plant life for toxin
content. Bishop has tested innumerable spores and bacteria. Our slide
file is immense and still growing. Max has captured several insects.
There is one tiny yellow bush-spider with a killing bite, but the
species seem to be rare. Bishop has isolated a mold bacterium that could
cause a high fever, but its propagation rate is far too low to enable it
to last long in the bloodstream.

The most dangerous animal seems to be a two-foot-tall arthropod. They're
rare and peaceable. Bishop vivisected one yesterday and found nothing
alarming.

Last night I dreamed about the first expedition. I dreamed they all
committed suicide because Epsilon was too good for them.

This is ridiculous!

We're working in a sort of quiet madness getting no closer to the
solution.

Armitage talked to Senator Farragut yesterday and hinted darkly that the
first ship's hydroponics system went haywire and that an improper
carbohydrate imbalance killed the colony. Pretty thin. Farragut's
getting impatient. Bishop looks haggard. Max looks grim.

       *       *       *       *       *

_February 23_

Our quantitative tests are slowing down. We play a rubber of bridge each
night before retiring. Last night I trumped Max's ace and he snarled at
me. We had a fight. This morning I found a bouquet of purple
spore-thistles at my cabin door. Max is sweet.

This afternoon, by mutual consent, we all knocked off work and played
bridge. Bishop noticed the thistle bouquet in a vase over the
chronometer. He objected.

"They're harmless," Max said. "Besides, they smell nice."

I can hardly wait for tomorrow's rubber. Our work is important, but one
does need relaxation.

       *       *       *       *       *

_February 25_

Armitage is cheating.

Yesterday he failed to score one of my overtricks. We argued bitterly
about it. Taylor, of course, sided with him. Three hands later, Armitage
got the bid in hearts. "One hundred and fifty honors," he announced.

"That's a lie," I said.

"It was only a hundred," he grinned. "But thank you, Greta. Now I shan't
try the queen finesse."

No wonder they've won the last three evenings! Max is furious with them
both.

       *       *       *       *       *

_February 28_

We played all day. Max and I kept losing. I always knew Armitage was a
pompous toad, but I never realized he was _slimy_.

This afternoon it was game all, and Armitage overcalled my diamond
opener with three spades. Bishop took him to four and I doubled,
counting on my ace-king of hearts and diamonds.

I led out my diamond ace and Armitage trumped from his hand. Bishop laid
down his dummy. He had clubs and spades solid, with doubleton heart and
diamonds.

"None?" Max asked Armitage dangerously.

Armitage tittered. I wanted to scratch his eyes out. He drew trump
immediately and set up clubs on board, dumping the heart losers from his
hand, and finally sluffing--_two diamonds_.

"Made seven," he said complacently, "less two for the diamond renege
makes five, one overtrick doubled. We were vulnerable, so it's game and
rubber."

I gasped. "You reneged deliberately!"

"Certainly. Doubleton in hearts and diamonds in my hand. If you get in,
I'm down one. As it was, I made an overtrick. The only penalty for a
renege is two tricks. The rule book does not differentiate between
deliberate and accidental reneges. Sorry."

I stared at his florid throat, at his jugular. I could feel my mouth
twitching.

On the next hand I was dummy. I excused myself and went into the lab. I
found a scalpel. I came up quietly behind Armitage and Bishop saw what I
was going to do and shouted and I was not nearly fast enough. Armitage
ducked and Bishop tackled me.

"Thanks, dear," Max said thoughtfully, looking at the cards scattered on
the floor. "We would have been set one trick. Club finesse fails."

"She's crazy!" Armitage's mouth worked. "The strain's too much for her!"

I cried. I apologized hysterically. After a while, I convinced them I
was all right. Max gave me a sedative. We did not play any more bridge.
Over supper I kept staring at Armitage's throat.

After eating, I went for a long walk. When I got back to the ship,
everyone was sleeping.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 1_

Bishop found Armitage this morning, in his cabin. He came out, very
pale, staring at me.

"You bitch," he said. "Ear to ear. Now what'll I do for a partner?"

"You can't prove it," I said.

"We'll have to confine her to quarters," Max said wearily. "I'll tell
Farragut."

"And let him know the expedition is failing?"

Max sighed. "You're right. We'll tell them Armitage had an accident."

I said seriously, "It was obviously suicide. His mind snapped."

"Oh, God," Max said.

They buried Armitage this afternoon. From my cabin, I watched them dig
the grave.

Cheaters never prosper.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 2_

Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He said Armitage had died
a hero's death. Farragut sounds worried. The Pan-Asians have withdrawn
their embassy from Imperial Africa. Tension is mounting on the home
front. Immigration _must_ start this week. Max was very reassuring.
"Just a few final tests, Senator. We want to make sure."

We puttered in our laboratories all afternoon. Bishop seemed bored.
After dinner he suggested three-handed bridge and Max said he knew a
better game, a friendly game his grandmother had taught him--hearts.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 5_

It's a plot!

All day long Bishop and Max have managed to give me the queen of spades.
It's deliberate, of course. Three times I've tried for the moon and
Bishop has held out one damned little heart at the end. Once Max was
slightly ahead on points and Bishop demanded to see the score. I thought
for a moment they would come to blows, but Bishop apologized.

"It's just that I hate to lose," he said.

"Quite," Max said.

When we finally turned in, Bishop was ahead on points.

Too far ahead.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 6_

I suppose it's Bishop's laugh. It has a peculiar horselike stridency
that makes me want to tear out his throat. Twice today I've broken down
and cried when he made a jackpot.

I'm not going to cry any more.

Supper was the usual, beef-yeast and vita-ale. I remember setting
Bishop's plate in front of him, and the way his pale eyes gleamed
between mouthfuls. "Three thousand points ahead," he gloated. "You'll
never catch me now. Never, never!"

That was when he gripped his throat and began writhing on the floor.

Max felt his pulse. He stared at me.

"Very nice," he said. "Quick. Did you use a derivative of that green
fungus?"

I said nothing. Max's nostrils were white and pinched. "Must I make an
autopsy?"

"Why bother?" I said. "It's obviously heart failure."

"Yes, why bother?" he said. He looked tired. "Stay in your cabin,
Greta. I'll bring your meals."

"I don't trust you."

His laughter had a touch of madness.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 10_

Max unlocked my cabin door this morning. He looked drawn. "Listen," he
said. "I've checked my respiration, pulse, saliva, temperature. All
normal."

"So?"

"Come here," he said. I followed him into the lab. He indicated a
microscope. His eyes were bright.

"Well?"

"A drop of my blood," he said. "Look."

I squinted into the microscope. I saw purple discs. Oddly, they did not
attack the red blood cells. There was no fission, no mitosis. The
leucocytes, strangely enough, let them alone.

My hands were shaking as I took a sterile slide and pricked my finger. I
put the slide under the microscope. I adjusted the lens and stared.

Purple discs, swimming in my bloodstream. Thriving. Minding their own
business.

"Me, too," I said.

"They're inert," Max said hoarsely. "They don't affect metabolism, cause
fever, or interfere with the body chemistry in any way. Do they remind
you of anything?"

I thought about it. Then I went to the slide file that was marked
_flora--negative_.

"Right," Max said. "The purple thistle. Spores! The atmosphere is
clogged with them. Greta, my sweet, we're infected."

"I feel fine," I said.

All day long we ran tests. Negative tests. We seem to be disgustingly
healthy. "Symbiosis," Max said finally. "Live and let live. Apparently
we're hosts."

Only one thing disturbs me.

Most symbiotes _do_ something for their host. Something to enhance the
host's survival potential.

We played chess this evening. I won. Max is furious. He's such a poor
sport.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 11_

Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He gave Epsilon a clean
bill of health and the Senator thanked God. "The first starship will
leave tonight," the Senator said. "Right on schedule, with ten thousand
colonists aboard. You're world heroes!"

Max and I played chess the rest of the day. Max won consistently. He
utilizes a fianchetto that is utterly impregnable. If he wins tomorrow,
I shall have to kill him.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAX

_March 13_

It was, of course, necessary for me to destroy Armitage and Bishop. They
won far too often. But I am sorry about Greta. Yet I had to strangle
her.

If she hadn't started that infernal queen's pawn opening it would have
been different. She beat me six times running, and on the last game I
pulled a superb orang-outang, but it was too late. She saw mate in four
and gave me that serpent smirk I know so well.

How could I have ever been in love with her?

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 14_

Frightfully boring to be alone. I have a thought. Chess. Right hand
against left. White and black. Jolly good.

       *       *       *       *       *

_March 16_

I haven't much time.

Left was black this morning and I beat him, four out of five. We're in
the lab now. He's watching me scribble this. His thumb and forefinger
are twitching in fury. He looks like some great white spider about to
spring.

He sees the scalpel, by the microscope. Now his fingers are inching
toward it. Treacherous beast. I'm stronger. If he tries to amputate ...

                                                        --JAMES CAUSEY



Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ May 1955.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.





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