Forbidden Planet Read Free

hand-holds now,” he said. “Grip like you was tryin’ to bend ‘em.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out two little things I couldn’t identify. “These’ll help some,” he said and bent over me and inserted one of them into each of my ears. He looked down at me for a second—and suddenly grinned.
    Then he was gone. A few minutes or years or seconds later I heard—faintly because of the ear plugs—the whistle of the communicator. Three blasts this time—with no voice to follow them . . .
    There was a lull—and then the Jag began . . .
    The first step was a violent, somehow convulsive shuddering which shook the whole fabric of the ship until the thought stabbed through my mind that something was wrong, that some part of the infinitely intricate machine had failed.
    Against the cruel tightness of the straps my body was forced forward until I thought the plastic would sink deep into my flesh.
    Then came the Noise. In spite of the earplugs it seemed to go right through my head like a white-hot scalpel. A sort of apotheosis of sound, which came from tortured metal strained to the very limit of its endurance.
    Then everything—the Noise and the shuddering vibration and the cutting of the straps—it all seemed to merge together and be inside me. I felt as if my whole being—and I mean more than my body—were fighting against a force determined on my utter disintegration . . .
    Then—nothingness . . . Until I came back together and felt hands working on the straps around my legs.
    It was the Bosun. He was standing normally, and I knew the A.G.F. was on again. As he undid the body straps, I managed to croak some words at him. He probably couldn’t make them out, but he knew what I was trying to say.
    He said, “You can quit worryin’, Doc. We’re through—everything’s all terrashape . . .”
    IV
    It wasn’t long before I’d stripped off my sodden clothes and put on a fresh uniform and made my way to the Mess. Except for a headache, and a weak feeling around my knees, I felt pretty good. But I needed a drink—badly.
    I wasn’t the only one, because Farman was there, halfway through a powerful concoction he always called a Spacehound Special. My heart sank when I saw him; I didn’t feel like being ribbed.
    But I needn’t have worried. For once, it seemed, Jerry Farman didn’t feel like pulling legs. He said, “Hi, Doc,” and raised his glass. And then he said, “That was one tough Jag, all right!” He pulled out his cheeks. “Thought I was never coming together again.”
    That made me feel better. I said, “So did I,” and mixed myself a drink and drained half of it at one gulp. “My legs are the worst,” I said. “They don’t feel right, somehow.”
    Farman said, “That’s not you, Doc. That’s the ship. It’s the difference in speed.” He emptied his glass and set it down and started out. But he checked at the door and turned. He said, “Like to come up in the Control Area? Quite a thrill to look in the big peeper now.”
    I grabbed at the opportunity eagerly, so eagerly that I left half my drink untasted and in less than a minute was following Farman along to the Control Area. Adams was in the pilot’s chair, but his eyes were on the eight-foot screen of the big viewer. He didn’t move when we came in, but Quinn saw us and jumped up. He said, “Ah!” and licked his lips thirstily. He looked at me and said, “Sit in my place if you like, Doctor,” and brushed past me and was gone.
    Adams spoke to Farman, still without looking around. He said, “Give me a fix, Jerry, Right away.”
    “Check,” said Farman and slid into his seat in front of the huge astro-globe swinging gently in its transparent case. Quinn’s chair was a little apart from the Pilot’s and the Astrogator’s, beside the two banks of computers. I slipped into it and swung it round and looked across at the screen of the viewer.
    And let out a startled exclamation. Gone was all that sensation of being