Chapter 11

Corriston took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So far luck had favored him. Now he felt as though he were walking through a deadly jungle where all the animals had suddenly turned friendly. The teeth they bared at him were smiling. The grins were their masks. But the commander didn’t pretend at all ... whoever the commander really was!

And then that single question began to gnaw at Corriston like some rat feeding on his flesh: Where was the real Clement now? Was he alive? Was he accessible? Or was he dead?

Corriston’s mental processes were now governed by the most evanescent of impressions: the depth of the shadows on both sides of the corridor; his own shadow lengthening before him; the drone of machinery deep within the Station; the muffled beating of his own heart. Suddenly he was at the end of the corridor and approaching the main control room, his face as grim as death.

Violence he had determined upon, but it would be a very brief, a very effective kind of violence. It takes only a second to rip a mask from a man’s face.

Something was happening just outside the main control room door. The three executive officers guarding the door had moved eight or ten paces down the corridor, and the door itself was standing ajar. The executive officers had their backs turned to Corriston and were making no attempt to conceal their agitation. They were very pale, at least, one of them was. Two had their backs completely turned, but Corriston caught a brief glimpse of the third man’s profile, and it seemed completely drained of color, as if the mask had stopped mirroring emotion artificially and had allowed the wearer’s actual pallor to seep through.

Corriston glided quickly to the door, passed through it and shut it very quietly behind him.

The commander had his back turned too. He was standing before the viewport, staring out into space.

But the commander did seem dazed, did seem stunned. Corriston could tell by his posture, by the way he held his shoulders, by the utter rigidity of his neck.

Then he saw it, the long cylindrical hull touched by a pale glimmer of starlight, the circular, glowing ports, the massive, atomic-projectile launching turrets at its base. He saw it through the viewport, saw it past the commander’s stiffening shoulders--an American war cruiser of formidable tonnage and armed with sufficient fire power to shatter a small moon.

All right, let the Big Dark contain it for a moment, poised out there, ready for any contingency. Right at the moment a scoundrel must be unmasked in a very stark way. Whatever trouble he had brought upon himself, he must be made to face it now without the mask.

Corriston unholstered his gun and walked toward the commander across the deck. He came up behind him and thrust the gun into the small of his back.

“Turn around,” he ordered. “Don’t make any other move. Just turn slowly and face me. I want to take a good look at your face.”

If the commander was startled, he didn’t show it. Perhaps the war cruiser had dealt him such a crushing blow that he was no longer capable of experiencing shock. Or his control may have been extraordinary. Corriston had no way of knowing and it didn’t concern him too much.

He was chiefly interested in the commander’s eyes. He had never before seen eyes quite so piercing in their stare or narrowed in quite such an ugly way.

The commander spoke almost instantly and his voice had a steel-cold rasp. “Well?” he said.

Just a few words--just the shortest possible question he could have asked.

Corriston said: “You’re wearing a mask, aren’t you, commander?”

The impostor’s expression did not change, but his hand went instinctively to his throat.

“Remove your tie and unbutton your collar,” Corriston said.

The man made another quick gesture with his hand in the direction of his throat. But it seemed involuntary, protective, for he did not touch his collar.

Corriston shifted his weapon a little, moving the barrel upward until it pressed very firmly against the commander’s breastbone. He reached out and unbuttoned the commander’s collar with his free hand, very quickly and expertly.

He was staring at the tiny hooks at the base of the mask when something happened which made him regret that he had not followed his original intention of instantly ripping the mask from the man’s face.

The door opened and the three executive officers came into the control room. For an instant they seemed neither to see nor understand the situation. They must have seen Corriston, but the fact that he was wearing a guard’s uniform may have given them the idea that he had every right to be there. The gun was concealed from view and the commander was standing very quietly by the viewport and quite obviously incapable of making any move, simply because the slightest move would have endangered his life.

So the executive officers went right on talking for an instant, half to themselves and half to the commander, just as if Corriston had not been present at all.

“If that cruiser lands, Ramsey’s goose is cooked and ours is too,” a tall officer said. “The instant that freighter crashed I knew they’d find out quickly enough how the ships had been carrying smuggled uranium. I knew that under pressure, half of our captains would talk ... and the crews, too. All the government would have to do is check and they’d find out that we’re Ramsey’s men, all of us. They might even now know about the masks.”

“Why not about the masks?” another officer joined in. “Ramsey paid for the research that went into them, didn’t he? Big tycoon ... fingers in a dozen pies. When the secret’s out, and he puts them on the market, he’ll make important money out of it. But we’ll be in prison with just our own faces staring back at us from a steel wall.”