Alan E. Nourse Super Pack. Alan E. Nourse

      Plague!

      In the control room the interstellar radio and teletype-translator were silent. The red light on the call board was still blinking; Tiger turned it off with a snap. “Here’s the message that just came in, as near as I can make out,” he said, “and if you can make sense of it, you’re way ahead of me.”

      The message was a single word, teletyped in the center of a blue dispatch sheet:

      GREETINGS

      “This is all?” Jack said.

      “That’s every bit of it. They repeated it half a dozen times, just like that.”

      “Who repeated it?” Dal asked. “Where are the identification symbols?”

      “There weren’t any,” said Tiger. “Our own computer designated 31 Brucker from the direction and intensity of the signal. The question is, what do we do?”

      The message stared up at them cryptically. Dal shook his head. “Doesn’t give us much to go on, that’s certain. Even the location could be wrong if the signal came in on an odd frequency or from a long distance. Let’s beam back at the same direction and intensity and see what happens.”

      Tiger took the earphones and speaker, and turned the signal beam to coincide with the direction of the incoming message.

      “We have your contact. Can you hear me? Who are you and what do you want?”

      There was a long delay and they thought the contact was lost. Then a voice came whispering through the static. “Where is your ship now? Are you near to us?”

      “We need your co-ordinates in order to tell,” Tiger said. “Who are you?”

      Again a long pause and a howl of static. Then: “If you are far away it will be too late. We have no time left, we are dying....”

      Abruptly the voice message broke off and co-ordinates began coming through between bursts of static. Tiger scribbled them down, piecing them together through several repetitions. “Check these out fast,” he told Jack. “This sounds like real trouble.” He tossed Dal another pair of earphones and turned back to the speaker. “Are you a contract planet?” he signaled. “Do we have a survey on you?”

      There was a much longer pause. Then the voice came back, “No, we have no contract. We are all dying, but if you must have a contract to come....”

      “Not at all,” Tiger sent back. “We’re coming. Keep your frequency open. We will contact again when we are closer.”

      He tossed down the earphones and looked excitedly at Dal. “Did you hear that? A planet calling for help, with no Hospital Earth contract!”

      “They sound desperate,” Dal said. “We’d better go there, contract or no contract.”

      “Of course we’ll go there, you idiot. See if Jack has those co-ordinates charted, and start digging up information on them, everything you can find. We need all of the dope we can get and we need it fast. This is our golden chance to seal a contract with a new planet.”

      All three of the doctors fell to work trying to identify the mysterious caller. Dal began searching the information file for data on 31 Brucker, punching all the reference tags he could think of, as well as the galactic co-ordinates of the planet. He could hardly control his fingers as the tapes with possible references began plopping down into the slots. Tiger was right; this was almost too good to be true. When a planet without a medical service contract called a GPP Ship for help, there was always hope that a brand new contract might be signed if the call was successful. And no greater honor could come to a patrol craft crew than to be the originators of a new contract for Hospital Earth.

      But there were problems in dealing with uncontacted planets. Many star systems had never been explored by ships of the Confederation. Many races, like Earthmen at the time their star-drive was discovered, had no inkling of the existence of a Galactic Confederation of worlds. There might be no information whatever about the special anatomical and physiological characteristics of the inhabitants of an uncontacted planet, and often a patrol crew faced insurmountable difficulties, coming in blind to solve a medical problem.

      Dal had his information gathered first—a disappointingly small amount indeed. Among the billions of notes on file in the Lancet’s data bank, there were only two scraps of data available on the 31 Brucker system.

      “Is this all you could find?” Tiger said, staring at the information slips.

      “There’s just nothing else there,” Dal said. “This one is a description and classification of the star, and it doesn’t sound like the one who wrote it had even been near it.”

      “He hadn’t,” Tiger said. “This is a routine radio-telescopic survey report. The star is a red giant. Big and cold, with three—possibly four—planets inside the outer envelope of the star itself, and only one outside it. Nothing about satellites. None of the planets thought to be habitable by man. What’s the other item?”

      “An exploratory report on the outer planet, done eight hundred years ago. Says it’s an Earth-type planet, and not much else. Gives reference to the full report in the Confederation files. Not a word about an intelligent race living there.”

      “Well, maybe Jack’s got a bit more for us,” Tiger said. “If the place has been explored, there must be some information about the inhabitants.”

      But Jack also came up with a blank. Central Records on Hospital Earth sent back a physical description of a tiny outer planet of the star, with a thin oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, very little water, and enough methane mixed in to make the atmosphere deadly to Earthmen.

      “Then there’s never been a medical service contract?” Tiger asked.

      “Contract!” Jack said. “It doesn’t even say there are any people there. Not a word about any kind of life form.”

      “Well, that’s ridiculous,” Dal said. “If we’re getting messages from there, somebody must be sending them. But if a Confederation ship explored there, there’s a way to find out. How soon can we convert to star-drive?”

      “As soon as we can get strapped down,” Tiger said.

      “Then send our reconversion co-ordinates to the Confederation headquarters on Garv II and request the Confederation records on the place.”

      Jack stared at him. “You mean just ask to see Confederation records? We can’t do that, they’d skin us alive. Those records are closed to everyone except full members of the Confederation.”

      “Tell them it’s an emergency,” Dal said. “If they want to be legal about it, give them my Confederation serial number. Garv II is a member of the Confederation, and I’m a native-born citizen.”

      Tiger got the request off while Jack and Dal strapped down for the conversion to Koenig drive. Five minutes later Tiger joined them, grinning from ear to ear. “Didn’t even have to pull rank,” he said. “When they started to argue, I just told them it was an emergency, and if they didn’t let us see any records they had, we would file their refusal against claims that might come up later. They quit arguing. We’ll have the records as soon as we reconvert.”

      *

      The star that they were seeking was a long distance from the current location of the Lancet. The ship was in Koenig drive for hours before it reconverted, and even Dal was beginning to feel the first pangs of drive-sickness before they felt the customary jolting vibration of the change to normal space, and saw bright stars again in the viewscreen.

      The star called 31 Brucker was close then. It was indeed