QUARANTINED PLANET "On Dephene, the native life -form is peculiar and unique. All protoplasmic life is equal to and one with the mimics." On screen, the shape changed, altered into the shape of a man. Then it changed. It shrank, dropped, lifted a snouted head in the semblance of a dog. It grew, spread wings and became a large bird which hopped and pecked. The wings vanished and a tall and lovely woman smiled from where the bird had halted. A dozen changes, a score until the mind reeled. "These Mimics represent a threat to every world in the entire galaxy. Their power of mimicry would enable them to adopt the outward form of rulers and high officials. A man could never be certain that his companion was what he seemed to be." When Kennedy went to Delphene the speculation became pure nightmare, for both he and his crew were being duplicated over and over - and so was the worlds-conqueror he sought to block.
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
126
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The Cap Kennedy (F.A.T.E.) Series (E.C. Tubb writing as Gregory Kern)
1: Galaxy of the Lost (1973)
2: Slave Ship from Sergan (1973)
3: Monster of Metelaze (1973)
4: Enemy Within the Skull (1974)
5: Jewel of Jarhen (1974)
6: Seetee Alert! (1974)
7: The Gholan Gate (1974)
8: The Eater of Worlds (1974)
9: Earth Enslaved (1974)
10: Planet of Dread (1974)
11: Spawn of Laban (1974)
12: The Genetic Buccaneer (1974)
13: A World Aflame (1974)
14: The Ghosts of Epidoris (1975)
15: Mimics of Dephene (1975)
16: Beyond the Galactic Lens (1975)
17: The Galactiad (1983)
Alien Dust (1955)
Alien Impact (1952)
Journey Into Terror (originally published as Alien Life (1954, rev 1998))
Atom War on Mars (1952)
Fear of Strangers (first published as C.O.D. – Mars (1968))
Century of the Manikin (1972)
City of No Return (1954)
Death God’s Doom (1999)
Death is a Dream (1967)
Dead Weight (first published as Death Wears a White Face (1979))
Escape into Space (1969)
Footsteps of Angels (2004) (previously unpublished work written c.1988)
Hell Planet (1954)
Journey to Mars (1954)
Moon Base (1964)
Pandora’s Box (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)
Pawn of the Omphalos (1980)
S.T.A.R. Flight (1969)
Stardeath (1983)
Starslave (2010) (previously unpublished work written 1984)
Stellar Assignment (1979)
Temple of Death (1996) (previously unpublished work written 1954)
Fifty Days to Doom (first published as The Extra Man (1954))
The Life-Buyer (1965, 2008)
The Luck Machine (1980)
World in Torment (originally published as The Mutants Rebel (1953))
The Primitive (1977)
The Resurrected Man (1954)
The Sleeping City (1999)
The Space-Born (1956)
The Stellar Legion (1954)
To Dream Again (2011)
Venusian Adventure (1953)
Tide of Death (first published as World at Bay (1954))
E. C. Tubb (writing as Arthur MacLean)
The Possessed (revised version of Touch of Evil (1957))
E. C. Tubb (writing as Brian Shaw)
Argentis (1952)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Carl Maddox)
Menace from the Past (1954)
The Living World (1954)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Charles Grey)
Dynasty of Doom (1953)
The Extra Man (first published as Enterprise 2115 (1954) & then as The Mechanical Monarch (1958))
I Fight for Mars (1953)
Space Hunger (1953)
The Hand of Havoc (1954)
Secret of the Towers (originally published as The Tormented City (1953))
The Wall (1953)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Gill Hunt)
Planetfall (1951)
E. C. Tubb (writing as King Lang)
Saturn Patrol (1951)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Roy Sheldon)
The Metal Eater (1954)
E. C. Tubb (writing as Volsted Gridban)
The Green Helix (originally published as Alien Universe (1952))
Reverse Universe (1952)
Planetoid Disposals Ltd. (1953)
The Freedom Army (originally published as De Bracy’s Drug (1953))
Fugitive of Time (1953)
The music had stilled, the trumpet sounding its final, imperious note, and over the arena hung a strained silence as bodies
tensed, heads craning forward, eyes wide as they stared at the oval of sand.
Silver sand which had been swept smooth, ugly stains hidden, marred now only by the slight indentations of feet; soon to be
torn by hooves, brightened with the hue of freshly spilled blood.
Waiting the crowd sucked in its breath, radiating an almost tangible aura of anticipation; a feral hunger which turned expensively
dressed men and women into the simulacrum of beasts. Animals with eyes only for the drama taking place below; careless of
the sun which hung like a crimson ball at the zenith, casting little pools of shadow at their feet, ebon puddles tinged with
red.
The Corrida, long banned on Earth, used here on Marek as an attraction for tourists; a device to cater to primitive lusts, a titivation
for jaded appetites. But there were differences. Here the horns were not shaved. No horses were used to provide an added
attraction, their vocal chords cut to prevent distressing screams as their guts spilled to the sand. And the animal, a mutated
bull, would not die if it should win.
Spice to add to the pleasure, but details the crowd ignored as they stared at the sand, the solitary figure it contained.
A man who danced with death.
He was very tall, his face with the hooked nose and elongated eyes impassive, his skin a pale ruby in the brilliant light
of the sun. He wore a costume which had originated on a different world in another time; tight pants puffed at the thighs,
a tight jacket, short and with close-fitting sleeves, a hat of peculiar shape. The pants, the jacket, the shirt he wore beneath
it, even the hat were all crusted with sequins which caught and reflected the light so that he seemed to stand bathed in a
halo of fire.
Fire which was accentuated by the cloak he carried over the sword, a shimmering scrap of fabric which rippled beneath his
hands, the only visible sign of his nervous strain.
“He’s overtense,” whispered Dyar Chalal. “Ten thousand on the bull.”
Sylvia Lipousky yawned. “Odds?”
“Two to one.”
“Taken.”
She yawned again, white teeth flashing in the sunlight, sparkles matched by the gleam of gems on her slender fingers. A tall,
well-shaped young woman, her blonde hair a mass of convoluted strands on the delicate roundness of her skull; her skin like
velvet the color of cream, the smooth perfection marred by the trace of lines on the cheeks, the corners of her eyes. A face
which in repose was angelic; when awake and aware, the mask of a spoiled and decadent beauty. The mouth, full and soft, was
a little petulant. The voice, mellifluous, held the trace of irritated impatience.
“Why don’t they begin?”
She had spoken too loudly and heads turned to frown at where she sat. Frowned and turned away. She had taken the Manager’s
dais, the most expensive spot in the entire arena; her wealth, if not her beauty, would grant her a tolerance withheld from
those in the cheaper seats.
“Soon now,” murmured Chalal. He was a Bossonian, as smooth and as subtle as all his race. A creature seeming to be made of
oil and innuendo, a master of flattery, a sycophant. Casually he lifted a hand, the sun winking from his rings, the wide
bracelet he wore, the gleam of polished nails. A watchful attendant stepped quietly to his side.
“Sir?”
“Wine. The best. Chilled and served in crystal goblets.”
A bad time to order refreshments, but the attendant knew better than to make a comment. Knew also that, before he could return,
the drama would begin. A spectacle which he would now miss, but nothing of his angry disappointment showed in his eyes or
manner. Marek was a poor world, his job supported a family of nine; lose it and they and he would starve.
The crowd sighed as he turned to leave.
It was the gusting of a wind, the release of constrained breath, rising as doors opened at the end of the sanded oval.
Through them came the bull.
It was a magnificent beast; the humped shoulders almost five feet above the ground, the horned head lowered, the horns themselves
viciously curved, needle-sharp. Its hide gleamed like oiled jet in the sun. The hooves which scraped at the sand were like
knives.
Without warning it charged.
The matador barely moved, only the cloak he held lifted a little from his side, the surface shimmering, catching the creature’s
eyes, guiding it to one side; allowing it to pass so close that a minor rain of sequins fell in a gleaming shower from the
ripped side of the jacket.
As one the crowd yelled its appreciation.
“Omarle! Omarle! Omarle!”
He ignored the sound, the chanting of his name, knowing they would have cheered as loudly had the horn ripped flesh instead
of cloth. He turned, quicksilver in his grace, the cloak rippling, guiding, turning as he spun on one heel to follow the thrusting
horns. For a moment man and beast seemed as if one and then they parted; the bull, snorting in its rage, sand pluming beneath
its hooves, little eyes redly inflamed.
The next time it charged it veered at the last moment, and now blood joined the rain of sequins to the sand.
“I knew it!” Chalal’s voice was triumphant. “The man is too nervous, the bull has killed before. I could have given you ten to one, my dear, and still be confident of winning.”
Her face was turned away from him; he didn’t see the spasm of anger which narrowed her eyes and thinned her lips. The money
meant nothing, but to have been taken for a fool—!
She said, coldly, “Previous knowledge, Dyar?”
“A fragment of gossip, my dear.”
“Which you withheld for personal advantage?”
Immediately he realized the dangerous path he was treading and, instantly repaired the damage.
“A jest, Sylvia. Naturally the bet is void if you wish. A little something to ease the monotony.” Shrewdly he added, “Three
to one he will be gored during the next four passes.”
“Taken. A thousand?”
“Agreed.”
The matador was hurt though he managed to hide his pain, his growing fear. Money had lured him into the arena, the prize he
would collect, the cash which would be thrown from the appreciative crowd. The girl on the Manager’s dais would surely be
generous at the gift of the ears. With what he hoped to gain he could heal his wound, retire, set up his own school. Never
again would he need to pit his skill against a beast ten times his weight and twice his speed.
The next pass then, he decided. It would cut short the entertainment, but to wait too long was to risk too much. Blood stained
his side and the rip was an acid burn which robbed him of concentration. The sand was no longer smooth and he could slip,
or be slowed.
And then, through the open door from which the bull had come, he saw the Manager; one hand lifted, the palm towards him, five
of the seven fingers raised.
Five more passes?
Five!. . .
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