Forbidden Planet Read online

  They were experienced space explorers. They'd sweated in the jungles of Venus and tasted the dust of dead planets. But nothing prepared them for Altair 4.

  It was a paradise—sure. A topsy-turvy Garden of Eden—with green moonlight, golden grass . . . and the astonishing girl, Altaira.

  But there was horror behind the beauty. There was non-human intelligence at work—and then there was the sudden, shrieking, agonizing death . . .

  This was the forbidden planet—Altair 4.

  And this is the story of the Earthmen who

  risked everything to conquer its secrets.

  M·G·M Presents

  FORBIDDEN PLANET

  STARRING

  WALTER PIDGEON • ANNE FRANCIS • LESLIE NIELSEN

  WITH

  WARREN STEVENS

  AND INTRODUCING

  ROBBY, THE ROBOT

  SCREENPLAY BY

  CYRIL HUME

  BASED ON THE STORY BY

  IRVING BLOCK and

  ALLEN ADLER

  DIRECTED BY

  FRED McLEOD WILCOX

  PRODUCED BY

  NICHOLAS NAYFACK

  A METRO GOLDWYN MAYER PICTURE

  A Bantam Book / published March 1956

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by

  mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam

  Doubleday Dell publishing Group, inc. Its trademark, consisting of the

  words "Bantam Books" and the protrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S.

  Patent and Trademark Office and in othe countries. Marca Registrada.

  Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  CONTENTS

  FORBIDDEN PLANET

  Foreword

  ONE Major (Medical) C. X. Ostrow

  TWO Major (Medical) C. X. Ostrow (continued)

  THREE Commander J. J. Adams

  FOUR Commander J. J. Adams (continued)

  FIVE Edward Morbius

  SIX Major C. X. Ostrow

  SEVEN Commander J. J. Adams

  EIGHT Commander J. J. Adams (concluded)

  Postscript

  FOREWORD

  Excerpts from “THIS THIRD MILLENNIUM—A Condensed Textbook for Students” by A. G. Yakimara, H.B., Soc.D., etc.

  (The following are taken from the revised microfilm edition, dated Quatuor 15, 2600 A.D.)

  . . . So that in the year 1995 the first fully manned satellite Space Station had been established as a ‘jumping off’ place for exploration on the Solar system—and by the end of the year 2100 the exploration (and in certain cases colonization) of the planets in the Solar system had been more than half completed . . .

  * * *

  . . . It seemed then that Space conquest must necessarily be limited to the Solar system—and it was not until 2200, a couple of centuries after the full occupation of the Moon and fifty years after the final banding together of Mankind in one single Federation, that the conquest of Outer Space became a possibility instead of a scientist’s dream. The possibility was brought about by the revolutionary Parvati Theory, which proved as great a step from the Relativity Laws as they themselves had been from the age-old gravity superstition. The Parvati Theory completely negated the Einsteinian belief that “At or past the speed of light, mass must become infinite”—and the way was open for such men as Gundarsen, Holli, and Mussovski to develop and transmute the Theory into fact. Their labors resulted, as regards the exploration of Outer Space, in what is now called the QG (or Quanto-Gravitum) drive . . .

  . . . By the middle of the fourth century in our millennium the first exploratory trips beyond the confines of the Solar System had already been made, and all the time the design, construction and performance of Space craft were being improved . . .

  * * *

  . . . The early days of Outer Space penetration were naturally productive of many events and deeds which have since attained almost legendary quality, perhaps chief of these being the extraordinary story surrounding the two expeditions to Altair, the great mainsequence star of the constellation Alpha Aquilae. The first of these (Aboard the Space Ship Bellerophon) was launched, from Earth via the Moon, on the seventh of Sextor, 2351. The second (on the United Planets Cruiser C-57-D) was launched twenty years later almost to the minute . . .

  In all the annals of Space History as known to man, there is surely no stranger tale than that of what befell the crew of the Cruiser C-57-D when it reached its objective, the planet Altair-4. Like all Cruisers sent on these investigatory missions, it carried a smaller crew than the big Space Ships, only twenty-one in all. Its Commander and Chief Pilot was John Adams. Under him were Lieutenant J.P. Farman, Astrogator; Chief Devisor and Engineer Alonzo Quinn; Major (Medical) C.X. Ostrow—

  ONE

  Major (Medical) G. X. Ostrow

  Well, I’d asked for it hard enough—so it wasn’t any good wishing I hadn’t. But all the same, I couldn’t help it. I wished I was anywhere except in this metal box, this huge oddly shaped shell which felt motionless as a mountain but was really hurtling across Nothing at more than the speed of light . . .

  More than the speed of light! More than six hundred million terrestrial miles an hour!

  At the beginning of the trip I used to find myself writing down that figure all the time—a six and then eight neat little zeros. But it didn’t help. Although I knew it was true, my mind couldn’t really accept it.

  It was different for the other men, of course. They were used to it, used to the thought of it. Except for one or two old space-sweats who’d reached the age of thirty, they were all kids to me. Being over forty myself, I hadn’t been reared to the idea of the QG drive. When I was their age speed was measured in thousands of m.p.h. and we never thought our lifetime would see Man breaking out of the Solar system.

  More than six hundred million miles an hour! I knew I’d never get my mind to stop reeling at the thought of it. Or at some of its sequelae either.

  Take what they call the ‘time-squeeze’ for instance. The kids knew—they automatically accepted—that while time is fixed at each end of one of these preposterous journeys, it is concertina’ed on the journey itself. I didn’t know it; my mind kept rebelling against it. Not being a mathematician, I couldn’t help regarding it as some sort of infuriating conjuring trick. John Adams had told me (and I’d checked with Quinn) that the ‘squeeze’ on this journey, which would be about a year for us, was in ten to one ratio. I’d smiled at them politely, and thanked them for the information—but my mind still boggled at the thought that even if we just reached our destination and went straight back to Earth, I’d only have spent twenty-four months on the round trip but all my friends would be twenty years older.

  Except those of them who’d died in the meantime . . .

  It didn’t matter to me of course. Nothing had mattered much to me since Caroline’s death. But at first I used to wonder about these youngsters who made up the crew. In spite of their youthfulness, most of them were experienced deep-space men—and I couldn’t help worrying about what their lives must be like. Fancy falling in love, for instance, and then leaving on a trip and coming back to find the girl with grey hair and dentures!

  It was this thought, really, that finally put me wise to them. They were a new breed—adventurers set apart from the rest of Mankind as adventurers have always, in a sense, been set apart. But with one great difference: adventurers, old-style, deliberately set themselves apart, secure in the knowledge that the rest of Mankind would wave tear-stained handkerchiefs from docksides and cry, “Come back soon!�
�� But with these boys, nobody (in the personal sense, that is) wanted them to come back, soon or ever. Because nobody likes to be reminded of how rapidly he is approaching the grave—especially if the reminding’s done by an uncanny contemporary who should be as old but somehow isn’t . . .

  So there they were—a bunch of youngsters who, on the surface, were just like any you might find in one of the Services, but underneath were hard-bitten way beyond their years and with no emotional ties to anything except each other and their extra-human work . . .

  By and large I liked most of them at lot. And I think most of them liked me. They certainly took my advice and treatments without any complaint; in fact, before we’d been three or our months on the voyage quite a few of them were coming to me voluntarily, in between checkups.

  But I never seemed to get really close to any of them, not even to any of the officers with whom, after all, I shared all of my off-duty life on the ship except for those hours spent in my own little eight-by-six cage of a cabin.

  Whether they felt the same way about me or not, I don’t know. I’m inclined to think they did—and that the reason for having this final barrier between us, like a sheet of invisible, impalpable plastic, was that I knew and they knew I wasn’t really one of their breed . . .

  II

  I’m not likely to forget that three hundred and fifty-sixth breakfast of the flight.

  I knew it was the three hundred and fifty-sixth, because I’d counted it off on my homemade calendar while I was shaving. So over my second cup of coffee I remarked on it—with intent.

  I said, “The Cook and galley-staff ought to get a medal after this. Three hundred and fifty-six breakfasts—and I’ve never even thought of a complaint.”

  I made it very casual, because I was looking for information—and I’d found out early in the trip that one of the strongest taboos in space travel is the one which bans the very natural question, When do we get there?

  But I wasn’t casual enough. Not for Jerry Farman, anyway. He looked at me with his big grin, then winked at Adams.

  He said, “Time him, Skipper! I can hear the pumps.”

  Adams looked at me. As usual, his expression didn’t give him away. He said, “You ought to have tried that on Lonny Quinn, Doc. He falls easier.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I laughed to show I could take it. “And anyway, Quinn’s on watch.”

  “And I,” said Adams getting up from the table, “am about to relieve him.” He started out, but looked back at me over his shoulder as he opened the door. “However,” he said, “let’s see what you think about Breakfast Number three sixty.”

  The door closed behind him. There’d been no particular inflection in his voice—and I wasn’t sure I’d been told what I wanted to know until I noticed Jerry Farman’s expression. He was staring after Adams in astonishment.

  “Hell, Doc!” He was looking at me now. “You must rate high. Never thought he’d open up like that.”

  So I’d been told we only had three more days to go! I didn’t waste any time finishing the meal and getting away to my eight-by-six. I had an hour to spare before sick-bay, and I wanted to be by myself. To think.

  I bolted the door, and took off my uniform blouse, and sat on the edge of my bunk. I lit a cigarette and started thinking, letting the thoughts come any way they hit. The majority of them, the ones about ending the voyage, were good. The others, about what we’d have to go through before it ended, were bad. I found myself trying to strike a balance between the intense excitement of looking forward to landing on an unknown planet, and my terror at having to go through the ordeal of deceleration before we entered what Quinn and the others called the System’s FI, or Field of Influence.

  In their space-crew slang, the period of acceleration was the Jig, and the period of deceleration, the Jag. And when I looked back at what I’d felt like when I went through the first, just thinking about the second seemed to turn my bones into water. Especially since, from what I’d picked up from the others, the Jag was reckoned the tougher of the two . . .

  The balance was coming out on the wrong side, and I was getting more and more scared every minute. On a sudden impulse, I got up from the bunk and crossed to the other wall and pressed the switch of the exterior viewer . . .

  It was only the second time in the year’s journey that I’d done it. After the first time, I’d sworn to myself I’d never do it again. Not voluntarily anyway. Because what had happened to me shouldn’t happen to a Martian. It wasn’t awesome, like the Jig, but it was bad enough. It was nausea, but with a capital N. It was space-sickness—something most of the boys got over early in their careers, but something I didn’t even want to give myself the chance of getting over.

  However, now I had a reason to try it again. It might make me so glad to be nearly at the end of the trip and out of Space again that the Jag would seem less frightening.

  The screen of the viewer blurred, darkened, began to throb with that inner glow it gets as it warms up . . . The glow faded—and the thing looked like a window, as if the whole double hull behind it had somehow dissolved.

  And outside the window was blackness. Not like any blackness on Earth—or on any other planet. But a blackness with the terrifying solidity of Nothing . . . Even worse, it was Nothing in motion. The impression that the ship was stationary grew stronger, because the Nothingness seemed to be spinning, hurtling past at unbelievable speed. I know those words don’t make sense if you analyze them—but that’s the only way I can describe what it was like.

  My head began to swim, but I leaned forward, gripping the beveled edges of the screen. I forced myself to keep on staring out—and the swimming sensation faded . . .

  But only until the lights began. They were outside the blackness, which was now like a tunnel whose walls had suddenly become transparent. They were impossible lights, shapeless and streaked, scrawling aimless and ugly patterns against the black.

  And because I knew they were stars and it was our unthinkable speed, faster than their light rays, which was distorting them to my eyes, I was suddenly wrenched into awareness it was the ship—the ship and therefore I myself—that was moving . . . My head and stomach rebelled. Sick and reeling, only just saving myself from vomiting there and then, I managed to flip off the switch and stagger back to the bunk . . .

  Although I still felt shaky, I was all right again in a few minutes. But looking out hadn’t done me any good. I was still terrified of the Jag—in some illogical way even more terrified than before . . .

  III

  The hours passed—twenty-six of them. I’d just finished my morning stint of work, when the ‘Attention All Hands’ signal came over the communicator, followed by John Adams’ voice.

  “Now hear this,” it said in the ancient formula. “Now hear this: A General Order to all hands. Shortly, the Artificial Gravity Field will be inoperative. Secure all gear—secure all gear. Section Chiefs report individually when through. That is all.”

  So here it was, H-hour. Which in a little while would be M-minute!

  In fifteen of the minutes I’d cleaned up, watched a couple of Hands turn on all the clamping switches in the surgery, and taken myself back to my eight-by-six, hoping I didn’t look as green as I felt.

  The cabin door was open—and going in, I found the Bosun there, fixing the magnetic clamp switches. I liked the Bosun, and I’d often wished that instead of being a Warrant Officer, he’d been up with me and Adams and Quinn and Farman. Maybe it was because he was a veteran; he must have been all of thirty-two. Anyway, we’d always gotten along very well, particularly after I’d cured him of what he thought was chronic dyspepsia.

  He looked at me and sketched a salute. “Thought I’d see to your cabin m’self, sir,” he said.

  I said, “Thanks very much.” I wished he wasn’t there. Cold sweat was beginning to roll off my forehead, and I had to pull out a handkerchief and mop at it. I tried to cover up by pulling out cigarettes and offering him
one. I said, “Have a smoke—and don’t be so official.”

  He grinned and took a cigarette. He said, “Don’t you worry, Doc. It ain’t pleasant—but it’s soon over.”

  I said ruefully, “Do I look as bad as that?”

  “I seen worse.” He went past me to the bunk and tilted it into the right position for the Jag, and secured it and pulled out the broad webbing straps. He looked at me again. He wasn’t smiling this time. He said, “One thing, Doc: for a Jag, you gotta strap yourself real tight.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” I said. I tried a smile, but it couldn’t have been very successful, because he suddenly reached out a hand and patted me on the shoulder.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “Take it easy.”

  He went out, closing the door behind him.

  I lit a cigarette and walked up and down the cabin, four steps each way. I thought the time was dragging, but it only seemed a couple of minutes before the shrill whistle of the ‘All Hands’ signal came over my communicator.

  “Now hear this,” came Adams’ voice. “All hands to DC stations—all hands to DC stations. Section chiefs report compliance. That is all.”

  It wasn’t only my forehead that was sweating now. I was wet all over. I leaned back against the tilted bunk and braced my feet against the rests and started to fasten the leg straps. The soft woven plastic felt cold and slippery in my fingers.

  The door opened and the Bosun whipped in. I said, “Hi, there—” and didn’t even try to smile this time.

  “Only gotta coupla minutes.” He pushed me back against the bunk. “No time for gab.” He finished strapping my legs—so tight that I began to wonder about circulation. He started on the main body strap, and I groaned and began to complain. And then thought better of it and shut up.