Ferngraum mopped his forehead unhappily.
"It's a beautiful place," he continued with no enthusiasm whatsoever. "Average temperature of seventy-one degrees. Mountainous, but fertile. Waterfalls, rainbows, all that sort of thing. And no fauna at all."
"Sounds perfect," Gregor said. "Micro-organisms?"
"Nothing dangerous."
"Then what's wrong with the place?"
Ferngraum looked embarrassed. "Maybe you heard about it. The Government catalogue number is RJC-5. But everyone else calls it "Ghost V"."
Gregor raised an eyebrow. "Ghost" was an odd nickname for a planet, but he had heard odder. After all, you had to call them something. There were thousands of planet-bearing suns within spaceship range, many of them inhabitable or potentially inhabitable. And there were plenty of people from the civilized worlds who wanted to colonize them. Religious sects, political minorities, philosophic groups — or just plain pioneers, out to make a fresh start.
"I don't believe I've heard of it," Gregor said.
Ferngraum squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. "I should have listened to my wife. But no — I was gonna be a big operator. Paid ten times my usual price for Ghost V and now I'm stuck with it."
"But what's wrong with it?" Gregor asked.
"It seems to be haunted," Ferngraum said in despair.
Ferngraum had radar-checked his planet, then leased it to a combine of farmers from Dijon VI. The eight-man advance guard landed and, within a day, began to broadcast garbled reports about demons, ghouls, vampires, dinosaurs and other inimical fauna.
When a relief ship came for them, all were dead. An autopsy report stated that the gashes, cuts and marks on their bodies could indeed have been made by almost anything, even demons, ghouls, vampires or dinosaurs, if such existed.
Ferngraum was fined for improper decontamination. The farmers dropped their lease. But he managed to lease it to a group of sun worshippers from Opal II.
The sun worshippers were cautious. They sent their equipment, but only three men accompanied it, to scout out trouble. The men set up camp, unpacked and declared the place a paradise. They radioed the home group to come at once — then, suddenly, there was a wild scream and radio silence.
A patrol ship went to Ghost V, buried the three mangled bodies and departed in five minutes flat.
"And that did it," Ferngraum said. "Now no one will touch it at any price. Space crews refuse to land on it. And I still don't know what happened."
He sighed deeply and looked at Gregor. "It's your baby, if you want it."
Gregor and Arnold excused themselves and went into the anteroom.
Arnold whooped at once, "We've got a job!"
"Yeah," Gregor said, "but what a job."
"We wanted the tough ones," Arnold pointed out. "If we lick this, we're established — to say nothing of the profit we'll make on a percentage basis."
"You seem to forget," Gregor said, "I'm the one who has to actually land on the planet. All you do is sit here and interpret my data."
"That's the way we set it up," Arnold reminded him. "I'm the research department — you're the troubleshooter. Remember?"
Gregor remembered. Ever since childhood, he had been sticking his neck out while Arnold stayed home and told him why he was sticking his neck out.
"I don't like it," he said.
"You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
"No, of course not."
"Well, we can handle anything else. Faint heart ne'er won fair profit." Gregor shrugged his shoulders. They went back to Ferngraum.
In half an hour, they had worked out their terms — a large percentage of future development profits if they succeeded, a forfeiture clause if they failed.
Gregor walked to the door with Ferngraum. "By the way, sir," he asked, "how did you happen to come to us?"
"No one else would handle it," Ferngraum said, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Good luck."
Three days later, Gregor was aboard a rickety space freighter, bound for Ghost V. He spent his time studying reports on the two colonization attempts and reading survey after survey on supernatural phenomena.
They didn't help at all. No trace of animal life had been found on Ghost V. And no proof of the existence of supernatural creatures had been discovered anywhere in the galaxy.
Gregor pondered this, then checked his weapons as the freighter spiralled into the region of Ghost V. He was carrying an arsenal large enough to start a small war and win it.
If he could find something to shoot at...
The captain of the freighter brought his ship to within several thousand feet of the smiling green surface of the planet, but no closer. Gregor parachuted his equipment to the site of the last two camps, shook hands with the captain and 'chuted himself down.
He landed safely and looked up. The freighter was streaking into space as though the furies were after it.
He was alone on Ghost V.
After checking his equipment for breakage, he radioed Arnold that he had landed safely. Then, with drawn blaster, he inspected the sun worshippers' camp.
They had set themselves up at the base of a mountain, beside a small, crystal-clear lake. The prefabs were in perfect condition.
No storm had ever damaged them, because Ghost V was blessed with a beautifully even climate. But they looked pathetically lonely.
Gregor made a careful check of one. Clothes were still neatly packed in cabinets, pictures were hung on the wall and there was even a curtain on one window. In a corner of the room, a case of toys had been opened for the arrival of the main party's children.
A water pistol, a top and a bag of marbles had spilled on to the floor.
Evening was coming, so Gregor dragged his equipment into the prefab and made his preparations. He rigged an alarm system and adjusted it so finely that even a roach would set it off. He put up a radar alarm to scan the immediate area. He unpacked his arsenal, laying the heavy rifles within easy reach, but keeping a hand-blaster in his belt. Then, satisfied, he ate a leisurely supper.
Outside, the evening drifted into night. The warm and dreamy land grew dark. A gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the lake and rustled silkily in the tall grass.
It was all very peaceful.
The settlers must have been hysterical types, he decided. They had probably panicked and killed each other.
After checking his alarm system one last time, Gregor threw his clothes on to a chair, turned off the lights and climbed into bed. The room was illuminated by starlight, stronger than moonlight on Earth. His blaster was under his pillow. All was well with the world.
He had just begun to doze off when he became aware that he was not alone in the room.
That was impossible. His alarm system hadn't gone off. The radar was still humming peacefully.
Yet every nerve in his body was shrieking alarm. He eased the blaster out and looked around.
A man was standing in a corner of the room.
There was no time to consider how he had come. Gregor aimed the blaster and said, "Okay, raise your hands," in a quiet, resolute voice.
The figure didn't move.
Gregor's finger tightened on the trigger, then suddenly relaxed. He recognized the man. It was his own clothing, heaped on a chair, distorted by the starlight and his own imagination.
He grinned and lowered the blaster. The pile of clothing began to stir faintly. Gregor felt a faint breeze from the window and continued to grin.
Then the pile of clothing stood up, stretched itself and began to walk towards him purposefully.
Frozen to his bed, he watched the disembodied clothing, assembled roughly in man-like form, advance on him.
When it was halfway across the room and its empty sleeves were reaching for him, he began to blast.