Found on a Deserted World

We found the book in nitrogen,
Cryostorage pure,
A play, a work of unknown parentage:
The King in Yellow.
To Fulston went the honor, first read,
But he fell ill, some wasting thing,
And died before the end
He blamed the book, tried to space the thing,
Lunatic raving, we stopped him,
And Carsta-Weng opened the cover
With reverent hands;
She took her own life, and the book
Out lock 3L, scant hours on.
Much trouble we had, retrieved her and it,
But so it went, Bowen, Schenk, and Reynard,
None could resist a fatal peek;
Hanta read Act Three over the intercom
While I slept, exhausted and ears stopped;
I woke alone but for the cursed play.
I have the thing sealed away,
And 13 weeks to port,
Dare I bring it there?