The Martian Pendant

by Patrick Taylor

  Ballard, dumbfounded, remarked, “How can we be successful here, when in the States, with all their fancy equipment, they failed miserably? Let’s radio our results immediately.”

  Diana looked at the tiny fragments for a minute, and then exclaimed happily, “No. I’ve got a hunch. Get the nuclear counter. Maybe a third condition is needed for penetrating this stuff. I’ve heard of experiments with armor-piercing missiles. They use a core of heavy metal, usually tungsten, obtainable in quantity mostly from China. And with the Communist takeover there, an unlimited source for that metal might be easily cut off. Uranium is of even greater density, and is becoming increasingly available. As you know, spent fuel rods from nuclear reactors, which are worthless for power generation after the useful radioactivity has become depleted, serve that purpose well.”

  Ballard replied, “But they used the same technique as we did, only more so.” Then, seeing the light, he said, “Oh, jolly good thinking, I see what you’re getting at. Their ammo still has tungsten cores!”

  Diana replied, “Precisely.”

  Running into the stone hut with the Geiger counter, Olszewski apologetically panted, “They’re using the scintiscanner at the dig, so I had to settle for this instead.”

  As Diana grabbed it out of his hand, the Geiger counter began to crackle noisily, but only when she closely approached each fragment.

  “I believe we’ve solved it,” she exclaimed. “It’s the radioactivity!”

  Cavanagh added, “And notice that the radiation has a very short range. Alpha particles, probably. Now maybe we’ll be able to develop a way to breach the material without destroying it, but we’ll have to shield ourselves from the radiation.”

  At lunchtime, sitting off by themselves, the four discussed the possibility of a tool that would combine the three essential conditions for penetrating what they all had come to call Impervium. The blacksmith, as a welder, was on the right track when he mentioned the use of the oxyacetylene torch.

  Ballard offered, “There’s our heat source. But how to combine that with the impact force needed and a source of alpha particles?”

  Diana, recalling builder’s tools for drilling into concrete, said, “We’ll combine the torch with a heavy-duty hammer drill. A jackhammer would work, but would be too unwieldy.”

  Ballard asked, “But what alpha source could we use? Anything emitting gamma or even x-rays would be dangerous, and cumbersome as well, considering the shielding necessary.”

  She looked at him expectantly, “You’re the geologist and metallurgist. What element could we use that won’t melt under the great heat of the torch?” Turning to Cavanagh, she asked, “What would emit the kind of radiation that we need? How about a gas?”

  The nuclear scientist replied, “Radon gas. And it’s available from oil refineries as a byproduct of propane production. But the one doing the cutting would have to wear a gasmask, as well as eye protection from the torch.”

  There was silence for a few minutes as they finished eating. “I say!” she blurted out, it’s right under our noses. We could dig the uranium out of the antitank slugs, and use it like welding rods!”

  Capital idea, Diana!” Ballard said, “Its melting point is a little over 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, so it might keep its form at a high enough heat to be effective against the Impervium.”

  They then parted for the work planned that afternoon, after they had commissioned Olszewski to see what he could do to construct their three-way cutting torch.

  “Be careful, Ron,” Cavanagh called out, “Use protective gloves with that uranium. They call it ‘depleted.’ But its half-life is over four billion years, and it has plenty of radiation in it still.”

  That night, she prepared a report for the Cartel on the revelation that radiation was a crucial element. Spent uranium cores in the antitank shells would shatter the resisting fragments, while conventional tungsten cores would not. She also worked into the night drawing up sketches for the cutting torch, based on the ideas of the previous lunch hour. She didn’t know when the next mail would go out, but they readied the plans for that, with the secrecy needed. The Buell Tool people especially would be interested, she decided, and best suited to come up with a practical solution. And the sooner the better.

  Wings

  The word regarding secrecy arrived on the same day as the big tractor-trailer rig carrying the disassembled Stinson L-5. It had been part of the aid given the Soviet Union during the war, and still bore the red star markings. There was no problem painting those out, since the cotton fabric of the plane was the same olive drab color as the war surplus trucks of the expedition, mostly Dodge six-wheelers. The greatest difficulty with the assembly of the Stinson was that the instructions were in Russian, but the plans, even without English, made the job relatively simple. It took only a week for the two mechanics to bolt the wings and tail elements to the fuselage, and to complete the job of readying the craft for flight.

  When she was a child, one of Diana’s cousins had among his toys an “erector set,” little metal girders, wheels and other parts that could be put together in different ways to create toy buildings, machinery or vehicles. When she visited him, she monopolized most of the components. She had always been interested in building things, and this, coupled with the realization that she would be the one expected to fly, led her to take plenty of time checking the mechanics' work. At first they saw Diana's presence as needless interference, but when she pointed out that they were trying to attach the landing gear backwards, they accepted her as a helpful part of their team.

  When at last the job was completed, and the run-up of the Lycoming engine went well, the plane was towed to the little airstrip. She hadn’t logged any flying time in the previous year, and, feeling rusty, acquainted herself with the craft by taxiing up and down a few times. When she became satisfied with the controls and the performance of the engine, she had the tank topped off and a windsock erected. Before the first flight, she noted with satisfaction that the breeze was directly up the runway, minimizing concern regarding crosswinds.

  Before she climbed into the plane for its maiden flight, Max put a white silk scarf around her neck, saying, “Every aviator wears one of these; don’t ask me why.”

  Diana replied, “Boss, these were worn mainly by wartime pilots to minimize chafing of their necks because they constantly had to turn their heads in search of the enemy. My eyes will be riveted on either the horizon or the instruments until I get used to flying this thing. But thanks. If I have to make a forced landing, perhaps it will come in handy as a signal flag or with the natives as a barter item.”

  The L-5, weighing just a ton, and powered by 185 horses, needed only half the short strip to become airborne, true to its nickname, “Grasshopper.” Diana's pilot’s license covered only the horsepower range from zero to ninety, but anticipating the added torque from the Lycoming engine, she gave extra rudder correction on takeoff at full power. Once in the air, the plane handled beautifully, much to her relief.

  As she turned off the carburetor heat, continuing her climb, she was enthralled by the sight around her. The crater of the nearby volcano towering on her right contained the deepest blue water she had ever seen, rivaling the color of the depths of Lake Tahoe in the Sierras on the California-Nevada border. Far to the northwest was a snow-capped peak, partially shrouded in clouds, which she knew had to be Kilimanjaro, and in the middle distance, Mount Meru, with its large crater.

  She practiced some air work, becoming acquainted with the Stinson’s flight characteristics. With the proper trim, she found that it would virtually fly itself. Some time was spent in “Touch and go” landings and take-offs, until she was happy with her competence on that short little strip. The sun was low in the west by then.

  Time to come in, she thought, but first, the radio, which she had forgotten. Switching on the two-way set, and waiting a little for its vacuum tubes to warm up, she pressed the “Send” button. Elated with the flight, she facetiously announce
d, “This is Impervium One, calling Oil-can, come in!” After two more tries, she was beginning to feel some annoyance at there being no response from the camp.

  No one was in the tent with the radio at the time, and the only ears listening were those of Dragunov in his office in Dar. “Impervium!” He exclaimed, “What could that mean?” Obviously, he had never had the opportunity of seeing the “Buck Rogers” comic strip of the Thirties.

  The hot African day was ending as Diana banked for her final approach. An orange sun was just dipping below the distant mountains, and the air was taking on a refreshing coolness. This was the time she always remembered as her favorite experience in flying: Approaching the landing strip in the still air of early evening, with the ground skimming smoothly just below, followed by a perfect three-point landing. Taxiing the plane back to the downwind end of the strip, she turned it into the wind and cut the engine. As she stepped down from the plane, she was greeted by hearty congratulations from her coworkers and handed a cold beer. Diana held up the foaming brew and toasted the appreciative mechanics for their good work. She didn’t dream that the radio transmission had been monitored, or that the operation would be under surveillance by so many.

  The very next day, Diana was needed to fly the bag of mail to Dar for posting. Happy to get some cross-country experience, she took off and headed east. She had thoroughly familiarized herself with the region, enjoying the countryside below. In good weather, navigating by “pilotage,” as it is called, was a delight. She loved maps and the land passing slowly beneath her was just as she had envisioned after studying them. Let us hope the good weather holds up, she thought, I’ve never gotten into instrument flying.

  Dar

  The visibility remained perfect all the way, and after obtaining radio clearance from the tower at the Dar-es-Salaam airport, she made a routine landing, taxiing over to the tie-down area reserved for transient private craft. The little terminal had a coffee shop and a post office, making the visit to the capital a one-stop affair.

  She reviewed her route for the return flight over coffee. When she looked up from the map, she saw the tall blond man who had sold them the L-5. She hadn’t liked him before, and despite the great performance of the plane, she still didn’t like him. He was staring at her with those glacial blue eyes. God, she thought, shivering a little despite the heat, that’s one cold customer. Before she could speculate further, he sat down next to her, leering a little. He introduced himself as the Minister of Mines and Oil Exploration for Tanganyika. She had heard that before. An Afrikaaner using perfect Oxford English? She thought that odd. Not even a hint of the Voortrekker accent. To her, it was another clue that he was a phony.

  “I’m delighted to see that you are using the aircraft we arranged for you, and I watched you land. Very smooth.”

  Diana politely acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a nod, but still couldn’t warm to him despite his British credentials, thinking, How did he know I was in the landing pattern? There must be a number of other light planes of this type around, and they all look alike. She decided then to change the frequency used by the camp. Of course, she thought, anyone would be able to listen in on the band that had to be used when talking to the control tower.

  He ordered coffee just as she asked the waiter for her check. Looking imploringly at her, he said, “Please don’t go. We have much to talk about, you and I. About your connection to the American oil establishment, and their operations that come under the jurisdiction of my office.”

  Diana replied, “I’m sorry, but I must get back. Anyway, I’m only an assistant. You should speak to the people who are running the exploration.”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Howard,” he said, “I have it officially that you’re in charge of the mineral portion of the exploration.”

  Diana detected a note of sarcasm as he pronounced the word “mineral.” What could he know about their first discovery? She tried to hide her surprise, saying, “I’m on loan to the oil companies, but minerals aren’t my department.”

  He smiled enigmatically at that, replying, “Oil exploration, minerals, it’s all the same.” With that, as she picked up her check, her hand was stayed by his. Insisting on paying, he said, “Here, allow me.”

  Again, she shuddered a little, this time at his touch. He seemed so taken with her that she was more than a little frightened. She excused herself, saying, “I’ll pay my own tariff.” Then she beat a hasty retreat to the plane. As she turned the aircraft into the wind and shoved the throttle forward, she wondered, how did he happen to be there? She was somewhat reassured by the logical explanation. His radio had been tuned to the air communications band. But what was that reference to minerals all about?

  Dragunov hurried back to his office at the quayside. He would have some interesting information for his superiors in the Kremlin. Could there possibly be a new element for the Periodic Table? He wondered about that, thinking, they even have a name for it, “Impervium.”

  Diana’s return flight took longer than planned, due to headwinds; her fuel gauge indicated nearly empty on landing. She made a mental note about not cutting it so closely in the future. After all, the L-5 had a range of only 375 air miles.

  CIA Security

  Dan Stuart had no trouble going through customs when he landed at Croyden Airport in London. He planned to spend a few days at a CIA safe house there, just across from MI6, a branch of British Intelligence. The CIA had actually planted bugs in some of the offices there at a cocktail party. It was more of a training drill than actually spying on an ally. Dan had been eager to learn the new techniques involved, and was anticipating the second phase of his overseas mission, that of observing and reporting on the East African Operation. After a week in London, using the latest CIA bugging techniques, he found himself wishing he’d had that expertise to begin with. But now he would be in Africa, where it would probably be useless.

  He recalled Diana telling him of her parents, who lived in London with her young son, Bobby. His love for her made visiting them while there important to him. It was with some nervous anticipation that he called their home.

  Hughes, the butler, answered. “Hello, Howard residence, how may I help you?”

  “Is either Sir Robert or Lady Sylvia in? This is Daniel Stuart. They don’t know me, but I’m a close friend of Diana’s, in London for a few days.”

  Hughes, identifying the voice as American, answered, “From the States? Her letters have served to introduce you quite nicely, sir. From what I’m told, they do, in fact, seem to know you quite well. Lady Sylvia is in. Please wait whilst I put her on.”

  The voice over the phone was excited. “You’re Diana’s Danny, and you’re in London? You must come to dinner with us here. We’re all three dying to meet you after reading all about you in her letters. Young Bobby has even been referring to you as Uncle Dan. You must have won her heart, the way she writes. But Sir Robert won’t be back until tomorrow. Will you be available then, say, around six?”

  His anxiety left him then, and he found himself happily looking forward to meeting them. The following afternoon, alighting from the Underground, flowers in hand, he anticipated with pleasure a personal look at that part of her life he could previously only imagine. The stately Howard mansion impressed him even more as Hughes answered the bell and showed him into the Great Hall that was the library.

  “Please make yourself comfortable, sir. Diana’s parents will be along presently. Pour yourself whatever you wish from among the bottles on the little table. There’s ice and soda water if you choose a mixed drink.”

  As Dan made his way over to where several bottles and glasses were arrayed, his eye became fixed on a display of photographs there. Foremost was a lovely one of Diana in a gown, probably a graduation portrait. Another was of her holding a toddler, and yet another standing in her wartime uniform with an American Eighth Air Force officer, obviously young Bobby’s father. Closely inspecting it, he saw in the man’s face features reminding him of his
own. He poured himself a glass of port; after taking a sip, he wondered if that similarity was one of the reasons Diana had been drawn to him. After taking a look at the label on the bottle, boldly imprinted with the Taylor name, he thought about being in love with a woman with such memories of the past. He’d have to build wonderful experiences with her in the present, so that the memories of the future would overshadow those in her memory.

  Just then Diana’s parents entered the room, with young Bobby between them. Both adults were smiling, slim and erect. Their white hair was still thick, and the blue of their eyes was reminiscent of that lovely combination often seen in Delft porcelain. Bobby was no longer the toddler of the photograph, of course; but while his gangly gait and face betrayed his thirteen years, he was nearly as tall as his father had been.

  The boy was first to speak, rushing forward with a greeting delivered with a typical adolescent squeakiness. “Welcome, Uncle Dan!” Then he hesitated as he smilingly shook hands, adding, “It is okay to call you uncle, isn’t it?”

  Glancing at the two adults and finding their even broader smiles encouraging, he looked the boy in the eye, and returned his firm handshake. At that moment he mused, “Lad, you may even call me dad, if you like.” The grandparents were close behind their grandson, Sir Robert with a warm handshake and sincere welcome, closely followed by Diana’s demonstrative mother, who, on her tiptoes, gave him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. Very unusual for a Brit, he thought, but then he recalled that she was from Milwaukee.

  The evening was spent in conversation, mostly about Diana, over a nice dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, accompanied by an excellent Bordeaux, followed by fruit and cheeses. Bobby was enthusiastic about going to the U.S., a trip apparently promised by his mother when the African dig was finished, and asked numerous questions, especially about California. Dan answered his questions as to where in the States it would be best to visit, all the while thinking of Diana.