by E. C. Tubb
But—now—Martin Baker was on the point of contacting the aliens, a contact that could prove to be the end of human civilization.
Live pictures were beamed down from the satellite and World Television carried a commentary as the two ships closed the gap between them.
“A momentous meeting,” the announcer said. “They are matching velocity ready for an exchange of—”
The searing flash of a nuclear explosion filled the screen. Crane was temporarily blinded. When he could see again, there was only scattered debris. Both Earth’s military spaceship and the alien had been vaporized.
The commentator chattered breathlessly before turning to one of the experts for guidance.
“Vice-Admiral Judson, what do you imagine has happened?”
Judson’s face filled the screen as he leaned forward in his chair.
“I’m inclined to say the aliens made a mistake. Obviously they attempted to destroy our ship, but something went wrong. This should be a warning to all of us. We must arm and prepare for war.”
Crane switched off. Judson had double-crossed him. After he’d left the ship, Judson had reset the timer to detonate much later. And he would get the blame.
Crane sat motionless, in shock. He told himself that his objective had been attained; there could be no contact now with the aliens. He felt relief, then guilt at the death of the crew. And, finally, sadness at a lifetime’s friendship ending in betrayal.
Eventually, his survival instinct asserted itself. There was bound to be an enquiry, and Judson had covered himself. He packed hastily and left by the first aircraft traveling south. He ended up on a tropical island billed as a paradise.
* * * *
It was no longer a paradise.
When Crane reached the cave and crawled inside, his face was a mask of ice. Already he regretted leaving the dog as his belly rumbled. He fumbled with gloves and matches and numb fingers. His teeth rattled in his head, but he got a fire going with the sticks laboriously gathered and hoarded.
Outside, gray shadows moved towards the entrance. They squatted a short way off, waiting. Crane loosed off a single shot to warn then to keep their distance.
Smoke filled the cave and made his eyes water. As warmth seeped through his body, he tried to get his boot off. Pain shot up his leg. Gently now! He knew that if he fainted, he’d never wake again.
He realized that his foot was too swollen to have any chance of getting the boot off. He would have to cut it free. He hesitated; boots were essential. But he had to know the worst.
With the warmth of the fire came the smell from his fur and wool. He got out his knife and carefully sliced away the leather till he could ease it away from his woolen sock. And saw bone jutting through dirty flesh and a clot of frozen blood.
He cried, knowing this was the end. He was going to die in this cave.
He built up the fire with his remaining sticks, and reached for paper and pencil. He began to write an account of what had happened. Somebody—a man?—might find it one day and be warned.…
* * * *
“Life on an island a few degrees north of the equator is pleasantly relaxing. Worries vanish. There is no pressure. The heat prevents any but the most casual activity. For much of the time I lazed in the shade and drank lime and iced water. I had enough money for the simple life, and no one bothered me. Possibly those in authority agreed with my action and turned a blind eye.
“I swam in the sea, ate and drank, sometimes took a leisurely stroll, and slept. I realized I was drifting, but it didn’t bother me. I suppose I had just given up.
“It was almost twelve months before the galactics’ second ship was detected. I followed the news on TV, but somehow it didn’t affect me the way the news of the first one had. I was that far gone. I assumed we would claim it was an accident and talk reparations.
“We waited for radio contact but this ship made no attempt to communicate, and ignored our broadcasts. Experts talked knowledgeably about robot probes. Then it turned away from its Earth trajectory and headed directly towards the sun. There were brief hours of panic while engineers spoke of systems failure. The alien fired one missile into the sun and headed back the way it had come.
“And the sun went out.
“There were riots in the cities. New religions sprang up, and governments collapsed. Human activity became meaningless.
“Earth was dark now the moon had no light to reflect. It grew cold. Snow fell and the glaciers marched south. Nuclear power stations were buried beneath the ice and human civilization was overwhelmed. Millions froze to death. Thousands tried to reach the equatorial regions. Wars flared as the inhabitants repelled them.
“‘London under twenty feet of ice’, the last commentator announced before the power failed.
“My tropical paradise became dark and cold, and survival was all that mattered. I was lucky to be on an island and away from the worst of the gangs that fought each other. I robbed a store to get a rifle and ammunition, climbing boots and matches. My fur coat came from the corpse of a wealthy visitor.
“I found a cave along the coast and hid out, eating birds and rats, even insects—though they gave me stomach pains. I survived by hunting. Dog, I found, was the best eating.…”
* * * *
The fire was dying as the last of the wood burned away. Crane’s chilblains itched and the patch of frostbite on his face numbed the chill as he sucked a piece of ice. He had no food. His ankle stopped hurting as he gradually froze.
The hunters moved in, and Crane fired one last bullet.
* * * *
The hunters spotted a dull glimmer among the embers in the cave and fanned it to life. They fed the pages of writing to the flames as the fire blazed up. Then they collected food for cooking.
SUNSKIMMER, by Sydney J. Bounds
“It has been confirmed that a swarm of meteors is orbiting the sun and approaching Mercury. So the question now is, will the powers-that-be cancel this year’s race?”
The voice coming from the widescreen was warm, thrilling and female. The buzz of chatter in the skimmers’ changing room faded to near silence.
They stared at the image of Kate Pilgrim, a smartly dressed newscaster of mature years; behind her over-excited groupies screamed the names of their favorite skimmer.
Duke Halliday viewed Kate with approval, even though her words disturbed him. He imagined the length of the legs under that ankle-touching skirt and sighed.
“You hear that, Duke?” Bull Travers, one of the younger sunskimmers, used a tone of voice that suggested a challenge to their leader. “What d’you propose to do about it?”
Duke’s attention remained with the woman onscreen. “I propose to wait for an official announcement. She’s a media person and exaggerates.”
Bull noticed his concentration on the newscaster and made a shrewd guess.
He expressed his disgust. “She’s old—that’s obscene!”
“Yeah, too old,” Gunner said, leering. “You know the one I fancy? That one.” He pointed to a groupie in a minidress.
“I go for the topless one next to her,” Big Red chimed in.
Each skimmer was a hero to his fans; each could have his pick of the groupies. The screen flashed up the betting odds and Duke saw he was still favorite, but some of the young ones were creeping up.
He was scrambling into a bright red suit, new for the occasion, when Bull put it bluntly.
“Maybe you should retire? If you’re chasing mutton when lamb’s available, you’re getting past it. Time to move over and make room for fresh blood.”
Duke glanced sideways at him. Like you, he thought, and smiled. Skimmers were bald, but Bull was trying to grow a moustache; it took a lot of time to cultivate and he looked ridiculous.
Duke nodded acknowledgement of the challenge. “Let’s see how you finish, shall we?”
He continued suiting up, outwardly calm. A lot was riding on this race, and he’d already made his decision. A sunskimmer didn’t
last forever.
And Kate was from Earth with fascinatingly long legs and on her way up through the hierarchy of Three Planets Video.
No official announcement of a postponement came: Duke checked the skimmers were suited and took his place at their head for the parade. They left the changing room, where mirrors were banned, carrying their helmets; it was cruelly obvious they had been adapted for their off-planet job.
They passed through the hall of mirrors; the glass was slightly convex and their reflections, bolstered by padded suits, suggested powerful bodies. Here they could strut and swagger and indulge in as rich a fantasy life as any macho male. Here they could forget they were adapted.
Leading the parade, Duke marched through a tunnel into the public arena to a roar of approval from the betting crowd and wild screams from the groupies. TV cameras pointed system-wide eyes.
They circled once to cheers and filed out through another tunnel where they paused to fit their helmets. Beyond was the hangar where their ships, each with the pilot’s individual color, waited like a row of ceramic eggs. Big, fat, swollen eggs.
Duke spoke to his personal mechanic: “Any problems?”
“Every little thing’s fine, Duke.”
Jockey-sized and lightweight, even an adapted man found the cockpit a tight fit in his bulky suit. The seat was contoured to fit and a visiting VIP had once joked. “They’ll need a shoehorn to get you in.” Only it wasn’t a joke.
Once the door slid shut he was locked away from the rest of the world. The egg was wheeled to an elevator and the slow climb to the surface of Mercury began. Duke watched for leaks; none. He adjusted the screen to cut down the sun’s glare…and then he was out on the surface and being loaded onto the catapult for launching.
He waited, mentally preparing himself; try to relax but stay alert. A smooth voice said, “Five seconds and counting: one, two, three, four.…”
Gees squashed him into his seat. Then he was high in a sky filled with a blinding glare and orbiting. The screen showed a fissured and cratered surface below, baked to bare rock and dust.
He had no harvester to pick up this trip; speed was everything.
Other eggs came up to join him in orbit; bright blue, yellow, green, purple, up from the rift where humans existed in sealed chambers; only skimmers flew nearer the sun.
He watched his instruments. There was a satisfactory intake from the sun’s outpouring, fuel aboard and being compressed. Still no warning from officialdom so the race was on.
He psyched himself up to win. This was the big one he was gambling on; he had to be first back or he had no future. Bull was right; he was getting old, and had a lot of competition for his Number One slot, young idiots who would take any risk. Well, he had the advantage of experience.
Suddenly, against the blinding brilliance of the sun, a dark cloud blossomed: the starting signal. Duke engaged smoothly and jetted off for the race around the sun.
He jockeyed for position, watching instruments, studying his darkened screen, keeping an eye on the other ships. Speed built up as the ship scooped in more fuel and headed for the sun. A first-timer set the pace and Duke fell in behind him, using his egg as a shield against heat and radiation as yellowish-orange light filled the screen.
The sun’s gravity drew him on, faster and faster, and it was only his jet fuel that enabled him to guide his ship into the orbit he wanted. His onboard computer calculated the time he could spend in the corona with the temperature steadily rising.
He was losing body water, his throat drying out. The outer ceramic shell burnt away, offering up the next layer. The screen dimmed again as the glare increased; he was aiming directly at a huge ball of burning gases, gases under great pressure, with a nuclear heart.
The speed was exhilarating. Normally, while working, he’d have a harvester in tow, a bulky container collecting rare gases as he skimmed the sun’s surface. A repetitious job, boring. The annual race had started unofficially, then had caught on with the gambling crowd and been promoted to the status of big business.
His screen showed a magnetic storm raging below him with flares reaching high. He swerved aside to head for the nearest dark spot, intending to dive for the chromo-sphere where the temperature was lower. His refrigerator had reached its limit.
Then Bull cut in front of him. It was a deliberate tactic. By directing the exhaust from his ship, the younger skimmer intended to confuse Duke’s instruments; it might have worked with a less experienced pilot.
“Hell and damnation!”
Duke struggled to keep his fury under control. It was a dangerous tactic, one that put him at risk, but if Bull intended to pull out all stops that was something two could do.
He dived, picking up energy and speed, and came up directly in front of Bull’s egg to give him a dose of his own maneuver. He was feeling bitter about the attack and stayed in front a fraction longer than necessary to make sure Bull had no chance to beat him. He had to win and was determined to make sure he did.
Blinded, Bull tried to break away. His ship jumped erratically and Duke imagined his panic; his challenger veered out of control and disappeared from the screen.
Duke suppressed a twinge of guilt: Bull had sure as hell asked for it. His jaw set hard and he sucked on the glucose tube.
He put his nose down again, listening to the howl of the jet. The screen showed only flames and the intense white spots he had to avoid.
Now he was betting his life, for the deeper he went the greater the pressure on his ship’s hull; if that cracked, he had no chance. Another layer of ceramic burned away. The heat in the cockpit rose. He knew he was getting too much radiation when his skin began to itch, but he held steady to his master plan: he was gambling on a gravity slingshot to get him home first.
He concentrated on his instruments, guiding the ship into the orbit he needed. Vibration threatened to shake his seat loose. The heat increased and his pressure gauge showed he was past the safety mark and into the red. He waited, watching. Praying…and then shut off his jet.
Gravity flung him out of the sun’s atmosphere at high speed…much too high. Unless he shed the excess he would travel far beyond Mercury.
He flipped the egg end over end and used his jet as a brake. Still too fast to make a landing, but he had the right trajectory. He reprogrammed his computer for one orbit of the planet, calculating he could use that time to continue braking.
He was losing speed, cooling gradually to something more bearable, but his skin itched like fury. Far too much radiation. The egg was dropping at the end of its orbit; lower and lower, coming in to land, and he was still ahead of the pack!
He began to relax, and settled into his final glide path for touchdown.
When he grounded, carving a new furrow and turning rock to dust, suited mechanics surrounded him and maneuvered his egg into the elevator. There was no cheering from this crew; their job was hard work, dealing with one ship after another as each landed.
Duke tried to shrug off the effect of high gees on the way down in the elevator. He was both sweating and dried out, shaking from reaction. The last time, he told himself; he’d finished with tempting death.
The cage reached the bottom of the shaft. Living quarters extended through side tunnels in the rock, each with its own airlock. TV cameras watched as the egg was eased into a decon and sluiced down.
Now came the part he didn’t like, the part all skimmers hated. Duke was hauled out and pushed through his own personal decon, where spy-eyes did not reach; a hero should keep his secrets.
He was peeled from his suit, to reveal red-raw tenderized flesh and sluiced down, sprayed with soothing and scented ointments. A medic squirted drops into his eyes. He suffered a blood change and a marrow transplant. This was routine for an adapted man.
And the last time, he thought gratefully.
Dressed by skilled hands and helped along a short tunnel to the arena and the victor’s podium, weak and shaky, he was propped up before the crowd.
The applause was muted at first, and he heard murmurs behind him. “Bull didn’t make it back…he may have hit a big meteor…someone said he deflected it.”
A chant began, “Duke, Duke!” Once started, the sound swelled to fill the arena and he knew it was going to be all right. Bull was forgotten.
Groupies screamed approval, trying for his attention; he could have his choice of any of them, but his gaze sought out Kate talking excitedly into a microphone to millions of viewers all over the solar system, though it would be hours or days before her voice and image reached some isolated colonies.
As she swayed on long legs, he raised his arm and pointed. “Kate Pilgrim.”
Stunned disbelief almost silenced the crowd. No skimmer chose any girl other than a groupie, and the younger the better. It had to be a joke; a few people laughed nervously. Some groupies started to boo.
TV eyes closed in on Kate, frozen in surprise. This was an offer she’d not anticipated and she struggled with the idea. An adapted man? How would Three Planets Video react to their star newscaster behaving like a groupie? Would she have a job anymore? She shrugged, and accepted the experience of a lifetime with a smile. The arena rocked to wild cheers.
The crowd stared at Duke as he exited the arena with Kate on their way to the victor’s bedchamber. She had to support him, and his quiet voice was for her ears alone.
“I have prize money to come, and my winnings from betting on myself. “I’ll retire rich, Kate.”
She glanced sideways at him. “You’re thinking of more than a victory roll?”
“I’m keen to see something of the solar system, Kate. And off-Mercury, an adapted man has problems.”
She thought it through, a woman used to taking quick decisions, and nodded. “I believe I can con Three Pee Vee into letting me have a ship of my own, and hire you as my personal pilot. We’ll make a good team. You’re on!”
