by E. C. Tubb
They disappeared from public view through a door where cameras were not allowed.
She undressed briskly, folding her clothes, while he marveled at the length of an Earth woman. He knew a moment of embarrassment, and then a siren screamed and the room shuddered. A few fittings toppled to the floor. A crack appeared in the ceiling and dust fell.
Alarmed, Kate started towards him. “What—?”
Duke froze. It was not so easy to forget Bull Travers now, and his voice developed a sudden tremor.
“Meteor strike!”
A TIME FOR CONTACT, by Sydney J. Bounds
Maurey said, “What in hell is it?”
Johns stared in fascination as Maurey piloted their ship in close to the strange object. “Metallic?” he suggested doubtfully.
Maurey watched distance and worried. “Could it be anti-matter?”
“Unlikely.” Kennedy, a plump owl of a physicist, looked up from his instruments. “I’d say it has been in the Belt a few centuries. Look at the surface, scored and pitted—plenty of meteoric dust has hit in that time. No, it’s not anti-matter, whatever it is.”
“It hardly reflects at all,” Johns said. “If it hadn’t been for Ken’s instruments, we’d never have found it.”
The prospecting ship, Hunter, out from Mars colony, was searching for minerals. But this trip, in addition to the normal crew of pilot and geologist, it carried an image converter.
Maurey checked his orbit against that of the object, watched his radar; in the Belt, there were altogether too many pieces of debris drifting around. It was an unhealthy spot.
Hunter edged nearer to the object; almost spherical, larger than the ship, bristling with bumps like inverted craters. Asteroids of this size are, without exception, highly irregular in shape. It was very odd.
“A probe?” Kennedy said thoughtfully.
“Too old—”
“I didn’t mean one of ours.”
Maurey snorted disbelief as he burned fuel to circle the object; and saw what might be a cluster of exhaust vents.
Kennedy sucked in air. “An automated probe from another star system. It has to be. Intelligence!”
Maurey allowed Hunter to drift until the two hulls touched; he cut his engine and the ships stayed together.
Johns helped Kennedy encase his oval form in a spacesuit. “There has to be a way into that thing, and I’m going to find it.”
He went out through the lock and Maurey and Johns watched as he clambered from bump to bump over the alien hull. Long minutes passed before the radio exclaimed: “Got it!” They saw a dark opening into which Kennedy vanished.
Maurey said, uneasy: “We shouldn’t have let him go alone. There’s no telling what might be inside.”
“Nothing living, that’s a safe bet.”
Maurey spoke into his Mike: “Are you receiving me, Ken?”
The radio remained silent. “Their hull cuts off transmission,” Maurey said, considering. “Suit up, Johns, and be ready to go in after him.”
They waited, tension mounting. The geologist, stringy and experienced, slid easily into his seat. Then Kennedy appeared at the open hatch, waving. Excitement lifted his voice.
“It is a probe, and fully automated—no indication that anyone was ever aboard. But there’s something queer, come and see for yourselves. This could be the big one we need.”
Johns said, “I’ll be right with you,” and hurried through the lock.
Maurey’s mouth twisted wryly. Trust Johns and Kennedy to put the colony first; if it was good for Mars, they wanted it. He didn’t fit the pattern and it had taken him a long time to realize it; but now he wanted out. And it would be nice to go back with the big haul.
He suited up and cycled the lock, moved cautiously over the bumpy surface of the alien probe to the hatchway. Hunter was safe enough; she’d continue in her present orbit indefinitely.
Space was a black ocean to all his horizons, the stars unwinking colored lights. Looking alone the plane of the Belt, stars went out as otherwise invisible asteroids cut across them.
The light from Maurey’s helmet showed a narrow passage beyond the hatch; no airlock. The passage swelled out in a compartment filled with hardware. He recognized a computer, a communications system; other equipment was totally without meaning for him. So it was extraterrestrial, and a real find if he could make anything of it.
His first thought was for the drive, but that, apparently, was sealed away behind a metal bulkhead. He located Johns and Kennedy in a central compartment, staring through an open doorway into a small chamber; the chamber was lined with crystal and numberless facets glowed softly in the light from their headlamps. In the heart of the crystal was a black core; a dense blackness that might have been space itself. A total void.
“What d’you think. Maurey?” Johns asked. “This crystal is unlike anything I’ve met. Watch.” He extended his arm till his hand entered the black area. The crystal glow brightened and set up a vibration that issued through their suits.
Kennedy looked up from his inspection of an electronic grid seemingly embedded in the outer surface of the crystal frame.
“Solid state stuff, this—” He peered thoughtfully into the core. “Something is meant to pass through, that’s obvious. Know what I think? They have matter transmission.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that they send their probe-carrier the long way. A transmitter has to have a receiver, after all. When the probe signals as suitable world, they come through. Instantly.”
“And it got stuck in the Belt—far from suitable, I’d say.”
“That depends on the aliens. Maybe they did.…”
Maurey’s scalp lifted. He felt as if unseen eyes viewed him. He turned away and searched the probe thoroughly, and nowhere did he find an indication that living beings had ever inhabited it.
He rejoined the others as Johns was saying: “So maybe they didn’t come through at all.”
Maurey said, “There’s only one way to find out.”
“If you mean what I think you mean, there’s no hurry. It’s been here a long while. And we’ve got to report this.”
Yeah, Maurey thought cynically, get our names at the top of the role of fame. Stake our claim.
They returned to Hunter and stripped suits. Maurey set about preparing a meal while Kennedy juggled wavelengths, calling Mars. It was lucky they had the physicist this trip; he had a contact laid on for his research.
“Hunter to Mars colony. We have discovered an alien probe. Automatic, no clue to the makers. Probably been in the belt for centuries. It looks as though it might have a matter transmitter built into it and, if so, there’s a lot of technology here for the taking.”
Mars came back, excited. “Keep this quiet. Stay off the air. Can you bring your find down to the surface?”
Kennedy turned from the mike. “How about that, Maurey?”
Maurey pondered as he adjusted the infrared grill. There were problems; the probe was larger than Hunter, but they had grappling tackle to deal with asteroids. “Yeah, I can bring it down.”
Kennedy relayed his decision and Mars returned with enthusiasm. “Fine. Do that then. We’ll—”
A new voice roared into the circuit, powerful, overriding their contact. “This is Earth Authority monitoring. We hear you. Mars colony, you have no jurisdiction in this matter. Hunter, here are your orders: you will leave the probe exactly where it is. Do not interfere with anything aboard—we’ll send experts to investigate. Transmit coordinates for locating it. Bear in mind that the probe may be booby-trapped—”
Maurey felt cold sweat trickle under his armpits…they had gone over the alien craft without once thinking of that possibility.
Earth Authority continued: “Do you read us, Hunter? Transmit coordinates now.”
Kennedy switched off, said savagely: “If these bastards get it, we’re no better off.”
Maurey almost laughed. Johns and Kennedy, like the majority of colonists on mar
s, wanted a complete break with Earth. They wanted to be self-supporting and run their own lives. They badly needed the advanced technology the probe represented.
Johns sighed. “We can’t take it down now—it would be too easy to find. But here, one of a thousand asteroids, its exact position unknown, we buy time.”
Maurey handed round toasted sandwiches, plastic wrapped. “We’ve still got to eat,” he said, and added casually: “We ought to go through, make contact first.”
Johns started. “You figure it’s safe to operate?”
Kennedy said, “Either it’s safe, or it’s not. I like it.”
“Another world. Instant transportation to all kinds of minerals. We’ll break Earth’s monopoly with one blow.”
Both Johns and Kennedy looked pleased with the idea.
And if its booby-trapped, Maurey thought, so what? A spacer risked his life every time he blasted off. For the jackpot, all it took was one more risk.
“You’re ruled out,” Kennedy told him. “We can’t get down without a pilot. Johns and I will toss for it—whoever wins goes straight through. And back, we hope.”
“Not so fast,” Maurey said, “you’re both forgetting something.”
His imagination raced. First contact with intelligent aliens. What was that worth in terms of fame and fortune? Every newscast in the system would want the story, his story. He could write his own contract on that one. His own ship…he knew he’d never retire.
“I’m captain of Hunter, remember? And I say sleep on it, finish your meal, and rest. You can explore when you’re fresh.”
Johns hesitated, reluctant. “That makes sense, I suppose.”
Kennedy nodded agreement.
Maurey relaxed, dreaming of the big time. What would they be like, the aliens? Was communication possible? What sort of cities, society, technology?
He waited for Kennedy and Johns to sleep. It seemed a long wait. Finally, satisfied that both were sound asleep in their cocoons, he left his seat, suited up and passed through the lock.
He crawled over the rough surface of the alien probe, alone, damping his excitement. At the hatchway, he looked back at Hunter silhouetted against a familiar star field, wondering if he’d see either again. Inside, he went directly to the central compartment, opened the door and looked into the black heart of the crystal room.
He reached out a hand and touched nothing; the crystal glowed and vibrated. Holding his breath, he stepped forward into solid blackness; the hum of vibration went up and up…and he stepped through into a second chamber, a duplicate of the one he’d just left. The door was shut. He tried it and it refused to open.
He got his shoulder to it and leaned with his full weight. It shifted slightly, a crack appeared at the edge, faint light beyond. He heaved again, and again, and the door gave enough for him to squeeze through.
He saw now it was a weight of fine dust that had prevented the door opening easily. A dusty landscape stretched before him, a flat plain. He took a few steps and looked up; the pattern of stars was different—he had crossed to another system.
Maurey stared about him.
An empty landscape, no wind stirred the bleak and desolate plain of dust. He saw the crumbling ruins of a fallen monolith. Silence. A wasting desert as far as he could see, all under a dull red sun.
And he sensed the chance of contact had long passed. The probe had taken so many millions of years to reach the solar system that its makers were now extinct.
WRITER FOR HIRE, by Sydney J. Bounds Writing as David Somers
Jerome Gentry stepped briskly out from Uxford station, briefcase under arm, and looked about him. It was his first visit; but publishing houses tended to push farther and farther out from city center. Yet the House of Horror had always been here; originally a small printing shop, now grown to a concrete-and-glass tower dominating the suburban sprawl all around it.
He glanced at the high clock—ten minutes to his appointment—and crossed the road between traffic streams, shuddering, he blocked his mind to that thought. He was no longer a fiction writer creating fantasy, but a journalist taking down fact. Horror after horror was recounted until his writing hand numbed and his brain refused to accept a neat compact man sporting rimless spectacles. He mounted black stone steps and pushed in through swing doors, their glass engraved with a pair of griffin, rampant. Inside, the hall was cool with air-conditioning, the floor tessellated in some fantastic decor. Contemporary, no doubt. He marched straight to the row of lifts, studied names, selected his floor and pressed a button.
He rose swiftly to his first meeting with the managing editor, of the House of Horror. A miniskirted secretary met and ushered him into a carpeted office.
Nicholson, bony, with a brooding cast to his olive-skinned face, sat behind an outsized desk flanked by racks of the books he produced: Nightmare, Creeps, Tales of Terror, each glossed with a sexy cover. They were notorious in the trade, but big sellers. The public lapped them up and Gentry had heard they paid above average for material.
Nicholson, appearing harassed, jumped up to offer a skeletal handshake and a chair. “Glad you’re here, Gentry. I’ve interviewed a number of writers but, judging by your letter, you’re the man for us.”
Gentry up zipped his briefcase and pulled out tear sheets and a couple of photocopies. “The genre has always interested me,” he began—but Nicholson waved him down with scarcely a glance at his samples.
“We’re in a jam and need a writer badly. Our last…well, he’s not available any more. I’m under pressure to produce and the important thing is that you can turn out work fast. I’ll explain our method of working. You don’t need to think up plots. We’ll supply outlines—your job is to put flesh on the bones. Get me?”
“I think I know what you mean.”
After discussing terms, Gentry said: “I’ll give it a try.”
“Fine, fine.” Nicholson reached for a flimsy from among the papers on his desk. “Take this with you, let me see a finished job in two-three days. If it’s what I want, you’re in. Okay?”
Gentry walked on air back to the station. Chances of regular writing work were hard to come by and this, if it panned out, looked like being lucrative. He studied the outline on the way back to his flat so that he was ready to sit down at his PC.
He worked late into the night—living alone with no close relative or regular girl-friend to run a check on him—breaking the story-line down into scenes, building each scene with character and dialogue in a natural background. It went well for him, perhaps because the subject took his fancy. (Nicholson must have a sense of humor: the plot concerned a horror storywriter devoured by one of his own imaginary creations.) Absurd, registered part of Gentry’s mind; yet oddly convincing in its given detail. He found himself caught up in the fantasy as he worked on.…
Finished, he checked it through and slipped out to post his manuscript before going to bed.
Two mornings later his telephone rang and Nicholson said: “The story’s okay. When can you come for an editorial conference? We want to plan a whole series of yarns at one go—today if you can manage that”
Gentry jumped at the chance. After a hurried cafeteria lunch, he traveled out to the House of Horror.
Nicholson beamed as they shook hands. “You’re in, Gentry, just the man we need. Come on down and meet the gang.”
Gentry assumed he meant the editors of individual books, perhaps other writers. Nicholson led him along the passage to a metal door and used a key he kept on a chain. They stepped into the cage of a lift. Weight fell away from him as they plummeted down, a long way down. A basement?
Nicholson was studying him so he was careful to keep the surprise off his face.
When the cage stopped, Nicholson used a second key and they stepped directly into an oblong room. It was windowless, the lighting concealed, empty except for a long table with chairs grouped about it. There were scribble pads and ballpoints on the table.
At the far end of the room, Ge
ntry saw another metal door, larger than the one through which they had entered. There was a hum of air-conditioning—and another sound, hinting of hidden electronics.
Nicholson glanced at his wristwatch. “We’re early—grab a seat, make yourself comfortable. We shan’t have long to wait.” His voice was flat, without echo, indicating that the room had been soundproofed. “You wouldn’t hear a scream down here.”
It seemed an odd thing to say—and then she far door slid open and Gentry saw, with a start, bright sunlight and grassland extending to the edge of a forest. He blinked, and then the gang came through and he refused to believe his eyes. Actors, of course—they had to be. Nicholson must have one hell of an outré sense of humor.
First came an old crone, dressed in black with a pointed hat, so obviously a witch. She was closely followed by a pallid-skinned man with projecting teeth; vampire. From a third figure came a strong canine smell. Werewolf?
Nicholson’s gaze remained steady on Gentry as he asked softly: “You didn’t think we invented them, did you?”
One by one, they took their places at the conference table; a patchwork-man smelling of the grave, a half-man half-beast, a hooded figure with fleshless skull and empty eye sockets.
“Meet our new writer,” Nicholson said. “Jerome Gentry, he’s done all right on his first.”
The witch—how could she suddenly look so young and desirable?—murmured: “Delighted, Jerome, we must become better acquainted.”
Gentry sat as if in a trance, unable to speak. His mind screamed impossible.…
“Look, Gentry,” Nicholson said. “I’d best put you in the picture—and you’ll keep your mouth shut for a rather obvious reason. Talk, and you’ll be locked away in a madhouse. Through that gateway—” He pointed to the second door—“is another world, a world coexisting with and almost identical to Earth.
“Not quite identical, however; life has taken a somewhat different path as you can see. In the past there must have been some leakage across the boundary from this other world to ours. It’s where our myths and legends stem from, so stop disbelieving and accept reality.
