by John Wyndham
“What did you give?” asked Captain Troyte.
“Five seconds on low power, sir,” the operator told him.
The strength of reception according to the needle was almost constant.
“H'm. Our own speed, near as damn it,” said the Captain after a few minutes. “Better give it the same again.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The operator pressed his key once more. Far away in the shining steel ball the relays clicked as before. Fuel was injected into the miniature combustion chambers and ignited. Little daggers of flame stabbed out into the darkness behind the gtobe, and it thrust forward on its way at twice its former speed.
“That'll do,” the Captain said. “You've no idea of its distance yet?”
“Impossible to tell, sir. If the batteries are strong it may be a long way off. If they're down at all it may be only a hundred miles or so away. No way of knowing, sir.”
“All right. Tell your relief to keep a check on it, and I'll have the navigator set a watch for it. If it is a long way off it may be a number of hours before we spot it?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Madge G. continued uninterrupted in her fall towards Jupiter. The operator after further consultation with the navigator corrected the globe's course slightly in compensation for the increased speed. Again there was nothing to do but wait while somewhere outside in the blackness of space the little globe tore through the emptiness on a course designed to bring it to a rendezvous with the ship at a point far ahead.
“Better read up on this,” said the operator, throwing the instruction book to his relieving operator. “You may have to fish it in.”
The relief looked at the book.
“Oh God. Just my bloody luck. Might have known it when I skipped the lecture on the things,” he said, gloomily.
Five hours later his telephone rang.
“Think we've spotted it, Bill,” said the voice of the assistant-navigator. “Hold on. Let you know in a minute or two.”
He came through again in under the two minutes.
“No doubt about it now. Couldn't be sure before because the way it lies you can only see a crescent of it. It's coming in a few points from dead astern, making a fairly acute angle with our own course. Keep your box of tricks handy, and hold on here.”
The radio operator arranged the remote control set in front of him and waited, telephone in hand.
“Coming up,” said the assistant navigator's voice. “Coming along nicely.” He paused. “Overhauling us fast. About three miles or so off I reckon. Doesn't seem to be converging much ... Hang it, it isn't converging at all: it's diverging. Must have pretty well crossed our course behind us. Better bring it over a bit, Bill. Give it a touch on the port tubes. Just a touch, gently as you can ... God, man, call that a touch? It leapt like a frightened kangeroo. Stand by to correct with starboard tubes. She's coming ... coming ... Blast, she's out of the field of this instrument — half a minute ... Yes, there she is swinging right across, and ahead of us now. Correct when I tell you ... ready ... ready... now!”
Through the instrument he caught the little flutter of fire to the right of the sphere as the radio-operator obeyed.
“Okay,” he said, “direction good. Travelling dead ahead of us. Only diverging slightly, but she's running away. Get ready to brake her. Better try three seconds on low power ... No, she's still pulling ahead ... Give another two seconds ... No, damn it, that's too much: we'll overrun her. One second low power acceleration ... That's better: that's much better. Now the least possible touch on her starboard tubes, again. And gently this time...”
The jockeying went on for quite a while. Gradually by correction, recorrection and correction again the globe was juggled closer and closer until ship and globe were falling through space together with only a few hundred feet between them. Again the globe was steadied, and once more orientated towards the ship. The operator gave the lightest touch he could on the main tubes, and almost immediately braked her again.
“Great work, Bill,” approved the assistant-navigator. “She's still moving, coming in nicely. Stand by for magnets ... I'll tell you when ... ready... now!”
The operator pressed another key. A moment later there was a clang which rang through the Madge G., as if she had been hit with a sledge hammer.
“Whew,” said the radio operator as he wiped his brow and started to search for his cigarette case.
Outside, as the current flowed into the magnets, the drifting globe had swerved in one last wild pounce at the ship, find now clung there like a limpet.
Two space-suited-clad figures emerged from the port and walked along the side of the ship on their magnetic soles. Reaching the globe, they slid it back along the metal hull and into the air lock. It was trundled in on the main deck, and a hand threw an electric blanket over it to even up the temperature before they went to work on it.
An hour later Captain Troyte received the bunch of papers taken from the message compartment of the globe. He read them through with some surprise and incredulity. Then he picked up the telephone and spoke to the navigator.
“Where's Pomona Negra?” he inquired.
“Where's what, sir?”
“Pomona Negra. I gather it's an asteroid.”
“I'll ring you back, sir.”
The navigator came back through with his information a few minutes later after consulting his tables.
“Pretty nearly at the other side of its orbit now, sir.”
“Other side of the sun, in fact?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, that lets us out,” said the Captain, gratefully. He sent the papers over to the radio operator with instructions to transmit to Chapman Station, Mars, in their entirety.
“Gawd,” said the operator. “All that lot! Pity we ever hooked that perishing globe.”
Which was truer than he knew.
CHAPTER II
(Digest of information contained in message globe secured by the Madge G. 6 January 2051. Originals signed by D. L. Foggatt, Master.)
At 10.50 hrs. 20 December 2049, the Research ship Joan III, owned by Tempel Lines, London, and under my command, encountered a space phenomenon hitherto unobserved, or, to the best of my knowledge, unrecorded. One moment all was as usual; the next, without perceptible impact or shock, all instruments were obscured and all windows with them, and radio reception decreased to an almost inaudible whisper.
The Joan III, three months out from Gillington, Mars, is engaged on exploratory work in the asteroid belt. My crew is composed of men experienced in difficult and dangerous work of the kind, but none of them is acquainted either personally or by hearsay with circumstances like those in which we now find ourselves. Leaving Mars we struck outward in the plane of the ecliptic. Upon approaching the Belt we turned, manoeuvring our approach upon a tangent, and gradually edging our way into the main path at a speed approximately that of the asteroids themselves.
Travelling with them thus and in their orbit, we settled too our work of plotting and charting — copies of such charts being enclosed herewith. For the following four weeks we moved with caution and restraint in that section of the Belt dominated by the large asteroid Pomona Negra, continuing our work of classification and description of the bodies, and occasionally putting investigating parties aground on certain asteroids, though without making discoveries of more than minor interest. Nothing untoward, nothing, in fact, but events of ordinary routine occurred, until on 19th December we sighted a red asteroid.
This we judged to be a body of no great size, estimating its diameter at some three miles, but at a considerable distance from us. It was distinguished from all other objects as a brilliant scarlet crescent glowing almost as though it were afire. Detailed study of it was difficult by reason of other bodies of varying sizes which frequently interpose
d themselves in the distance that separated us from it. After consideration I gave orders to suspend other work while we investigated the matter. After we had been picking our way towards it for some two hours it was observed that other and smaller asteroids in its neighbourhood were also glowing redly, though whether we had failed to detect them earlier or whether they had only recently become red I am unable to say. They also were difficult to observe on account of erratic and puzzling obscurations. Approximately three hours after first sighting the red asteroid the sudden masking of our instruments and windows occurred.
At once I sent out the 2nd Officer and one of the men to investigate the cause. Radio communication between their space-suits and our headsets was found to be unimpeded.
I asked what the trouble was. The 2nd Officer answered me.
“I can't say, sir. It's a red stuff — red as blood. The whole ship's covered in it, as though she's been through a bath of paint.”
I inquired what kind of “red stuff'”.
“Kind of slimy, sir, like — like a half melted jelly, only not transparent.”
“That's not a lot of help,” I said. “Anyway, the first thing to do is to clean it off the instrument glasses and then off the windows.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he acknowledged.
I ordered the lights in the navigation room switched off, and we were able to see that the darkness was not complete. Experimentally we unshuttered one of the windows sunward and found the glass behind to be shining with a fierce red glow. The navigator reported that one of his instruments had been cleared to a usable condition, and the internal lights were switched on again.
We could hear the two men outside commenting on the unpleasant stickiness of the stuff they were clearing from a second instrument glass.
“Hullo, Navigator. How's that?” asked the Second.
“Okay,” replied the Navigator. “But the first one's clouded over again.”
There was a pause, then:
“That's funny,” said the Second. “It's almost as thick as before. Just a minute, I'll give it another wipe.”
For some moments there was silence. Then the other man's voice said in thoughtful surprise:
“Good Lord! This is a thing!”
“What's the matter, Mr. Docker?” I asked.
“It's queer, sir,” replied the Second. “I wiped some of it off, and then while we looked at it the edges of the smear started to creep over the glass again. They're still doing it. Not exactly flowing back like a liquid: kind of encroaching, it's ... There, it's covered the glass completely again.”
“The other instrument's obscured again, too,” the Navigator put in.
“Well—” began the Second. Then he stopped and we heard him mutter, “Good God —” A moment later he added, as if to his companion: “What is it?”
“Well, what is it?” I repeated in irritation.
“I don't know, sir. It seems to be something that — that grows.”
“All the same we must have those instruments clear,” I said.
“No good, sir,” he answered. “It grows back on them as fast as we can move it. It's growing over us too, sir. It's spreading up the suits. It's above our knees and on our sleeves halfway up to the shoulder already.”
I considered. Then I asked:
“Are we clear of all bodies?”
“Yes, sir. Nothing within miles of us.”
“All right then, one of you come inboard and we'll have a look at the stuff. The other to remain on watch.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the Second responded.
Half a minute later a weird figure emerged from the air lock. His trunk was clad in the usual grey space-suit, but both arms and legs were enveloped in a brilliant scarlet.
The stuff glistened and did not look inviting to the touch. I scraped some of it off his sleeve with the blade of a knife and looked at it closely beneath the light. Quite perceptibly it was creeping up the clean part of the blade, and it seemed, as the Second had said, to grow rather than flow.
The other men in the room stood round regarding the man in the space-suit curiously. One of them gave a sudden exclamation and pointed to his feet and the deck behind him. We looked down and saw the red film spreading out across the steel floor, not only from his feet as he stood, but from each footprint he had left in walking from the airlock. It was visibly, though slowly, extending even as we looked at it, and the substance on the man had passed beyond his arms to crawl on to his chest and shoulders.
I told a man to fetch blow-torches, and placed the knife carefully on to the floor near to the spreading mess. Instinctively we all avoided touching it while we waited.
The man returned with three blow-torches. When we'd started them up we tried one on a patch of the stuff on the floor. I think we all felt considerable relief when we saw the substance shrivel, smoke and char in the flame. The torches did not take long to destroy all that was left on the floor. The man in the space-suit bad made no attempt to remove his equipment and the torches could be run over him as he stood without injuring the insulating surface. It was a lucky state for him: how the stuff can be cleared from an inflammable or delicate surface such as clothes or the unprotected body we do not know.
By the time the last traces of the red stuff had been cleared the radio operator was reporting that he was receiving no reply to his calls, and that reception was faint and growing fainter even on full power. It appeared that the red substance must have some masking or leakage effect on the hull-aerial system.
The Second Officer came through again on the headset. He reported that the coating on the ship appeared to be building up and thickening.
“How's it with you?” I asked.
“It's all over me now, sir. I have to keep wiping the face plate every half minute or so to see at all. Otherwise I'm okay, sir.”
There was no falling off in his transmission which suggested that we had been right in assuming that interference with the hull-aerial system was the trouble. The radio operator decided to see if he could rig a serviceable internal aerial. So far, twenty-four hours later, he had not been successful in achieving transmission — at least, we were without replies to his messages.
It is difficult to see what can be done. Were we near any body with an atmosphere we might try by travelling reverse and flying into the blast of our own main tubes to burn ourselves clear of the mess; but, unfortunately, the only place with an atmosphere within many hundred thousand miles is Mars which we can have no hope of reaching with our instruments out of commission.
The only other way which suggests itself to us is the construction of some kind of pressure torches operated from our main fuel supply with which we may be able to incinerate the stuff, and the engineers are at present attempting to construct devices of the kind.
Whether, if they are successful, it will be possible to carry out the operation in space we cannot say. We are therefore cautiously and by visual findings only of an officer on outside watch in the direction of Pomona Negra on which asteroid we can ground if necessary.
In the twenty-four hours which have passed since we encountered the red substance I have myself been outside twice to inspect the vessel. There is no doubt whatever that the layer which covers us is increasing in thickness, and in traversing the side of the vessel one's feet slide through it as through a semi-liquid mud. The officer on watch is covered with the stuff so as to be almost indistinguishable from the ship, and is under the necessity of wiping it from the faceplate of his helmet several times in a minute.
The nature of the substance we have not been able to determine since we dare not retain a specimen inside the ship for examination. It is necessary to be most thorough in the decontamination of all persons re-entering after duty outside as any minute particle overlooked is capable of growing with surprising speed. T
he air-lock so rapidly began to choke that it has to be decontaminated after every entrance or exit.
From superficial examination it has occurred to us that the substance may be some algae-like form capable of sustaining life by the creation of light alone, and of transferring this nourishment throughout the whole, though we are aware that this is somewhat in conflict with its observed ability to grow or reproduce itself within the ship as swiftly as without.
It has been decided to send out these particulars and other documents in a message globe lest we should be unable to establish radio-communication. The dispatch port will be cleared on the outer side by specially modified blowlamps so that it is hoped that the globe may be released without contamination.
Any vessel approaching us should be warned of the highly active nature of the substance, and is advised not to make use of magnetic grapples or any other devices which may give a physical link with the ship.
The date beneath the signature of the Master to the full version of the above report was 21st December 2049.
CHAPTER III
On the 10th of February of the current year, a little over a month of the finding of the message-globe, the Annabelle, a service and research ship out of Gillington, Mars, made rendezvous with the Space-Control's vessel, Circe, dispatched from Mexico, Earth, by way of Clarke Station.
The Annabelle pulled into the appointed area situated within the Asteroid Belt in the sector of Pomona Negra to find the Circe already arrived and lying idle at orbit speed as she waited. Even as his braking tubes went into action Captain Richard Bentley of the Annabelle made personal radio report to his opposite number in the other ship, and announced himself.
“Oh, it's you, Dick, is it?” responded the Circe's Captain, with a tinge of relief evident in his tone. “They didn't tell me who'd be in your ship. Glad you're here. I'd a nasty feeling it might be one of those trip-round-the-Moon merchants —you never can tell with Head Office. I think the best thing would be for you to come over and have a chat once you're up to us. Suit you?”
