Saucer: The Conquest

by Coonts, Stephen

  To perform these feats the computer used four programs running simultaneously. Egg had named them. Franklin had a short attention span and jumped off in a new direction with each piece of data, brainstorming into areas that at first appeared implausible. Jefferson was pickier and only toyed with novel or interesting ideas. The Professor was more pedantic, exploring ideas only when they conformed to its preconceived concepts and rules. Einstein, more thorough, explored different shades and implications of ideas from any source, including his three colleagues, and occasionally arrived at a profound insight.

  Egg lived for Einstein’s insights, when he understood them. He communicated with a computer by watching it work and trying to understand the reality that it was exploring. The medium wasn’t language; it was thoughts. He saw the thoughts, felt them and watched his four horsemen continuously mold and shape them, trying them out.

  Egg found that he wasn’t in the mood for computers. Nor did the games they contained interest him. Normally he had to ration himself on the games, which were interactive intellectual exercises presumably designed to stimulate the minds of interstellar voyagers. He couldn’t stop thinking of Rip and Charley.

  A few hours later Chadwick had another long conversation with Pierre. When that was over he said to Egg, “In about four hours, when the moon is over Washington, Pierre will teach the Americans a lesson they’ll never forget.”

  “He’s a friend of all mankind,” Egg murmured.

  “Eggs must be broken—”

  “Ah, for the lunar omelet.”

  “They will thank him someday. Few revolutions are bloodless.”

  “Nor conquests, as I recall.”

  “The people of the earth must learn to obey, for their own good. Fear will teach them that lesson.”

  “Let’s hear it for fear,” Egg muttered, but Chadwick apparently decided that he had argued enough and ignored the remark. As he floated away he unconsciously adjusted the fanny pack.

  Two hours later Egg was the only one in the saucer awake. The sleeping men were suspended in makeshift hammocks, which merely kept them from floating into something—or each other—while they slept.

  As Egg sat staring at Newton Chadwick, he realized that Chadwick had forgotten to snap his fanny pack in place on his last visit to the head. He could clearly see the snap, and it was unlatched. A portion of the pack hung through a gap in the hammock netting that held the sleeping man.

  It appeared one could merely pull the pack another few inches through that hole and open it.

  If the deed was done quietly enough, Egg mused, perhaps Chadwick wouldn’t awaken.

  RIP AND CHARLEY MISSED THE PRESIDENT’S SPEECH. They were too busy supervising the installation of the water bladders and checking for leaks. A leak on the ground would be a gusher under four Gs of acceleration. Going to the moon waist deep in water didn’t seem like a good idea.

  When they had the new bladder tanks full and all their gear stowed, Charley and Rip shook hands with the air force personnel and climbed aboard. Outside the hangar, the moon had risen just as night fell. This was the night of the full moon.

  Charley and Rip both found themselves taking long looks at the moon as the saucer sat bathed in moonlight outside the hangar while Charley programmed the flight computer.

  Six minutes after Rip closed the hatch, the saucer rose from the earth on a cone of white-hot fire. The fireball appeared like a rising sun to many on the south side of the metropolitan area.

  The president was packing papers in the Oval Office—which was probably going to go up in a cloud of splinters in just a few hours—when the saucer’s deep roar rattled the windows and chandeliers of the executive mansion. He stood frozen, listening intently, until the noise of the saucer had faded completely. Then he smiled.

  WHEN THEY HAD COMPLETED THE LUNAR ORBIT INSERTION burn and were coasting on course for the moon, Rip checked the plumbing for leaks. It was difficult moving in and out of the tight spaces when weightless. He felt like a worm crawling around the pipes and pumps. Finally he wiggled clear and reported to Charley, who was still sitting in the pilot’s seat working with the flight computer.

  “Everything is dry,” he said.

  When he reached her and got a look at her face, the grimness he saw surprised him. “Charley …”

  “Pierre is going to trash Washington,” she said bitterly.

  “He was going to do that sooner or later. You know that.”

  She finished with the computer and sat staring at the moon, which was well off to her left.

  “How far do you think these antiprotons will travel in a vacuum?” she asked Rip.

  He glanced at her. She was staring at the moon. “I don’t know,” he said. “Want to try an experiment?”

  “Why not,” she muttered, and turned the saucer so that the moon was directly in front of them.

  “We don’t even know how fast the antiprotons go,” Rip said. “So we don’t know whether it will take seconds or minutes or hours for them to get there. The chance of a hit is mighty small.”

  “Infinitesimal,” Charley agreed.

  The crosshairs of the optical sight had appeared on the canopy as she spoke. She looked to see where the lines intersected, then directed the computer to finetune the saucer’s position, which moved the crosshairs slightly. Of course, they were so thick that at this distance the junction covered miles of the moon’s surface.

  The lunar base was … there, on the edge of that sea, to the south of that mountain range, which could only be seen at this great distance as a fine shadow line.

  Fire!

  The small light appeared on the sight. The antimatter weapon was discharging.

  She tweaked the crosshairs in the direction the moon was traveling in space as the weapon continued to fire a stream of antiprotons into the vacuum.

  After thirty seconds, when the crosshairs were on the edge of the lunar orb, she stopped the discharge.

  “Well,” Rip said, his disappointment audible, “that was a nonevent. It’s not like I expected the moon to blow up, but still …”

  “Sort of like tossing a pebble into the Atlantic,” Charley said, and sighed. She was still thinking of those spaceplanes. She rubbed her face.

  “I’m so tired,” she murmured, and unfastened her seat belt. Rip reached for her, and she floated into his arms.

  TRAVELING AT HALF THE SPEED OF LIGHT, THE ANTIMATTER particles shot through the vacuum of space, across the empty two-hundred-thousand-mile gulf that separated the coasting saucer and the moon. As they did they dispersed slightly, so by the time the particles reached the moon they fell like rain across a ten-mile swath of the lunar surface.

  Still moving at half of the speed of light, each particle shot through the dust and rock of the lunar surface until it encountered a proton speeding in its orbit around an atom’s nucleus. When they collided, the two particles spontaneously obliterated each other, releasing a colossal burst of energy. Sometimes the detonation took place with inches of the surface; sometimes, depending on the density of the material, it happened much deeper, at a depth of several feet.

  Although each explosion was quite large in relation to the size of the particles involved, the particles were indeed very small, so the explosions resembled large firecracker detonations.

  The vast majority of the particles fell across the empty wasteland, and no living thing was there to witness their self-destruction. The wave marched across the lunar surface, and by sheer chance, one edge of it crossed the French lunar base. Most of the antimatter particles detonated harmlessly, although one did pass through a solar power cell. It met its opposite particle six inches deep in the rock underneath, and the shards of rock blasted upward by the explosion destroyed the power cell. Since there were hundreds of power cells, the loss of one was undetected by the voltagemonitoring equipment.

  Those two dozen antimatter particles that impacted the soil over the lunar base met their positrons in the rock, before they reached the caverns un
derneath, and the explosions rocked the base. Dust fell from the overhead ; people felt the triphammer concussions, which triggered the seismic and air-pressure-loss alarms. As alarms clanged throughout the base, people dove frantically for their space suits, just in case.

  Two of the particles penetrated the cover above the antigravity beam generator and telescope. One detonated a foot deep in the rock floor, showering the room with dust and bits of rock, while creating a nasty small crater. The other went off simultaneously six inches under the surface; the resulting explosion severed a data cable between the telescope and the main computer.

  Julie and Pierre Artois and Claudine Courbet were at the console, inputting the coordinates for the major buildings they planned to pulverize in Washington, D.C., during the next hour. They looked around wildly, trying to understand what was happening, as the gong and wail of the alarms sounded even while the debris slowly settled from the explosions.

  “What was that?” Pierre demanded.

  No one answered. When it became clear that the base wasn’t losing air, and the alarms had been reset and were once again silent, he and Julie and Claudine took stock. That was when they discovered that the telescope was inoperative. Seconds later Claudine found the severed cable.

  “A meteor shower,” Pierre said dismissively. All his life he had minimized difficulties and then plowed his way through.

  Julie, however, was made of different, more paranoid, stuff. With no evidence at all, she leaped to a completely different conclusion. “It’s a weapon of some kind! That Pine woman! She must have used it on the spaceplanes.”

  Pierre snorted. After all, he was the emperor of France. “It was in Washington just hours ago. Even if it is headed for the moon, it is three days away. A weapon with a range of 238,000 miles? Preposterous!”

  Yet the fact remained that something had struck the lunar base. Just what it was, no one could say.

  As the United States spun under the lunar base, the emperor’s technicians worked to rig a new cable.

  In Washington the president and an expectant nation waited … and nothing happened. The absence of the promised disaster stunned the experts, who debated the nonevent on television, explaining their different visions of what it might mean and arguing bitterly among themselves.

  “Pierre Artois,” the secretary of state said hopefully in an interview, “must have come to his senses.” She listed the possible reasons why, dwelling heavily on the sanctity of human life and Pierre’s progressive goals, but the network cut away midway through her exposition to air a Viagra commercial, depriving the public of the benefit of her views.

  Coasting toward the moon, oblivious to the media frenzy on the mother planet, Rip and Charley slept in each other’s arms.

  14

  THE ROSWELL SAUCER, WITH EGG CANTRELL IN THE pilot’s seat, looped around the back side of the moon. Egg positioned the saucer so that it was flying backward, and, while still behind the moon, fired the rockets to begin a descent to the lunar base on the side facing earth. When the burn was completed, he turned the saucer 180 degrees so that it was again aligned with its trajectory, which he could alter slightly, as necessary, with the saucer’s maneuvering jets.

  He had weighed the possibility of using the antimatter weapon on the lunar base when it hove into view, but he was unsure how to fire it or how much damage the weapon would do. As the saucer descended toward the lunar surface, crossing from the darkness into the light, soaring over stupendous mountain ranges and dark lunar lava flows, Newton Chadwick was hovering on his right side and Fry Two on the left. At the most, he thought, a two- or three-second burst was about all he could hope for before Chadwick and the Fries throttled him.

  Egg also considered crashing the saucer, powerdiving the moon to make a new crater. That would quickly and painlessly kill him and his three passengers and permanently maroon Pierre Artois and his disciples. Egg thought about it for about two seconds and decided he didn’t have it in him. He wasn’t suicidal. Nor, he decided, was he warrior enough to pull the trigger on Chadwick, the Fries and the French astronauts, even if there were a way he could live through the experience. Maybe he should have had the courage, if that was what it was, but he didn’t and he knew it. As that great American philosopher Dirty Harry Callahan once said, a man’s got to know his limitations.

  Eventually, as the saucer descended and slowed, the lunar base appeared, right where it should be. The solar power panels were an unmistakable landmark. Egg snapped down the landing gear and sat watching as the flight computer used the maneuvering jets and the antigravity system to bring the saucer gently into a hover outside the entrance to the base. Now he saw the lunar dune buggy and the forklift, parked near the main air lock.

  Talking silently to the flight computer, he allowed the saucer to settle toward the lunar surface. It touched down almost imperceptibly on its three legs, and all motion stopped.

  Egg found that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled convulsively and pushed in the power knob to the first detent, which retained electrical power on the saucer but killed the reactor and propulsion system. Then he used a shirttail to swab the perspiration from his face.

  Only then did he look at Newton Chadwick. Chadwick’s face was devoid of color. The man had been hanging on with both hands, a death grip he was unable to release, even now.

  “We’re here, Chadwick,” Egg said, pointing out the obvious. He was surprised how cool and calm his own voice sounded. Yeah, man, I’m Egg Cantrell, saucer pilot. I do this every day. As he mopped his brow again he noticed that his hands were trembling.

  “SO, YOU ARE THE BRILLIANT CANTRELL,” PIERRE ARTOIS said in lightly accented English. He said that as if Egg’s reputation were somehow disreputable. They were standing inside the com center.

  Egg had managed to wriggle into a space suit without ripping it, but it was a close call. He needed to lose at least twenty pounds to lessen the strain on the zipper. Maybe thirty. He was out of the space suit now, trying to take in everything, see how the lunar base was laid out.

  He concentrated on Pierre. Of medium height, erect, charismatic, with what some might term good looks, Pierre radiated control. “That’s right,” Egg said slowly, shaking his head. “The brilliant Cantrell.”

  “We have experienced a new phenomenon I wish to ask you about, Cantrell. The effects are unknown to science. Suddenly, all in the same moment, a series of minor explosions rocked the base. Two were in our observatory. I wonder if you might be able to shed some light on this unique experience.”

  “Sorry. This is my first trip to the moon.” Egg thought that a rather witty answer.

  “I thought perhaps this phenomenon might be the end product of some kind of weapon. On the other saucer, perhaps, the one your nephew stole from the Air and Space Museum in Washington just a few days ago, the one he used to shoot down three French spaceplanes and murder the crews.”

  “I know nothing about the other saucer. I have been an unwilling guest of Mr. Chadwick. Perhaps you can enlighten me—in this new utopia that you will lead, will kidnapping be illegal?”

  “I haven’t the time to split the hairs, as you Americans say.” He nodded at Henri Salmon and turned back to the radio mike. Salmon placed his hand on Egg’s arm.

  “If you will come with me, sir. We’ll show you to your quarters.”

  “I need food and a bath,” Egg shot back. He made eye contact with Julie Artois, who was standing against one wall frowning slightly, as they led him out.

  WHEN EGG WAS OUT OF SIGHT, PIERRE TURNED ON the charm for Chadwick and embraced him. “Your arrival in that saucer has saved us, saved our great quest. Our debt to you is large.”

  Chadwick beamed. The terrors of the flight were over, and he was on the winning team—it doesn’t get any better than that.

  “Would you like to see the saucer?” he asked Pierre, who readily agreed.

  As they were donning space suits for the walk to the parked saucer, Chadwick said, “Cantrell lied to y
ou. There is a weapon aboard the saucer, a generator that fires antiprotons in a continuous stream.”

  “Antiprotons?”

  “Antimatter. When an antiproton strikes a regular proton, they annihilate each other. I don’t know if the Sahara saucer has this weapon, but the Roswell one does. And it sounds from your description as if you were showered with antiprotons.”

  “Charley Pine,” Pierre said grimly. “She and young Cantrell are presumably headed this way. The press reported the saucer going into orbit from Washington about six hours ago. Four hours ago we experienced the attack.” He was silent as he zipped himself into the suit, then said, “Now that Egg Cantrell is here, I doubt if they will again shower us with antimatter. But Pine and young Cantrell are coming, so we must arrange a suitable reception.”

  He pushed the intercom button on the wall and spoke to the duty officer in the com room. “Ask Jean-Paul Lalouette and Henri Salmon to come to the suit room. They will enjoy seeing the saucer.”

  WHEN THE FOUR MEN WERE INSIDE THE SAUCER, Chadwick closed the hatch and repressurized the interior. He had watched Egg depressurize it, so he reversed the process. When the pressure had stabilized, he removed his helmet and gestured for Pierre, Salmon and Lalouette to do likewise.

  “This is it,” he told them. “Roswell, New Mexico, 1947. What do you think?”

  Pierre looked at everything, stared at the holographic displays on the instrument panel, touched this and that, before he finally spoke. “I confess, Chadwick, when you first approached me with your antigravity device, I did not believe you. If you had not had a working model that proved that the antigravity theory could be put to practical use, I would have thrown you out of the office.”

  “As everyone else did,” Newton Chadwick said with a gleam in his eye. “No one else believed. Not one.”