Lundquist made for one of the “eggs” and tried, like Orlov had yesterday, to pry the top open.
“I’m afraid Anne’s the only one with the magic touch,” said the Russian with a smile.
Aurora put her hand on the first ovoid, and it opened as before. Lundquist at once peered closely at the infant inside, and applied various instruments.
“The baby’s about three months old,” he said almost immediately. “But it’s not hibernating, alas—it’s quite dead. Perfectly preserved, though, as you can see. And the limbs are still flexible, the flesh soft.”
He peeled off the baby’s one-piece garment, which was of a very soft grey-white material with a pearly sheen. “It’s a he,” he said. Freeing the tiny foot, he pointed. “See? The toes—they’re like the woman’s. Stubby, and virtually joined together. And with hardly any nails. Strange.”
He frowned, then said: “Anne—could you open another egg, please?”
She did so. This time the dead body was that of a girl, of about the same age and in exactly the same condition as the boy.
She opened another five before they stopped. Of those opened, four contained boys, three girls. Their apparent ages varied between two and six months.
This puzzled Lundquist. “If this is some kind of starship, carrying a crew in hibernation, I’d have thought they’d be bred specially, and all be the same age. But then what do I know?”
“A crew of babies?” asked Orlov.
“Well, the usual thinking is that they’d grow during the voyage, even though ‘asleep’, so that after, say, fifteen or twenty years at a speed somewhere near that of light, they’d be old enough to start colonizing a new planet. The ship itself would be almost entirely automated, of course.”
He moved one of the pathetically small corpses. Aurora fought back the urge to vomit as the tiny limbs splayed like those of a raw chicken on its way to the oven, but Lundquist seemed unperturbed as he leaned forward again to examine the interior of the empty capsule. He was about to speak once more when Beaumont’s voice sounded tinnily from his helmet, lying nearby.
“I forgot all about him!” Lundquist whispered embarrassedly, picking it up.
“I said, ‘That wouldn’t work’,” Beaumont drawled. “I was thinking about it yesterday. Those—coffins—they aren’t big enough to allow for growth. Unless we assume the containers are organic in some way and are supposed themselves to grow, or something really alien,” he added. “No. There isn’t room in the chamber for that.”
“I was about to say the same,” muttered Lundquist, looking slightly aggrieved. “And also, apart from a sort of absorbent area below the babies, which seems to have acted as a sort of super-diaper, there’s no sign of any waste-management system such as you’d need on a really long voyage.”
“I’ll tell you something else,” came Beaumont’s voice again. “If those babies were supposed to grow up...and, now that I think of it, why didn’t they? Their age means the system must have gone wrong soon after they left home, yet that woman arrived alive and able to go out on the surface. Where was I? Oh yes, if they were supposed to grow older and be able to colonize some presumably uninhabited world when they arrived, shouldn’t there be some sort of learning system along with them? I mean, I can accept sleep-learning, but I didn’t see any sign of a gadget to do the educating. Can you?”
“Would we be able to recognize it if there was?” asked Lundquist.
Even so, he and the other two re-inspected the two babies and their opened capsules. Sure enough, there was no sign of speakers, electrodes, screens, or anything that might have represented a sleep-learning system. Lundquist told Beaumont as much—adding irritably, as he hefted his helmet yet again, that they would have to install a better communication method between the inside and the outside of the craft.
“They may be human-looking, but it’s all so alien,” sighed Orlov while this exchange was going on. He’d been prowling around the chamber, prodding at the walls away from the row of cocoons.
“I’ve found another of those depressions,” he said suddenly, placing his palm in it. “Anne? Could you oblige?”
Aurora placed her hand in the little recess, and tried to visualize a door ajar. The problem was, she didn’t know exactly where the door might open, or what it would lead to. She glanced through the open entrance to the cabin, where she could just see the Beacon, its band still glowing—though more faintly, perhaps? While the image of the open door was still in her mind, the panel under her hand vanished. In its place there was a suddenly large open rectangle.
She had a momentary view of brown rock and what appeared to be a sand dune—but at the same moment there was a thin howling sound as air started to rush out of the chamber. A freezing sensation numbed her limbs.
For a moment she panicked, and started to dart towards her spacesuit. The others, their eyes wide, began to pick up their helmets. Then, realizing what she must do, she created a vivid mental picture of the door panel closed.
And it was.
Within moments the air was back up at full pressure again. The temperature, thankfully, also rose. They had all started to shiver.
“Whew! That was close,” breathed Lundquist.
From the helmet he was again holding came Beaumont’s voice, loud and anxious.
“Hey! Can you hear me? What’s going on in there? Dust and sand suddenly started erupting from underneath the ship! Did you start up the motors or something? Are you all right?”
Orlov laughed, a little shakily. “Yes, thank you, Bryan. Sorry about that, but we just opened another door—and it led into the damaged section and nearly let all our air out!”
“Oh, is that all? Well, I guess that’s a relief. I wonder what used to be in that space? We haven’t found anything that would fit.”
“Hmmm. Good point. Keep looking!”
Turning to the others, Orlov said, “There doesn’t seem to be a lot more we can do in here, apart from taking lots of video and stills to send back to Earth. Won’t they just love this!” He gestured towards the control cabin. “But maybe we can get something working in there. Or perhaps Anne can. After all, there seems to be power somewhere. The lights and air still work.”
Beaumont’s tinny voice said, plaintively, “Can I come in there with you? Honestly, I just can’t concentrate on doing anything else out here. And it doesn’t look as if I can be of any use outside, does it? The controls of that thing seem to be in Aurora’s hands.” It was the first time he had called her by that name publicly, but nobody seemed to notice.
“We’d have to open the canopy and repressurize,” said Orlov. But the others agreed to take pity on Beaumont; if the controls could be made to work it would be a great pity for him to miss the fun. So the two men donned their helmets and Aurora put on her suit, her right hand still free.
She imagined the canopy open. The red band brightened momentarily, and the dome started to open, jerkily, seeming to dematerialize a few centimeters at a time. Air began to whistle through the gap.
Which got no wider than about eighteen centimeters, then stopped.
She tried again. The space doubled, but staunchly refused her efforts to make it any larger than that.
Orlov tried to push his way out.
The band went dull black.
“Damn! This is useless!” said the engineer, still trying to squeeze his chest through the gap.
Lundquist pushed the glove onto Aurora’s hand.
Orlov cursed again, this time in Russian. “I can’t get out through here!” he growled angrily at Aurora.
“It’s not my fault,” she snapped. “It’s all down to that thing.” She pointed at the now lifeless Beacon.
The Russian calmed down. “Yes. I apologize. Let’s see if someone smaller can get out. You first, Anne.”
She pushed her helmet and shoulders through the gap. “No way,” she gasped.
Lundquist came to the rescue. “It’s our plisses that are the problem. We can unclip them. The
re’ll be quite enough air in our suits and helmets to get out—as long as we clip the plisses right on again outside. Bryan, it’d be good if you could help. We’ll pass them out to you.”
Aurora and Lundquist were soon outside, plisses back in place. Then it was Orlov’s turn.
As he had feared, his bear-like figure would not pass through the crescent-shaped space, no matter how he wriggled and pushed.
He tried one final heave and—
“I’m stuck!”
The combined efforts of the three others could not pull him through. At last they were able, however, to push him back in.
He sank into one of the control chairs, panting with exertion, and re-attaching his backpack with difficulty. “Now what?” he growled, sweat streaming down his face and dripping from his beard, his faceplate misted.
“Perhaps we could cut the canopy, or break it?” suggested Beaumont.
“Not a chance,” said Aurora dismissively.
“There’s nothing for it, then, I’m afraid,” said Beaumont to Orlov. “You’ll just have to stay in there until power returns to the Beacon—transmitter, whatever the thing is. It always has before, so there’s no reason to suppose it won’t do it again. We can keep you supplied with oxygen, food, whatever you need. Don’t worry—you’ll be fine!”
Vitali grinned weakly. “Yes. Fine. Easy enough for you to say. Sure.”
He didn’t sound at all sure.
ANOTHER WORLD
Aurora and Lundquist stayed with Orlov. They had with them a trolley containing food and drink packs and spare oxygen. Beaumont drove back to camp to report to Earth and to prepare to bring further supplies, should they be needed. Rover 2 was almost back from Base. Minako and Verdet were close enough to have picked up much of what had happened via the relay station perched on the lip of the canyon.
It was very lonely by yourself in the pressure dome, Beaumont discovered. He found he could not bear to allow his thoughts to dwell on what he was doing on this strange world; on the immensity of space around him; on the vast distance to Earth; on the unimaginably vaster distances between the stars. So he stayed at the comm desk in case he was needed.
He tried talking to the pair on Rover 2, but they seemed singularly uncommunicative.
He prepared a message and video to transmit to Earth.
At 22:07, Mars time, he saw a light appear on the western horizon. It grew brighter and separated into two. Hillocks and dunes became outlined in yellow–white. At last the red glow of the Rover 2 cabin’s night-driving lamp became visible, revealing the dark silhouettes of two figures.
Finally, dust swirling in the glow of its headlights, the vehicle came to a halt. There was a delay while the occupants checked their suits, helmets and backpacks, then the hatches swung upward like a gull’s wings and the two scientists stepped out.
It was obvious as soon as Minako and Verdet entered the dome that there was something wrong between them.
Beaumont allowed them to de-suit and to relax with some refreshments before he broached the subject. “All right, what’s up with you two? You can cut the atmosphere in here with a knife since you came in!”
Minako’s eyes blazed, and Beaumont, remembering a remark once made by Aurora about the Japanese woman’s strange odor, for a moment wondered if he had accidentally hit the target. She had bags under her eyes, he noticed; they didn’t make her any more attractive.
Verdet passed a hand over his short, crinkly black hair and said nothing.
“If you don’t tell me I’ll start using my notorious imagination!” threatened Beaumont, smiling to try to lighten the mood. “Let’s see: two of you, alone at Base Camp. I know, Claude made a pass at you, Minako, and you slapped his face!”
“Oh, shut up and don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Minako. “We’re not all like you and Dr. Pryor, you know.”
For a moment she looked as though she instantly regretted that remark. She continued rapidly: “If you must know, he accused me of being responsible for the leaks to the media about Dr. Pryor and her amazing powers. I’ve told him time and again that it wasn’t me, but he just keeps repeating that I had more opportunity than anyone else, because I often volunteered to stay at the communications desk.”
Beaumont’s face fell. “Oh. Ah. So that’s it.” He turned to face Verdet. “She’s right, Claude. I can’t tell you how I know, but it definitely wasn’t Minako. Now, kiss and make up?”
Verdet looked for a moment as though he would refuse. Then he summoned a grin, leaned over and planted a peck on the embarrassed-looking woman’s cheek. “Sorry, Minako. But you must admit....”
“That’s enough!” said Beaumont. “Let’s leave it at that. And I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready to turn in. Think of poor Vitali, Bob, and Anne....”
* * * *
Next morning, after a brief report to Mission Control, the three from the dome took both rovers out to the spaceship. Today they brought extra supplies, so that in the event of anyone being trapped inside the craft again they’d be able to survive a day or two in relative comfort until the Beacon recharged itself. Assuming it did recharge itself.
Orlov had spent an uncomfortable night, but was pleased to see that Minako and Verdet had returned safely. The shrunken Sun peeped over the rim of the canyon, and soon the alien craft gleamed in its rays. The partly open canopy glittered.
Finally Aurora said, “Well, I guess this is the moment of truth.”
As though they had rehearsed it, Lundquist unclipped her pliss. She climbed the smooth skin of the craft, flattened herself to squeeze under the canopy, and dropped inside. Lundquist passed her backpack through to Orlov, who attached it again. The whole operation took only seconds.
She grasped the fingers of the glove, whipped it off, and placed her hand on the Beacon.
Nothing happened, and despite the gadget’s inner warmth she felt her hand growing rapidly cold and numb. She prepared to pull the glove back on.
And then the familiar ruby glow appeared, spreading around the band on the smaller sphere. Aurora breathed a sigh of relief—and she wasn’t the only one. She put the glove back on, at the same time “thinking” the canopy fully open.
“Do you think everyone should come inside?” she asked Orlov as the others crowded the opening. “And what about you? Are you all right? Do you want to go back to camp?”
“They may as well come in. I think I would have a mutiny on my hands if you found something vital when you tried the controls and they missed it. As for me—I’ve got only one problem, that I didn’t want to take care of in here unless I had to.” He smiled uneasily. “But if I can just go outside for a moment....”
She knew what he meant, because she likewise always tried to arrange matters so that she didn’t have to use her suit’s toilet facilities unless absolutely necessary. Unlike the arrangement of various tubes and diapers—nappies, she still called them—used in earlier suits, theirs did have a sort of double-airlock system that allowed them to relieve themselves and bury the results, sealed in a non-degradable and detoxifying plastic pack, when out on the surface. There had been a strong faction in favor of bringing home all waste matter, so as not to contaminate the Martian or space environment, but the prospect of saving weight had won the day—every gram of waste material left behind on Mars represented an extra gram of valuable samples to be brought home in its place.
Arrangements could doubtless have been made with those outside to pass out baggies, but she could sympathize with Orlov’s sensitivity. He must be very uncomfortable by now, she thought as he left hastily.
When he returned, the whole team was clustered around the instrument panel, Minako and Verdet having examined one of the ovoids and its tiny contents. She closed the canopy, not without some trepidation.
On the way to join the others she Aurora touched the Beacon. “For luck!” she said.
She sat down at the control panel for a moment, then placed a finger on the largest and lightest-colored of the grey
keypads.
Almost at once the blue-grey screen flickered with colored patterns, which dissolved into swirling dots.
Then a face appeared, wavering for a few moments as if in a distorting mirror before reappearing with crystal clarity. It was the face of a man, apparently aged about forty. He was dressed in a close-fitting grey suit not unlike those worn by the babies, though darker in color. A skullcap hid his hair. His eyes were violet.
The screen now seemed like an open window, and the man was so lifelike and three-dimensional that, involuntarily, she put out a hand to touch him. She felt only a cold, curved surface.
Aurora tapped the light grey keypad a couple of times, and a voice became audible, getting louder. “It just seemed logical,” she said, anticipating an unasked question. Like the picture, the voice was so clear and had such presence that they all found it hard to believe the man was not right there in the cabin with them.
“I thought our holos were getting pretty real, but this is something else!” said Beaumont.
“Ssshhh! What is he saying?” asked Orlov.
But the man’s speech was unintelligible. Yet it seemed tantalizingly familiar.
“Hey, didn’t he just say ‘temperature’?” asked Beaumont.
“I thought I heard some French words—and German,” observed Verdet.
“And Japanese,” added Minako.
In fact, elements of every language they knew seemed to be there. All felt they could almost sense the meaning of what the man was saying. He seemed worried, and there was a sense of urgency, as though he were trying to warn of some peril. But of course they had no way of knowing for whom the message was intended.
The image broke up into shimmering points again, and the sound became a static-like roar. When the picture steadied the man had disappeared, replaced by a view of a city taken either aerially or from a high hill. It was no city on Earth, of that there was no doubt. And, assuming the structures had similar proportions to those in an Earth city, it must be vast; yet the buildings were mixed among large areas of greenery and park-like areas.
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