Planet in Peril

by John Christopher

  “I imagine I shall do the same,” Charles said.

  On the Sunday following his arrival, Charles proposed a run in his new Cat C gyro. After a momentary hesitancy, Sara gave way to his plea for a change of pace and scene. When die gyro lifted through the opened roof, it lifted into a clear sky. A cloud bank was visible, a white bar above the inland hills. Visibility was very good, and on the hills themselves small details stood out with surprising clarity. The gyro hovering, Charles pointed them out to Sara.

  She said: “Yes, wonderful. Can’t we run over there?”

  He glanced at the electric battery indicator. “Just under a quarter. Any idea how far it is?”

  She said vaguely: “Five miles. Ten?”

  Charles laughed. “If it is ten, we’ll probably have to walk part of die way back. All right?”

  She smiled. “No objection.”

  He brought the gyro down on a grassed ledge about four hundred feet above sea-level, looking over the plain toward San Miguel, the laboratory, and the distant frieze of the ocean. The grass was short, probably sheep-cropped, but still wet from the storm; Charles threw a plastic sheet across it and they sat down. He began to offer her a cigarette, and then recollected himself.

  “Of course, you don’t. What do you take? Mesc?” She shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Wonderful. You don’t even bite your fingernails?”

  “Not even that. No credit, though. Remember my puritanical Siraqi upbringing. That accounts for it.”

  ‘I’d forgotten. Mesc and tobacco prohibited. You are allowed something, though. Is it—”

  “You’re probably thinking of wine.” Sara was gazing out over the vista which lay before them.

  Charles got up and went over to the gyro. “I have an idea—”

  He fished in a locker and brought out two beakers and a couple of plasts of red wine. “Californian, I’m afraid. But better than nothing.” He sliced the comer of one of the plasts and the wine gushed out into the beaker held beneath it. He handed it to Sara, and helped himself to the other. Tasting it, he said thoughtfully: “Not too bad.”

  “Here’s to the solar battery,” Sara said, “and we’ll let our healths look after themselves.”

  She laughed. Watching her, Charles reflected that there was no trace now of the nervousness and awkwardness which had been such prominent features of her personality on their first meeting. And in their place, naturalness and charm were very prominent indeed. Especially the charm—he had a conviction of his own, growing all the time, that while it reflected the ease she had begun to feel in their companionship, it reflected something more, too; something that included provocation. Confident of not being unwelcome, he reached leisurely out to embrace her.

  She pulled her body away, eluding him. Awkwardly he half-rolled, half-plunged after her, and managed to obtain an arm. To his astonishment, she slapped him sharply across the face with her free hand. He sat up and looked at her.

  She began laughing, and broke off. "If you could only see how funny you look, Charles I”

  "I can imagine it. What the devil—”

  “You’ve forgotten. Another of our Siraqi inhibitions. Like cigarettes and mescaline. We find it very hard to be promiscuous at a moment’s notice.”

  "How long notice do you require?”

  "It’s difficult to say. Long enough for you to be able to rule the idea out of your immediate calculations, at any rate. Shall we leave it at that?”

  His face felt hot; he rubbed it. He was both annoyed and pleased. He had, in the past, deliberately chosen the Houses in preference to the promiscuity which was available about him, and had, on the whole, been willing to accept the popular view that this represented a perversity on his part. He was not so sure of that now.

  ‘I suppose we must, if you say so.”

  “I've led a sheltered life. Remember, I've been with fellow-Siraqis all the time—first my father and then Dai. My opportunities have been limited.”

  "I’ll try not to let them remain so.”

  "I suppose you will.” She raised herself on one elbow, and pointed out to the gleaming fringe of sea. "Hydroplanes. It will be the return in the Guadalupe Chase. Have you any glasses in the locker, Charles? I’ve got a hundred on Conway.”

  He brought the glasses for her. "A good way of changing the subject. I gather you’ve got far enough into the swing to be willing to have a flutter on the hydroplane races.”

  She sat right up, straining her shoulders back as she focused the glasses on the distant specks in the ocean. The pose set her figure off extremely well; Charles had a suspicion that she knew this, too. The annoyance came back for a moment.

  “They bet in Siraq, too. And they skip their hydroplanes better, incidentally. That’s Ethelgar in the lead. Conway’s lying third. I shouldn’t think any of them knows how to get the best out of a cross-wind.”

  ‘That isn’t the Mediterranean.”

  T told you—the Med is trickier than you people think.” She lowered the glasses and handed them across to Charles. “Want to look? My hundred’s gone. Conway’s a good finisher but he’ll never make up half a mile.” Charles took the glasses. ‘I’ve never been interested enough to bet on these affairs.” He glanced casually through them. “I can’t even make the colors out.”

  “You don’t need to; the superstructure is enough identification. Look.” She came over and took the glasses from him again. She rested her body against him, one of her elbows on his shoulder. He stayed quite still, aware of her warmth and softness. “Ethelgar—the high bows with the arched carapace. Conway—very low to the water and the wings slightly curved back. That’s Spruce second; you can tell by the squareness.”

  She shifted away from him a little, lowering the glasses. He said: “Carry on. It’s more fascinating than I thought. Who’s lying fourth?”

  She stood up, smiling. “Enough for one lesson, I think. You might find it too exciting. Shall we think of getting back?”

  During the following week they had a couple of other outings together, and Charles was looking forward to the week end. He made some vague suggestion on the Thursday night when they were flying back from a trip to the Gulf. Sara shook her head; possibly regretfully, but very firmly.

  “This is my Berkeley week. I go up to spend a couple of days with Daddy once a month. Sorry.”

  He was not sure whether he was disguising his disappointment. “Yes, of course.”

  She had told him she would be returning fairly late on Sunday evening, and he had put the gyro at her disposal. He still had the limousine and he got in some practice on it; having graduated to a motorist’s status there was no sense in not acquiring the skill. Deliberately he stayed away from the laboratory for Sunday afternoon and evening. He hoped Sara would be back by the time he returned himself.

  It was after twenty-three when he garaged the limousine, and he saw that there was no light from any of Sara's windows. She might have gone to bed as soon as she got back, of course, but it would be rather surprising if she had. He went to his own suite, but he did not feel like sleep. He buttoned Red League, Cosy Bright, and the local Sunshine Circuit. It was in the middle of this that he suddenly remembered there was a simple way of checking whether she had come back or not He went out to the gyro shed. It was empty.

  Everything seemed obvious now. There could be a hundred reasons why she should decide to stay with her father overnight and come back in the morning; he might be ill—anything. Charles went back to his suite, showered, went to bed, and slept until the trumpets of Cosy Bright woke him to a sight of an Alpine dawn sprawled across his bedroom wall.

  He called Sara as soon as he was dressed. She herself had several times casually dropped in on him without warning, but he was not used to that kind of informality. The screen stayed blank. He let the call stay on for five minutes, in case she should be getting dressed or in the shower, and then accepted the fact that she still hadn't got back. He glanced at his finger-watch; it was past
eight. Even if she had stayed overnight she should have got back by now, or at least called him up to explain why.

  He found her father's frequency in his micro-file, and put the number on call. The call was accepted almost at once. The bronzed, typically Siraqi features of a man of about sixty—tall, a little stooped—came into focus. He had a friendly smile, but with a hint of slyness. He spoke with quite a pronounced accent. Presumably he had been a rebel himself from the tradition among aristocratic Siraqi families of speaking only French, since he had had Sara taught English from childhood.

  He said: “Yes? You’re Official Grayner. We haven’t seen each other before. Wish you well.”

  There was a constriction at the back of Charles’ throat. He said sharply:

  “Is Sara—your daughter—there? I’d like to speak to her.”

  Professor Koupal’s face tightened; he seemed to straighten fractionally. He said quietly:

  “She left me yesterday—in the early evening—to go back to your laboratory. She has not arrived?”

  “No.” He was scared, and he rapped the questions out with involuntary sharpness. “Exactly what time did she leave? Did she say anything about stopping anywhere on the way? Did you notice the battery reading?”

  “She left a little after six—eighteen, that is—she wanted to get back early, she told me. She said nothing about stopping anywhere—I told you—that she said she would get back early. The battery was charged. On the Saturday we had it charged, and we did not use it—the gyro.” He paused. “What should one do, Official?”

  “I’ll get on to Telecom right away,” Charles said. “Don’t worry. She’s probably had to ditch the gyro somewhere in the wilds. You can sleep in a gyro quite comfortably. I’ll call you back as soon as I get hold of something.”

  He broke off without waiting for more than the beginning of Professor Koupal’s reply: “Yes. I hope—” He got through to the Telecom Recovery Section. The screen showed a yawning fat woman, clearly interested in nothing but the arrival of the day relief shift.

  He said brusquely: “UC Laboratory 719, San Miguel. Official Grayner. We have a member of staff missing. Assistant Sara Koupal. Missing between Berkeley and here last evening on a gyro flight. Have you anything in on her?”

  She looked at him with bored and drooping eyes. “Almost swear not. Haven’t had a gyro pickup in a month. Hold it, anyways. I’ll check Field.”

  He watched her while she turned sideways and got the Field group on another screen; he could just see a comer of that screen: a portion of a distorted male face. He could hear the reply she got, too. She flicked off, and came back to Charles.

  “Nothing. I’ll send it out on a rescue call. Berkeley, you said? To San Miguel?”

  “Yes. You'll send a report in as soon as you get hold of something?”

  She nodded. “You better flash her record-film to us, just in case. You got it there?”

  “It's not here. I'll get it. I'll call you again.”

  “Do that.”

  She had turned away to watch the entertainment screen even before she broke contact. Charles stared at the faintly glowing screen for a moment or two before breaking contact himself. Then he went out to the office to find Sara's record-film. He brought it back to his living-suite. To check, he ran it through the projector. The particulars considered relevant to Assistant Sara Koupal filled the top half of the screen; on the lower half was projected Sara herself—three Saras: head-and-shoulders, front view and profile, and full figure. The fear, the pain, gripped him more sharply as he gazed at it.

  He made the call to Telecom again, and the fat woman answered.

  “You weren't long. Got the R.F.? Put it through.”

  The screen blanked for a minute or two while the automatic took over, photographing the record-film. Then the woman came through again.

  “That's O.K.” She smiled; a hint of malice. “Now I dig the rush. We'll try and locate her for you. It's a story for the telezine boys at that—beautiful girl scientist lost in gyro. You'll have them round fast.”

  Telecom always carried more weight than they were worth; Charles resented the woman but he kept the resentment to himself. In any case he must rely on Telecom for letting him have any news that came in promptly.

  He said only: ‘Were restricted. Would you tell them that?”

  “Never mind. They'll de-restrict you. You under Mettrill? They'll make him unlock.”

  He said: “Please let me have anything that comes in as soon as it does, will you.”

  As she said: “Surely,” he switched off.

  His next call was to Mettrill; it was a necessary notification. He had been through to Mettrill only once before; a formal call on his taking over the laboratory. Mettrill was the avuncular type—slow, friendly, eager-to-help surface, masking, Charles was sure, a typical file-and-forget lazy mind. This news made him sit up, though, and look irritated. It was something that was going to demand action.

  Mettrill said: “You checked with her father?”

  “Yes. She left with a full battery, just after eighteen.” Mettrill looked at him thoughtfully. “How did she come to be using a gyro?”

  “I loaned her mine.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn't using it—to save her trouble. Otherwise it would have meant a taxi into San Diego and meeting the air schedules and the rest of it. She's a qualified flyer.”

  “Was, anyway.” It was the casualness rather than the finality of the remark that made Charles want to hit him. “I advise you to stick to regulations, Official Grayner. It saves everybody trouble in the end, even if it means a little extra trouble in the short run.”

  “Yes.”

  Mettrill stirred in his chair. “What's her file number?” Charles gave it to him. He watched Mettrill scrawl it down. He said: “I was wondering...”

  Mettrill said: “Yes?” without looking up.

  “. . . If I could have another gyro sent up. I thought I might go out and have a look for her myself.”

  Mettrill looked up now. He fixed his gaze thoughtfully on Charles.

  “Well see about the gyro replacement. But stay where you are. Contact will have to drop in on you.”

  “I could make an appointment for them and still have time-”

  “Stay where you are. You have work to do. Well see about the gyro replacement—the other replacement, too.”

  “The other replacement” could only refer to Sara, Charles said, with a rising of anger: “Won’t you at least say: ‘But we hope it won’t be necessary?' ”

  Mettrill continued to stare at him. “Two-thirds of the direct route between your place and Berkeley is over the ocean. I don't see any point whatsoever in making your suggested addition to my original remark. Stay on hand, Official Grayner. Contact will be seeing you.”

  Mettrill's hand came forward to break, and then stopped. “And don't get in touch with anyone else about this. Telecom, for instance.”

  Charles tightened his lips. “The first call I made after hearing from Professor Cohn was to Telecom, to see if she had been picked up.”

  Mettrill leaned back and clasped his hands behind his balding head. For a moment he was silent. Then he said: “When I was a young man, I did one thing thoroughly. I learned the regulations. It was the most useful thing I ever did, and I suggest it’s not too late for you to do the same. Under 29 you will find a stipulation—no one— Supervisor, Official, Manager or Director—will communicate anything concerning managerial personnel to any outside source until after the matter has been referred to the next higher authority within the managerial. Words to that effect. There's always a reason for the regulations.”

  “This might have been a matter of life and death.” Mettrill glanced away. “I'll note that as your excuse. What did you get at Telecom—Recovery?”

  “Yes.” He didn't give a damn, at that moment, about anything except savaging Mettrill. “They had Assistant Koupal's record-film. I gathered they were putting it through to TV. I
informed them this place was restricted. They were going to contact you.”

  “Official Grayner,” Mettrill said, “you’re an incompetent fool. I’m breaking off. Stay where you are.”

  Charles put his callscreen on alarm before he went out. He went to the laboratory first. Luke and Tony were on some routine work Sara had put in hand. He told them what had happened. Then, not able to concentrate on the work he himself was supposed to be doing, he went outside. It was a gray sullen day, with a sharp damp wind coming in off the sea. He walked slowly down the path to the shore. Although remaining within earshot of the callscreen alarm, he was out of the noise range of the generators. It was very quiet. There was no sound but that of the sea, washing without haste against the rocks.

  A hectic three days later Charles Grayner, waiting in Professor Koupal’s Berkeley apartment, received permission to see his former manager, Ledbetter. Permission had been granted by Caston and Stenner, the two officials from Contact Section who had been assigned to investigate Sara’s disappearance. As far as those two worthies were concerned, they had constructed a closed case for suicide on Sara’s part; they had theorized she had never recovered from Humayan’s death—she had never really been persuaded that he had not been murdered. Sara’s father, whom Charles never got to see in the flesh, had also, according to Caston and Stenner, committed suicide—having left a note indicating he intended to do so, feeling that there was nothing left for him to live for after he presumed that his daughter had taken her own life. Charles, however, was unconvinced. Not only had the bodies not been found, though every means had been taken to locate them, without an iota of success, but there had been a curious something left by Sara which had not been satisfactorily explained— before she had disappeared, she had put in her finger-watch to be re-charged. But Charles was not sure that he was going to underline this fact to Ledbetter. He did intend, he thought, to stand by his conviction that Koupal and his daughter had been kidnaped.

  Charles took the Detroit stratoliner, and was there by eleven. He took a gyro-taxi direct to the UC building, and made himself known at Inquiries. The girl looked at her record board.