Frontier of the Dark

by A Bertram Chandler

  “And you, Carlin?” asked Lady Mother. “You shot at it. Did you hit it?”

  “I don’t think so, Gracious Lady. It was on us before we were ready for it. It was fast. Very fast, and vicious.”

  “And hungry,” said an officer who wore what looked like crossed swords on the collar of her tunic. “I have made a preliminary autopsy.” (Those crossed swords, Falsen decided, had to be the Doralan equivalent of scalpels.) “A large portion of Dorilee’s left buttock was missing. There were toothmarks around the wound. Maria’s right breast was gone, exposing the ribs … .”

  “So,” said the Lady Mother at last, “it is obvious that there are dangerous predators on this planet. I find it hard to believe, Mr. Falsen, that your Survey Service did not know of the existence of such animals. But why were we not warned? After all, your government knew that Dorala planned a landing and an exploration … .”

  “I’m only a humble second mate,” Falsen said. “Government departments operate far above the level which I inhabit. ”

  “Even captains,” said the Lady Mother, “are told only what their employers, private shipowners or boards of admiralty think that they should know. I am inclined to believe that the fault lies not with your people but with mine. I know of instances … but no matter.”

  “I still think, Gracious Lady,” said a sour-faced Doralan who seemed to be the spaceship’s chief officer, “that this is an example of Terran perfidy.”

  “I know that you did not enjoy your training period at the Antarctic Academy on Earth, Prenta,” said the captain mildly.

  “I did not, Gracious Lady. But let us the facts examine. Earth ceded this planet to Dorala — and since when has Earth been in the habit of making gifts that are free and not with strings attached? In this there must, somewhere, be a catch.” Obviously, much as she disliked Earth, she was proud of her command of Terran idiom.

  “What do you mean, Prenta?” asked the Lady Mother.

  “The presence of the Terrans on this world has not been explained properly. In the chain are weak links. How long was it, they have said, since they abandoned their ship? Many days. And yet, when we them found, Falsen had no beard — and we all know how disgustingly hairy Terran males are when they do not depilate their faces. But Falsen only now has begun to produce a facial growth.”

  “Prenta,” said the captain, “you are being insulting. Miss Veerhausen and Mr. Falsen have risked their lives in our service. I myself have seen the wounds sustained by Miss Veerhausen. I am sure that Mr. Falsen will be able to explain why he is only now growing a beard.”

  “I can, Gracious Lady,” said Falsen. “There was a tube of depilatory cream in the boat’s stores. It was finished the day before you found us.”

  “So you see, Prenta, that there is an explanation. And if you wish, Mr. Falsen, my pharmacist will make up some depilatory for you.”

  “Thank you, Gracious Lady,” said Falsen, rubbing a hand over his bristly cheeks.

  “There are still unsolved mysteries,” said Prenta sullenly. “There is the odd vanishment of Kristit. Pondor is your pet; I am surprised that you are not more concerned about the melting into thin air of his mate.”

  “But there is no mystery, Prenta,” said the captain. “Whatever it was that attacked our people and killed them, that also attacked Miss Veerhausen and Mr. Falsen, could have swallowed a cat in one gulp. But there are some mysteries. There are questions that you may be able to answer.

  “Last night Canda and Weltin were among those killed. According to the watch list that you made up, they should have been on duty inside the ship.”

  “That is correct, Gracious Lady.”

  “Then, why were their bodies found outside?”

  “The only thing that I can suggest, Gracious Lady, is that they became aware, as they should have been, of the commotion outside and rushed down the ramp to try to rescue their sisters.”

  “Without sounding the alarm?”

  “That is a question, Lady Mother, to which I fear we never shall the answer know. All watchkeepers have written instructions, signed by yourself, to the effect that all hands must be roused at once at the first sign of anything suspicious. Canda and Weltin must have disregarded those instructions. Unfortunately, we cannot deal with them as they deserve.”

  “They have been punished,” said the captain slowly, “with far greater severity than their offense deserved. But note this. As and from tonight, there will be no watches kept outside. The air-lock door will remain shut. You will see to it, Prenta, that searchlights are rigged to cover all the surrounding terrain, as well as infrared detectors and bio-sensitive radar scanners. It should be possible to keep an efficient lookout from the control room. And … ” She looked around her day cabin. Then, “Pondor!” she called.

  The big cat came in from the bedroom, glared at Falsen and Linda and — Falsen thought — at some of the Doralan officers.

  “You want me, mistress?” he mewed.

  “Yes. You are to cease being a passenger on this ship. You must help to ensure the safety of all aboard her. You, with your mate Tilsin, will prowl all night, through every alleyway, every compartment. It is possible that your senses might detect some danger beyond the range of our own.”

  “Then will you see to it, mistress, that saucers of food and drink are left out for us? It will be a long, hungry night … .”

  You said it, cat, thought Falsen.

  He asked, “And can we help, Gracious Lady?”

  “Why not, Mr. Falsen? We are all in the same boat.” She glanced quizzically at her chief officer as though to say, You aren’t the only one with a command of English idioms. “Hold yourself in readiness, as we all must do. When — if — the balloon goes up, you must help us to shoot it down.”

  Prenta looked at the Lady Mother sourly. She did not like, thought Falsen, having a leaf taken from her book.

  CHAPTER 9

  As they left the Lady Mother’s quarters Carlin said to Falsen and Linda, “Come with me. We will take supper and enjoy a talk in my cabin.”

  “This is an honor, Lady Carlin,” said Falsen ironically.

  “It is,” she agreed. “But come.”

  They followed her to her accommodation, one deck down from the captain’s quarters. She had a day cabin and a bedroom. The former was furnished with a low settee, a huge, overstuffed armchair and a coffee table. There was also a severe-looking desk with a hard, straight-backed chair — but as this seemed to be a social occasion, these were not to be used. There were holograms on the bulkheads, bright windows looking out on Dorala, on a city whose lofty towers were dwarfed by the tall trees growing among them, on a snowcapped mountain in silhouette against a clear, blue-green sky, on a cave village, every door of which was surrounded by an elaborate design carved out of the red rock of the cliff face.

  “Be seated,” said Carlin, waving them to the settee.

  She went to a liquor cabinet, opened it, did things with glasses and bottles and ice cubes.

  She said, handing each of them a moisture-bedewed tumbler, “You will like this. I acquired the taste when I did my Mannschenn course at your Antarctic Academy. It was, I believe, a traditional drink in one of your surface navies generations ago.” She curled up in the big chair, looked at them over the rim of her own glass. “Down the hatch,” she said.

  Falsen sipped. It was pink gin — not his own favorite, but one that he did not actively dislike. Linda sipped, her face expressionless.

  Suddenly Carlin asked, “What do you know about the Mannschenn Drive, Falsen?”

  Before he could answer, one of the stewardesses came in, carrying a tray on which was a dish of sandwiches. They looked to be composed of more meat than bread, must have been constructed to Carlin’s taste. And to his own, thought Falsen. And to Linda’s.

  The stewardess put the tray down on the coffee table and left.

  Carlin picked up a sandwich, snapped at it rather than nibbled it.

  She repeated, through a full m
outh, “What do you know about the Mannschenn Drive, Falsen?”

  “Not much,” he said shortly. “I’m not an engineer.”

  “But you’re a navigator. And I believe that in your space services engineering knowledge is one of the subjects required when you are qualifying for your Master Astronaut certificate.”

  Falsen nibbled a sandwich. It wasn’t at all bad. Linda held one in her hand but had yet to bring it to her mouth. She wasn’t hungry, thought the Earthman.

  He swallowed the chewed meat, then said, “Yes, Lady Carlin. I got a pass in engineering knowledge as well as all the other subjects. I can tighten a nut or change a fuse with the best of them. But the Mannschenn Drive? It’s best left severely alone by those who aren’t qualified to tinker with it.”

  “I would just hate,” said Carlin, “to let the control-room ornaments in this ship get their clumsy paws onto my drive.”

  She bolted a sandwich, washed it down with gin.

  “More?” she asked, getting up to go to the liquor cabinet.

  “No, thank you, Lady Carlin,” said Falsen. “But I’ll take another of these sandwiches.”

  “Go ahead. And you, Linda?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Her glass, Falsen saw, was still almost full.

  “So you’re quite typical of your breed, Falsen,” said Carlin as she reseated herself. “All that the Drive is, as far as you’re concerned, is a device that enables the ship to go astern in time, while going ahead in space, so that you get faster-than-light speeds by cheating, as it were.”

  “You can put it that way.”

  “But even you must have learned something when the Mannschenn Drive aboard your ship went out of control. Just what did happen?”

  “What you, as a qualified Mannschenn Drive engineer, would expect.” He hoped that his memories of what he had read of past disasters was accurate. “Some of the clocks were running backwards. Perspective was distorted and the colors of everything were … wrong. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m naturally curious. After all, such a thing might happen to this ship. Especially with the Mark IV unit. I’ve heard that it’s being taken out of your ships and being replaced by the Mark V as these become available. Would you know why?”

  “I wouldn’t,” lied Falsen.

  “Did your ship have a Mark IV?” asked Carlin.

  “No,” said Falsen. It was another lie.

  “But as far as I can gather from your story, the temporal-precession field must have built up to a dangerous level. Was anybody … changed?”

  “Some of the very unlucky ones were everted,” Falsen told her. (That was something that he had never seen, only read about.) “And there was the onset of senility in seconds.”

  He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and knew that Linda was, too. It was more than the psychological unease induced by Carlin’s persistent questioning. (After all, it was only natural that a spaceperson should be curious about a disaster that had befallen somebody else’s ship, should be anxious to work out ways and means to ensure that a like calamity should not occur on board her own.) It was the increasingly strong odor in the cabin that was making Falsen’s hackles rise, that made him want to bare his teeth and snarl, that aroused the urge to attack, to kill. He glanced sideways at Linda. She was close to the snapping point; he could tell by the tenseness of the line of her jaw, by the overly taut skin over her cheekbones, by the subtle shifting of integument and muscle that he could feel through the thin shirt when he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  Down, boy, down! he thought to himself.

  Down, you bitch, down! he thought at Linda.

  He said, “You must excuse us, Lady Carlin, We are very tired after the day’s exertions. And during our time in the cave, after our landing, we lost our tolerance to alcohol … .”

  “As you please,” Carlin said.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” said Falsen, getting to his feet.

  “The pleasure was mine,” said Carlin with obvious insincerity.

  She did not get up to see them out of her cabin.

  Outside in the alleyway, the door shut behind them, Linda said, “Phew! I couldn’t have stood it any longer in there. That woman stinks!”

  “There are a few of them aboard this ship with strong body odor,” said Falsen.

  “And I hate gin,” Linda went on. “But why was she curious, so very, very curious, about our … disaster?”

  “Other people’s disasters are always interesting.”

  “She’d have found the truth even more interesting.”

  “If she’d believe it,” Falsen said. “But these people don’t have any frontiers of the dark in their cosmos.”

  “I wonder why we should be the only ones?”

  “Some sort of mutation, I suppose. One that never spread but which has persisted for centuries. A recessive gene, perhaps … ”

  They had walked, by this time, to the door of the elevator. The lighted cage stood there, waiting. Even though their cabins were only one deck down, they would be able to save themselves a walk down that rather awkward — to Earthly legs — spiral staircase.

  CHAPTER 10

  Pundoora, originally Delta Puppis, was an old ship and had reached the age where things, lacking proper attention, were always breaking down. The Doralans seemed unable to find the petty officers and skilled senior enlisted people without whose dedicated services a vessel, at least insofar as minor machinery was concerned, could not function at maximum efficiency.

  When the ship had been taken over, the elevator control-panel buttons had not been changed, although the Doralan numeral equivalents had been painted beside them. Falsen and Linda wanted to get to Level 4. Falsen pressed the button. The cage began its descent. 4 flashed on the indicator board, but the elevator did not stop. 4 … 5 … 6 … 7 … 8 … 9 … Then, at the tenth level, it pulled up with a jerk. Falsen jabbed Number 4 button. Nothing happened. Linda tried — and the door opened.

  They were in territory unknown to them. This, thought Falsen, was a chance to explore with a valid excuse ready-made if they were accosted by a Doralan patrol: The elevator had brought them down here against their wishes and would not take them back up to where they belonged; they were trying to find their way back to their own quarters.

  They stepped out into a narrow annular alleyway from which radial passages opened. The lighting was dim, barely adequate. Linda wrinkled her nose. “Cats!” she said disgustedly.

  “Or cat,” corrected Falsen. “There’s only one tom aboard this ship. Pondor. He must have been here recently. Perhaps he’s here now.” He called, in what he hoped was a “Come, pretty pussy” sort of voice, “Pondor! Here, Pondor!”

  “He’ll never come to you,” said the girl.

  “Just as well for him,” Falsen said. “If he did, I’d wring his bloody neck.”

  They walked slowly and carefully through one of the radial passages. They came into what was obviously a big storeroom. There were tiers of shelves, stacked with crates, cases and drums. Most of the deck was occupied by stacks of larger packages. There were huge compressed gas cylinders clamped along one bulkhead, some white, some blue, some red. Reserve oxygen? Helium for the scout airship? Fire-fighting C02? There were smells: alien spices, something that could have been tar, an unidentifiable chemical acridity.

  And cat.

  Pondor, thought Falsen, must have gone to great pains to mark out his territory. But why should he have done so? He was the only tomcat aboard the ship.

  He voiced his thoughts to Linda.

  “But who,” she asked, “could hope to fathom the feline mind, such as it is? Who would want to?”

  “Something moved!” snapped Falsen suddenly. “Look!”

  “The storekeeper,” suggested Linda. “Or whatever her title is aboard this ship.”

  Falsen did not hear. He was attacking a rather untidy stack of packages like a terrier at a rat hole. He put all his strength into pushing a huge bale to
one side. He squirmed into the aperture thus uncovered. There was something at the end of the dark tunnel, something that squealed, that struck out with ineffectual claws. Falsen avoided the feeble blows, got his hands on the thing. It seemed to be human. He grabbed its ankles, backed out, dragging it with him.

  “One less,” said Linda viciously. “Have you killed her yet?”

  Falsen laughed. “Her?” He pointed down to where the Doralan’s red tunic had been pulled up above the hips. “Her?”

  Linda stared. The brief undergarment at the top of the thighs could not hide the telltale bulge.

  “A … stowaway,” she said at last. “A male stowaway.”

  “One who was stowed away,” Falsen told her. “But by whom?” He stirred the supine, sprawling form with his foot. “Who brought you aboard, fellow?” he asked. “Who’s your owner?”

  The little Doralan moaned and stirred, opened his eyes, stared in terror up at the Earthman. He was an unprepossessing specimen, almost chinless, bat-eared, his limbs spindly. But he was well-endowed where, presumably, it mattered most. To somebody.

  But who?

  Falsen repeated his question, slowly.

  The Doralan made a head-shaking gesture. It was plain that he did not understand, did not know English. But why should he? He would not have been sent, at great expense to the Doralan taxpayer, to enroll for any kind of astronautical course at the Antarctic Space Academy.

  “I’ll make the little swine talk!” snarled Linda, raising her own foot.

  If the Doralan did not understand the words, he understood the tone in which they were uttered. He squealed shrilly, rolled over and then, almost on all fours, before he could be stopped, scuttled to a far corner of the storeroom. He melted into a three tier stack of big bales.

  Falsen and Linda ran after him, found the fissure into which he had squeezed. It was too narrow to admit either of them. Given time and the use of a stowbot they could have uncovered the new hiding place.