by E. C. Tubb
‘The conclusion I supplied, based on the figures you gave, is correct.’
And unexpected. Kano checked his notations and thoughtfully pursed his lips. In his world two and two should always make a nice, neat, understandable four and, if the answer was different, then something somewhere was very wrong.
Lifting his commlock he activated the instrument and said to the operator, ‘Commander Koenig, please.’
‘He’s engaged. Will you hold or try again later?’
‘I’ll hold.’
Koenig had been talking to Reconnaissance, ordering Eagles to prepare for another search. As he lowered the commlock it hummed again and he looked at Kano’s face.
‘Yes?’ He frowned at the answer. ‘Are you certain? Good. That’s excellent. Yes. Yes, of course, come here immediately. I’m in my office.’ To Bergman he said, ‘We may have found something. Kano thinks so and I hope to God he’s right. It could be the solution to the mystery.’
It was based on an inconsistency as the technician explained when, minutes later, he joined the others in the large office. He sat at Koenig’s invitation, clearing a space on the desk, pushing aside a litter of papers and empty coffee containers.
‘I was running routine data through the computer,’ he said, ‘when something began to nag at me. You know how it is, Professor, something’s wrong, you don’t know what, but you’d stake your life that it’s there. Well, with me it was like that. Something just didn’t seem to make sense, so I did some digging.’
‘And found?’
‘Something odd, Commander. First I had the computer find me the exact volume of the interior of the wreck. Then the exact volume of one of the seeds. From those figures it was simple to determine how many seeds could have been carried within the pod. Naturally I requested optimum packing arrangements.’
‘And so you discovered the probable number of seeds carried.’ Bergman nodded. ‘I’d run similar checks myself. The number, of course, is high.’
‘How high?’ Koenig was sharp. ‘We didn’t find all that many.’
‘Eighty-seven to be exact,’ said Bergman. ‘But many could have been scattered far beyond the region of the wreck, and some must have fallen into the dust. In fact, in light of the carrying capacity of the pod, they must have done so. With a more extensive search we shall find more.’
‘Perhaps not, Professor.’ Kano touched the papers he had brought with him. ‘In fact, the computer findings show they probably do not exist to be found.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t stop at just determining the different volumes. I determined the mass of one of the seeds, then extrapolated what the total mass would be if the pod was filled to capacity.’ Kano paused, then added quietly, ‘I found a discrepancy. I had the computer check and re-check, but there is no doubt as to the figures. They show that the pod could not have been carrying a full load of seeds.’
Koenig said, ‘You’re certain as to that?’
‘The figures prove it. If the pod had been filled, then its mass would have been far greater than what we know it was. Those seeds are heavy and there would have been a lot of them. To be precise, there would have been room for twenty-five thousand six hundred eighteen. Eighty-seven have been found and, even allowing for more yet to be discovered, there is a vast differential.’
‘And the mass?’ Bergman looked up from his slide rule. ‘What is the differential between the actual and the assumed?’ He pursed his lips as Kano gave the answer. ‘You aren’t ignoring the surrounding tracery?’
‘No. I’ve established a probable norm using the established system. The differential still exists.’ He repeated, this time with greater emphasis, ‘That pod could not have been filled with seeds.’
Koenig stepped to the communications post, hit the switch and said, ‘Get me Nancy Coleman immediately.’ As he waited he said to Kano, ‘I’m not doubting you, David, but I have to be sure. Nancy? A question. In your experience do any seed pods exist that are only barely full?’
‘Commander?’
He repeated the question, amplifying it with, ‘Do any such pods use some form of cushion-mechanism, wadding or something like that? Gas, even, or something that vanishes when the pod breaks open?’ Impatience edged his voice as she hesitated. "Hurry, please, this is urgent.’
‘I was thinking, Commander. Botany covers a wide field and in nature almost anything is possible. Offhand I’d say the answer to your question is no. Nature as well as being versatile is also extremely conservative in the sense that nothing goes to waste. A pod carries a certain number of seeds and usually always the same number. Safety is achieved by lightness and adhesion. In some cases by a form of suspension, such as a normal, garden pea, which grows from a stem within the pod. Protection comes from the outer wrapping, such as Brazil nuts, which are found closely packed in a tough casing. And the coconut, despite its shell, carries a thick layer of fibre to cushion its impact with the ground. On the other hand—’
‘So the answer is no,’ broke in Koenig.
‘As far as my experience goes, Commander, that is correct.’
‘Thank you.’ Turning from the communications post, Koenig looked at the others. ‘Well?’
‘There were no traces of any cushioning material within the pod,’ said Bergman. ‘And no signs of any form of adhesion or suspension of the seeds. Until now I had assumed they had been carried closely packed. David has shown that to have been impossible. Assuming the pod would not have been empty, only one conclusion is left.’
Something had travelled inside.
Above Schemiel the Eagle hovered like a moth above a flame, veering a little, lifting to fall to lift again, tiny movements almost indiscernible to the unaided eye, but too much for Carter to tolerate.
‘Give me the controls,’ he snapped to Bailey. ‘Take over the monitor.’
The co-pilot obeyed, a dull flush staining his cheeks, knowing better than to complain at such a moment. He relaxed a little as Carter, startled, swore as the Eagle fought his control.
‘What the hell? Chad, was this Eagle checked out?’
‘One hundred percent operational, skipper.’
‘Then what’s wrong? I can’t keep it level and the stability’s all shot to hell. Check the systems.’
Bailey threw back a cover and made a rapid test of the automatic maintenance circuits.
‘All functioning, skipper,’ he reported. ‘Some increase in the ion level, but nothing above tolerance.’
Whose tolerance was a matter of opinion, but it wasn’t Carter’s. For him only perfection was good enough, and if the automatics couldn’t supply it, then he’d do without them.
‘Stand by for manual override.’ He moved a lever. ‘Manual engaged. I’m taking over, Paul.’
Seated at his console in Main Mission, Paul Morrow shrugged.
‘It’s your decision, Alan, but keep that Eagle level. I want to take as accurate a reading as possible of the surface dust in Schemiel. What was wrong, anyway?’
‘Electrical buildup in the guidance systems, which caused over-compensation. We seem to be picking up a charge from somewhere.’ He added grimly, ‘If it isn’t that, then someone in maintenance will have some questions to answer and, if he can’t do it to my satisfaction, Medical will have a new customer.’
‘You and whose army, Alan?’
‘Just me. When my neck’s at stake I don’t need an army to back me up when talking to the crumb who skipped his job.’
‘If someone did skip it.’ Morrow was serious. ‘I think you know better than that. You’d better have Bailey run a separate, continual check on all potentials in the Eagle.’
‘Agreed.’ Carter nodded to his co-pilot. ‘Get with it, Chad, and if you’ve still got a burn, I apologise. It wasn’t your fault, and I jumped too hard and too soon. Now let’s get with it.’
The Eagle dropped lower to hover just above the dust at a carefully determined point. Lower and its blast would catch the fine powder and send it
swirling up and over the area. Too high and the inverse-square law would reduce any weak signal to a level impossible to distinguish against the normal background level of radioactive ‘noise.’ And it would be a weak signal; Koenig was sure of that.
He stood at the edge of the crater, other suited figures set at regular intervals in a wide arc to either side. All were roped to each other and all were armed with heavy-duty lasers. A second Eagle, grounded, stood well to the rear but ready to lift at a moment’s warning. It, too, was armed with missies primed and ready to go, its laser warmed, its crew on battle alert.
‘Paul?’
‘Nothing yet, Commander.’ Morrow’s voice was clear over the radio. ‘Background radiation a little high, but general.’
‘That’s to be expected, John,’ said Bergman from where he waited in Main Mission. ‘The wreck would have contaminated the ground when it touched. Its radioactive level was higher than Lunar normal.’
‘I know, Victor. Jamson!’ A man lifted his arm at the end of the left-hand arc. ‘You’re too close to the edge. Back off a little.’
Koenig leaned back as the Eagle came towards him, turned, then made another crossing of the crater. Carter was handling it well, and if there was anything for his instruments to find, they would find it.
If anything was to be found at all.
Koenig looked back at the crater. The walls were peaked, jagged, fretted with fissure lines, most old, but some, especially those at close hand, new. The gap made by the wreck marred the rim-wall as a missing tooth marred an otherwise attractive mouth. The surface of the dust was barely marked now, the fine powder settling under the influence of the low gravity. Soon it would be the smooth expanse it had been before the alien visitor had crashed on the Moon.
The pod and what it must have contained.
Logic had determined that the alien pods must have held more than seeds, and now the same logic pointed to where the passenger, whatever it was, must be hiding. Unless a master of perfect camouflage, the alien would be beneath the surface of the smooth dust, hiding Ike a fish in water, safely invisible to any normal search.
A lair from which it had risen to kill two men—to kill them and somehow dispose of their bodies. To later dispose of the debris of the pod.
But why?
And how?
Logic, I must use logic, thought Koenig grimly. The mental tool that could be used like a razor. Eliminate the impossible and what remained, no matter how improbable, must be the answer. But what could be more improbable than an unknown form of life that could both live in an airless void and kill and dispose of creatures that must be as alien to it as it was to them?
‘Paul?’
‘Still no positive readings, Commander.’
‘Why not fire into the crater?’ said a man. ‘If anything’s there, it’ll stir it up.’
A reaction he might not enjoy. Koenig remembered the volume of the interior of the pod; the thing that had occupied it could have the bulk of an Eagle. Yet it was a way to solve the impasse—obviously they couldn’t stand guard forever.
‘Alan!’
‘Commander?’
‘Lift and fire at the far side of the crater. Use your laser, and remember, we’re standing close.’
‘I’ll watch it,’ promised the pilot. ‘I’ll give a ten-second preliminary warning, then a five-second . . .’ His voice blurred. ‘. . . on cue. Understood?’
‘No!’ In Main Mission Paul Morrow was anxious. ‘I didn’t get that. Please repeat. Understood? Please repeat. Your transmission was . . .’
Koenig winced as a rush of grinding static came from his radio. Through his face-plate he could see others with hands lifted to their helmets, one running in small circles as if unable to stand the jarring noise. It grew, drowned what seemed to be words, caused his own to bounce back and add to the din.
‘Retreat!’ he yelled. ‘Back off, all of you! Back off! Eagle Two! Lift! Lift and rescue!’
An order they couldn’t have heard and, not hearing, couldn’t obey. Koenig waved his arms, gesturing, turning to face the crater while busy with his emergency semaphoring.
And then he saw it.
And froze.
It was a thing from nightmare—blurred, huge, rising from the centre of the crater, dust rising from flailing appendages, the starlight gleaming from something that looked like polished marble, striated, ebon mixed with pearl.
An opening that gaped.
Above, the Eagle came driving down, laser flaring, a beam of light so intense that it hurt the eyes and left dancing after-images, followed by a temporary blindness as the visual purple in the eyes was bleached from the rods and cones.
Blinded, Koenig stumbled and fell, remembering what he had seen in the glare; the small figure swept from its feet, lifted, spinning as it dropped into its gaping mouth. How many others would follow? Men crushed and broken, suits torn, air lost, delicate tissues ruptured beneath the strain of explosive decompression.
What screams would he be hearing if there were no static?
His knees jarred against stone and he toppled to roll and catch his gloved hands on a shard of rock. Blinking, cursing the retinal images that painted his vision with lances of red and orange, yellow and amber, he stared towards the crater. It held a swirling mass of dust, powder flung high and hovering before it fell, almost motionless in the airless void. Then, in the dust, something moved and rock splintered inches before his face.
Shards dashed against his face-plate, starring the transparency, rendering it opaque even as it fractured the tough material.
To the rushing blur of electronic noise was added another—that of the hiss of escaping air.
Koenig was dying, and he knew it. Weakened internal pressure would blow out the entire face-plate to expose his face to the emptiness of space. For a moment he would see it, feel the escaping air gush from his lungs; then his eyes would become immediately dehydrated, his blood would foam and his lungs would shred as they yielded to internal stress.
His hands slapped at the emergency pouch on his thigh, found a cover-seal, ripped it free and lifted it to slap it over the fractured face-plate. Another followed, a third, more following as he added to the protection, praying that the adhesive would hold, that the seals would cover an area for which they had never been designed, that luck, which had kept him alive so far, would not desert him now.
He was still praying when another blow slammed against the rear of his helmet and threw him into oblivion.
CHAPTER SIX
Koenig was dead and in hell and someone was calling his name. ‘John! John Koenig! Commander!’
To move was to make too great an effort, and the reality waiting was something he could do without.
‘John! John, please!’
Helena? But what would an angel be doing in the devil’s domain? With an effort Koenig opened his eyes and stared at a face wreathed with golden hair, at eyes that held anxiety, at a mouth that smiled.
‘Good, you’ve decided to make the effort. I wondered how long it would be.’
Words that were a mask to cover trepidation; an attitude he recognised for being what it was. A form of self-defence that provided a barrier against a betrayal of emotion.
He said flatly, ‘I expected to die.’
‘You almost did.’ Helena checked the monitor-case over his chest, uncoupled it and swung it aside. ‘John, if you’ve ever considered yourself unlucky, now is the time to change your mind. You should be dead. The others—’ She broke off, biting her lip, then said again, ‘You were lucky.’
‘And the others weren’t.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘How many?’
‘Eight. Six dead.’
Eight from a dozen; three others had survived aside from himself—if the remaining two should live.
‘One has a chance,’ said Helena when he asked the question. ‘Both legs broken and some ribs, extensive bruising and a bad case of concussion. The other lost air and had massive internal hemorrhaging. I’ve put him in
intensive care.’
‘Name?’
‘Peter Lodge.’
Koenig closed his eyes, remembering a young, intense face, a pair of burning blue eyes, hair that had graced a high, smooth forehead. A technician with a brain and application above normal.
‘He has a chance, John,’ said Helena quietly. ‘Not much of a chance, but at least he isn’t dead.’
She didn’t add ‘not yet,’ but she didn’t have to. Koenig did it for her—mentally, but he did it just the same.
‘And me?’
‘Bruises and mild concussion. You managed to seal your helmet in time and the blow that knocked you out flattened you with your face-plate in the dust. It provided a barrier against the internal pressure. Someone on Eagle Two had sense enough to realise something was wrong. They lifted and came to the rescue while Alan did his best to distract whatever it was you found in the crater. What was it, John?’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘I’ve been busy and so has he. Victor ordered a constant watch maintained over Schemiel with Eagles set close for instant action if needed.’ Pausing, she said again, ‘What was it, John?’
‘A thing. A nightmare.’
‘Tell me. I insist!’
Looking at her he realised it was no idle question, no desire to pander to curiosity. The physician was foremost, and with the physician was the psychiatrist, and with them both the neurosurgeon and the—he frowned, trying to remember all her achievements, her degrees.
‘John?’
‘Ask the others.’
‘I did; they weren’t any help. Dust rose and, in it something moved. Some force broke the rope attaching them to the others, and that same force threw them back over the rim-wall.’
‘Too bad,’ he said, ‘that they can’t tell you, I mean.’
‘I’m not just being curious, John,’ she said quietly. ‘You saw something out there that almost killed you, but it did more than just knock you unconscious. You were raving when they brought you in. Screaming, fighting, like a man in delirium, a man who had seen something that had made him want to run, to hide. We had to straighten you from the foetal position. And in case you think you’re normal now, you’re not. I’ve pumped you full of drugs—nothing to worry about, just a heavy dose of tranquillizers with a mild depressant. Now, John, look at me and tell me what you saw—if you dare.’
