Space 1999 #7 - Alien Seed

by E. C. Tubb

  A challenge he was reluctant to meet, but one which, he knew, she would not let him avoid. He had to remember—had to!

  Closing his eyes, he was back on the rim-wall of Schemiel, turning to watch the pluming dust, hearing the grating noise from the radio, seeing the thing that lifted and . . . and . . .

  ‘Steady, John!’ He felt the touch of something cool on his forehead, and opening his eyes, he saw Helena’s face close to his own, her eyes misted with more than anxiety.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ she said soothingly. ‘Quite safe.’

  He said wonderingly, ‘I saw it, Helena. I’m sure I saw it, and yet I can’t describe it. I don’t even want to think about it. Each time I attempt to visualize the thing, something happens. The images blur and I get afraid. I want to run, and at the same time I want to hide, to drop and curl up into a ball, to bury my head in my arms and close out the world. Why?’

  She said obliquely, ‘Was it large, John? One of the others said he caught a glimpse of what he thought of as a whale.’

  ‘Yes, it was big.’

  ‘And had a mouth?’

  ‘A maw—yes, I guess you could call it a mouth.’

  ‘And things like arms? Tentacles, perhaps?’

  Or pincers or claws or scrabbling limbs or suckers or ropes or furry spines or . . .

  ‘All right, John.’ He heard the soft hiss of a hypodermic syringe as it blasted drugs into his bloodstream. His throat was sore and he had a dim memory of someone screaming. Himself? Had he screamed? Helena nodded when he asked. ‘You went into the initial stages of hysterical withdrawal. You’ll be all right now.’

  ‘No!’ He forced himself to sit upright on the bed. The lights bore little halos—miniature rainbows like those he had seen around the stars when he had first examined the heavens with a cheap telescope. The result of using non-achromatic lenses and which had made his initial investigations almost useless. Now he guessed they were a by-product of the drugs he’d been given. ‘Don’t humour me, Helena. I’ve got to know—I saw that thing, so why can’t I remember it?’

  ‘Perhaps because you don’t want to go insane. Look at it this way, John, you saw something so alien that you couldn’t fit it into any recognisable pattern. At the same time you were faced with imminent death. On the subconscious level the mind has the tendency to lump such things together. You saw something alien, and you were faced with death; therefore, the alien thing equates with personal extinction. So each time you try to remember it in any detail, the subconscious—anticipating the other part of the equation, the realisation of death—rebels. It throws you into amnesiac shock. Basically, it is a primitive defence mechanism to ensure continued survival.’

  Then, before he could comment, she added, ‘Of course, there could be another reason.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The brain is as much an electrically motivated instrument as, say, a radio. We know that the proximity of the thing led to a breakdown in communications. Even the guidance systems of Alan’s Eagle were affected. You were very close to the thing, John. It’s possible that your brain was affected by its electronic field. The thing could even generate it as a form of protection. Its victims—for want of a better word—would be disorganised, deranged and frozen to form easy prey. Should they manage to escape, then the protection would continue. They would be unable to remember with any clarity what they had seen or what had happened. You’re not an animal, and so you can and do—up to a degree.’

  He said, ‘Photographs. Alan must have been monitoring the area.’

  Sandra Benes set up the screen, taking time to say, ‘We’re all glad you made it, Commander, very glad.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A nice girl,’ said Bergman as she left and the doors separating the office from Main Mission slid shut. ‘Usually unemotional, which makes her eminently suited to her position, but I’d swear she was crying when he reported that he thought you’d been killed.’

  Koenig said, ‘Let’s get on with it, Victor. You’ve maintained the surveillance?’

  ‘Pending your decision, yes.’ Bergman looked up from the projector. ‘I thought it best to take no positive action until you’d recovered.’

  Or died, in which case Bergman would have taken over Alpha until such time as a new commander had been decided upon.

  ‘Ready, John?’ Then, as Koenig nodded, Bergman switched on the projector. ‘This is from direct film,’ he explained as the screen filled with light and colour. ‘The relayed transmission was good to begin with, then became useless as interference caused massive distortion. Alan is making his initial survey.’

  Images flowed over the screen, the crater of Schemiel, the rim-wall, the tiny figures of suited men. Koenig placed himself, eyes moving from one to the other; men now dead and alive only in the records.

  Another pass, a third, a little lower this time and then—

  ‘This is when the interference ruined transmission,’ said Bergman. ‘Now watch!’

  Dust spun within the bowl of the crater, flowing like water, pouring from the mound of something that rose to bulk, gigantic against the tiny figures of men. A thing that swirls, thrashes, dust rising from all sides to cast a cloud of slowly moving particles, an umbrella that shielded what lay below.

  The scene froze as Bergman touched a switch.

  ‘This is the best view we were able to obtain,’ he explained. ‘Later the dust-cloud thickens. But it is obvious the thing is large. It also seems to be invulnerable to laser-fire—Alan swears he scored a direct hit. The ebon and pearl striations seem to be a protective covering and the colours could be a form of protective mimicry. There also seems to be evidence of a mouth and appendages of some kind.’ He touched the screen with a finger. ‘Here, here and here, John. You see?’

  ‘Yes.’ Koenig was sweating and there was a faint ringing in his ears. ‘How often did Alan fire?’

  ‘Twice. Both times with no apparent effect.’ Bergman started the projector and rewound the spool. ‘The rest is much the same. Alan stayed on guard while the other Eagle effected the rescue.’

  ‘Did he maintain watch over the area?’

  ‘From a high altitude, yes. There was no point in taking chances. The dust had spread to cover the entire area, so he could see nothing, and I didn’t want to risk losing an eagle.’

  A wise decision. Koenig said, ‘What do you make of it, Victor?’

  ‘The creature?’ Bergman became thoughtful. ‘It’s alien, of course, which means it could be totally beyond our terms of reference, but working on the basis of observed data, we know, or can fairly assume, certain aspects of its nature. For one thing, it is an extremely tough life-form. It survived the blast of the atomic missile that diverted the pod. It survived the shock of the crash and it didn’t appear to be hurt by a laser blast, which would have fused an Eagle.’

  A living thing that needed no air to survive, which could withstand high temperature differentials and generate a protective electronic-distortion field. But all things needed to eat in order to live. Food that could be turned into energy or energy taken direct.

  Bergman nodded when he mentioned it.

  ‘It’s barely feasible, John, and certainly the evidence leads in that direction. We have no way of knowing how long it was within the pod, but I think it is safe to assume that it was in a dormant condition. The initial laser-blast may have awakened it, or the later atomic rain from the diverting missile may have triggered it off. Those traceries around the pod could also have been energy collectors. Then the crash and the splitting open of the pod. Schemiel would have offered an immediate hiding place, a close protection.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From any hostile observer. A predator, perhaps, or excessive radiation. How can we tell what the conditions are on its home world? In any case, it is the natural instinct of any newborn life to seek protection.’

  ‘And to kill?’

  ‘To eat, John,’ corrected Bergman. ‘Those men simply happened to be
there.’

  ‘And the debris of the pod?’

  ‘Food.’ Bergman was emphatic. ‘Many of our own insects follow the same pattern. Once they emerge from their cocoons, the first thing they do is to eat it. It’s a readily available supply of protein.’

  ‘Eat it!? Victor, do you realise that not even a laser could touch that pod, that only a diamond wheel managed to cut into it?’

  ‘I know, John, but there is no other rational explanation. The creature must have pulled the debris into the crater while we were getting ready a search party. A missed opportunity,’ he added. ‘If an Eagle had been monitoring, we could have gotten decent photographs of it.’

  His voice held the regret of a frustrated scientist. Koenig said, ‘Hindsight, Victor. We always know what should have been done. At the time we had no idea anything could live out there.’

  ‘But there it is, John, and think of what it must be like, the things it could teach us. A living creature with the ability to live in the void. It seems incredible. How does it manage its energy exchange? How to turn rocks and minerals into sustenance? How long could it survive without air or heat? Thinking of it reminds me of viruses—they, too, can live in hostile environments, remaining dormant until triggered into activity. A virus, John. There are analogies.’

  Koenig said flatly, ‘It must be destroyed.’

  Had the first man who’d ever seen a horse had the same reaction? Bergman pondered the question as he later stood with Koenig in Main Mission. The urge to kill was strong in the human race. The determination to eliminate the unknown by emotionally dictated destruction. To survive at no matter what cost.

  How many tribes had been wiped out in the early days because they had been strangers venturing into another’s territory? How many latent geniuses had been destroyed because they had appeared a little different to the accepted norm?

  ‘John, isn’t there some other way? Do you have to destroy it?’

  ‘You have an alternative?’

  ‘We could monitor the area, trap it in some way. Confine it so as to make tests and studies. It’s something new, John. It could even be intelligent. Why kill what you can’t understand?’

  ‘There are eight men dead, Victor.’

  ‘An accident.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How could it be intentional? The thing was following an instinctive pattern of survival. It might even be in confusion and reacting on a basic primitive level. We don’t know; that’s the whole point. We simply don’t know. Why must we be afraid of it just because it’s alien?’

  Alien and dangerous in a way he couldn’t begin to appreciate.

  Patiently Koenig explained, ending with, ‘That thing could never be taken alive. And even if it could, how would we hold it? We haven’t the facilities to build and guard a cage. And the risk is too great.’

  ‘But need we be in so much of a hurry?’

  ‘Victor, you—’ Koenig snatched at his commlock as it hummed. ‘Helena?’ His face tightened as she spoke. ‘I see. Yes, do what you can. Tell her I’m sorry, Helena, but . . . well, just tell her.’

  As he clipped the instrument to his belt, Koenig said, ‘Peter Lodge just died, Victor. His girl was with him and tried to commit suicide. If Helena hadn’t been there, the death total caused by that thing out there would be ten, not nine. I don’t want that total to get larger. Paul, are the Eagles set?’

  ‘All ready, Commander.’ Morrow was at the console. ‘Alan will drop the bomb when you give the word.’

  ‘Kano?’

  ‘Computer has checked all figures. The shock wave will be well within acceptable limits.’

  ‘Sandra, maintain continual monitoring.’ Koenig drew in his breath. ‘All right, Paul. Give the order.’

  On the main screen the drifting shapes of the Eagles reminded him of a swarm of fireflies, their command modules giving them an insect-like appearance, an impression heightened by the wink of starlight from rounded surfaces, the yellow gleam of light from the eye-like direct vision ports. They hung in a wide circle around Schemiel, watching, waiting. One, higher than the rest, hovered above the crater itself.

  Compared to the others it was a skeleton, the passenger module removed and a jury-rigged assembly in its place. A thing of wires and drums and grabs that held the bulk of a carefully designed bomb.

  ‘Eagle One,’ said Morrow. ‘Eagle One.’

  ‘Eagle One. I copy.’

  ‘Commence operation. I repeat. Commence operation.’

  The grabs dropped, the wire unreeling from its drum, the bomb hanging like a mass of lead from the installation. It fell, slowed, fell again as Carter manipulated the Eagle and Bailey the bomb controls.

  He said, ‘Why go to all this trouble, skipper? We could have blasted the crater with missiles. We don’t need to pussyfoot around with this special bomb.’

  ‘You heard the briefing,’ said Carter. ‘Fired missiles would have caused too much surface damage and pasted the area with radioactives. This way we put one bomb right down where we need it and, when detonated, the walls of the crater itself will act as blast-guides. If the figures are right, the blast will shoot all the debris into space.’

  ‘Like a shotgun.’ Bailey grinned as he let out more wire. ‘My great-great-great-grandpappy would have been good at this. He could load and fire a musket within thirty seconds. That’s what we’re doing, really, isn’t it—loading a kind of musket to blow whatever is in that crater to hell and gone?’ His tone changed. ‘Check three feet from surface.’

  ‘Check.’ Carter looked at his instruments and reported to Main Mission. ‘No sign of control aberration. All systems optimum. Proceed?’

  ‘Proceed.’

  Bailey said, ‘Well, here goes!’

  Beneath them was an atomic bomb suspended from a cable. If something should make it detonate before they were clear, then he, Carter and the entire Eagle would be turned into an incandescent cloud. And no one could be certain that the thing that had distorted radio transmission wouldn’t also trigger the fuse of the bomb.

  ‘Ready to release,’ said Bailey. He was sweating. ‘Bomb approximately one foot beneath dust.’

  And therefore right on target.

  ‘Release!’ Carter waited, counting seconds. At three he fed power to the drive and sent the Eagle darting away from the area above Schemiel. ‘Paul? Bomb released and on its way. Keep your fingers crossed.’

  And pray if that was your inclination. Pray that the mathematicians had been right, that the explosion would be contained, that the thing it was intended to destroy would become a column of expanding vapour blasting from the Moon.

  Alpha ejecting an unwanted visitor.

  One that had killed.

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ said Bailey. ‘Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three—What’s keeping it?’

  Already it was five seconds late according to his count, but Carter used a more efficient means of measuring the passage of time.

  ‘Relax, Chad. You’re counting too fast. There’s two seconds to go as yet. You—’ He broke off as a lamp flashed on the panel before him. ‘There she goes!’

  At first there was nothing. Matter, sunken deep beneath the dust, had impacted, blossomed into violent expansion, atomic fragments shattering, releasing the titanic energy they contained. A pause that was but the merest flicker, and then the released energies took the dust and fused some and lifted some and threw the whole mass up and out in a ravening blast of livid blue-white flame.

  A manmade volcano that left nothing behind it but a fused hole—the crater of Schemiel swept clean as if with a broom and devoid of any trace of dust, of loose stone, of debris of any kind.

  And empty of alien life.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nancy Coleman took the spoonful of soil, placed it into a test tube, added liquid and gave the whole thing a vigorous shaking. Carefully labelling the container of muddy water, she set it aside in a rack with others. Later they would be tested, but she was confident of
what the results would be. The acidity, mineral content, humus and nitrogen-factor were all favourable, as previous tests had shown, and the check was only a part of the system she had devised for routine maintenance.

  ‘Everything all right, Nancy?’ Constance Boswell entered the office. Her hands were grimy and a smudge of dirt on one cheek gave her a gamin-like appearance. Crossing to the faucet, she washed her hands. ‘I’ve been checking the experimental area. Nothing as yet, and maybe there never will be, but it’s exciting.’

  ‘Different from the hydroponic farms?’

  ‘This is the real thing,’ said Connie. ‘The other is the scientific production of edible vegetable matter in a controlled environment. All right, so the stuff being grown tastes and looks exactly the same, in some cases even better, but to me there’s something missing.’

  The sun warm on back and shoulders, the feel of dirt beneath the fingers, the smell of the loam, the sense of belonging to the land, Nancy Coleman could understand all that so well. Leaning back in her chair, she half-closed her eyes, remembering when she had been a girl, little more than a child, running through fields thick with ripening grain, weeding, watching as life burst from the soil to strive for a place in the sun.

  A time that had passed all too quickly, and then came the studies, the endless learning, the finding of her profession. It had been natural to turn to botany, natural to experiment with hybrids and to stimulate vegetable germ plasm with selected radioactivity.

  Her development of a new strain of wheat had won her worldwide recognition as being at the summit of her profession. Moonbase Alpha had offered her the chance to pursue her experiments using accelerated techniques based on a low-gravity environment. Her Luna Orchid had taken the botanical world by storm. If things had progressed as anticipated, she would have been able to retire both rich and famous to the small estate she had purchased in the Lesser Antilles.