“It’s not that easy. How would you know what the alien was gripping when he was inside our ship?” asked one of the doctors. There was a touch of scepticism in his voice.
“You could build an entrance to the compartment in which the contact is to take place so that when moving along a winding corridor, the alien intuitively...”
“Ha! Intuitively...” said the doctor, interrupting him. “Motor intuition is based on instincts, which are not universal. Our instincts, the instincts of primates, developed in a certain habitat – in marshes and the crowns of trees. What seems intuitive to us might be totally alien to the aliens.”
“But in weaving their way along a winding corridor, they would have to grab handles and projections and push off from them!”
“They might control their body movements by the reactive force of the spacesuit,” commented Sullivan. “After all, we also use this method of moving in weightlessness.”
“What if we kept watch on the engine exhaust of their spacesuits to draw conclusions about the generated pulse?” asked the biologist.
“Too complicated. We would have to know the rate of expulsion of the exhaust and its mass. It would be very difficult to do this using cameras on a moving object. I’m afraid the margin of error would be too great to make it worthwhile,” objected the physicist.
“How about shaking hands?” proposed Shelby. The scientists halted the discussion and stared at his image on the screen, not understanding what he meant.
“An excellent idea, professor!” said another physicist. “If our people shook hands with an alien, lightly pulling on the alien while floating in weightlessness, we can conduct a comparative analysis of the acceleration of their bodies. Knowing the weight of our delegates, a ten-year-old schoolchild could calculate the alien’s weight.”
“All this is assuming that the aliens have limbs suitable for handshakes,” grumbled one of the biologists.
“We would have to warn the aliens about our traditions. To avoid misunderstanding,” added Shelby.
“I think the idea of a handshake is not a very good one,” objected the biologist sceptically. “There is a danger of contaminating the spacesuit.”
“Surely decontamination is not a problem?” asked MacQueen.
“As far as our own terrestrial microorganisms, bacteria and viruses are concerned, no. But it is hard to imagine what sort of infections an alien might be carrying. This being so, we have to assume that our means of disinfection will be insufficiently effective against them.”
“Why do you think that their bacteria are more resistant?” asked the physicist.
“I didn’t say they were more resistant. They might have a different internal arrangement, a different type of metabolism, not susceptible to our disinfectants.
“For example, one of these is alcohol, as you all know. It serves splendidly for sterilising skins; it is quite simple to run alcohol-soaked cotton wool over them.
“What is the mechanism of its effect? Alcohol has a coagulating effect, and alters the surface tension of microorganisms, so it penetrates into the cells and coagulates the proteins. This kills the pathogens.
“Now imagine that the alien bacteria do not contain protein, but consist of a substance which does not react with alcohol. Alcohol has no effect on such bacteria. A similar principle applies to other means of disinfection.”
The biologist silently scratched his chin.
“Hmm. Incidentally, you’ve brought a thought to my mind. They really might be not only differently structured, but more resistant as well. After all, their civilisation is much older than ours; consequently the bacteria of their own organisms may well have developed immunity to all the forms of active ingredients used by the aliens throughout their history.
“Let me explain. Myriads of bacteria live inside our organisms. The total number of them, by the way, exceeds the number of cells in our organism. There are bacteria in the oral cavity, in the intestine, on the surface of the epidermis, and so on.
“All these bacteria have been living with us since time immemorial, and ensure the correct functioning of the organism. In the 20th century we invented penicillin, and that acts on all bacteria, not just the pathogenic ones. The result was that our domestic bacteria, after penicillin had been used for a few decades, developed immunity to it or became less susceptible to it. Otherwise they would have died out.
“And now imagine how many active ingredients we shall invent over the next million years. And our bacteria will also develop immunity to each and every one of them.”
“You mean that physical contact, even in a spacesuit, must be excluded on safety grounds?”
“Absolutely. Furthermore, the capsule must be destroyed after the alien has visited it. I would simply drop it into the Sun. That would be the most effective method, nothing whatever would survive that.”
“To me, that seems like absolute overkill.”
The biologist smiled wearily.
“That was just how some surgeons argued three hundred years ago, when they were advised to wash their hands before operations. It is the life of the entire human race that is at stake. From my point of view, the risk is unjustifiably high.”
MacQueen nodded in agreement.
“The capsule will be destroyed, professor.”
11
Having read the dossier to the end, Steve put the tablet in the side pocket of his seat and wiped his eyes. The regular humming of the drone’s reactor was a calming sound, creating a pacifying atmosphere in the cabin, but it made him sleepy. Time for a warm-up.
He leaned his body forward and the seat, catching the pulses in his spine, released him from its soft but strong embrace. Once free, he tried to do a few exercises, but it wasn’t that easy in weightlessness. Each movement imparted differently-directed pulses to the body, so that he began rotating in a most uncomfortable way. After wasting some minutes in fruitless attempts, Steve confined himself to stretching in all directions and rotating his head.
Pushing off from the floor, he floated right up till his face was directly under the canopy. In space it was always interesting to look at the stars without interference from the atmosphere diffused with the artificial light of towns. Here the stars looked unusually bright. The Andromeda Nebula looked particularly impressive. From space, it could be seen with the naked eye that it was a nebula, not just a star. After seven billion years, it would cut into the Milky Way and merge into one galaxy. By that time the Sun, increasing in size as its hydrogen burned up, would long since have burnt the inner planets to ashes. Life on them would have become impossible.
But that wouldn’t happen for a long time yet. Meanwhile, Steve was facing a meeting with the aliens. Looking at the sky, it seemed to Steve that there was a film in front of his eyes. Probably due to reading from the tablet screen for so long; or perhaps the canopy was just dusty. He returned to the seat, and only then noticed the alarm signal silently winking on the screen.
“What’s up?” asked Steve.
“Sir, we have intersected the tail of a comet. Over the past hour, the density of material has been rising, and now it exceeds the safe concentration,” replied the computer imperturbably.
“Why didn’t you report it earlier?”
“The audio warning danger system was switched off during the last servicing.”
Toshi! He had probably switched off the sound so as not to be irritated by insistent warnings from the onboard computer while he was rummaging around inside the drone, and then forgotten to switch it on again.
“What are the suggested courses of action?” asked Steve.
“Reduce speed till we are out of the comet tail.”
“Then we would arrive late at our destination?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By how much?”
“By four hours.”
“Not acceptable. The mission is already mapped out. Other possibilities?”
“Deploy the protective deflector.”
“Why wa
sn’t that proposed in the first place?”
“The deflector is concealed under an armoured shell. A special shaft has to be opened to deploy it. The interior of the shaft would be damaged by the oncoming flow of comet material. Speed relative to the comet tail and flow density is too great. Deceleration would be required.”
“And what’s the problem with that?”
“Deceleration and the subsequent acceleration would overload the live personnel, therefore they must be done without exceeding the health safety limits. Doing so within this restriction would delay arrival at our destination by five hours.”
“Damn! And what if we decelerate at a higher rate than the permissible overload?”
“Sir, the prolonged effect of overloads on an untrained organism is not recommended and may be dangerous to health.”
“I can’t be more than an hour late, two at most.”
“Allowing for a two-hour delay, you would have to withstand overloads exceeding the recommendations by fifty per cent.”
Steve took a deep breath, exercised his neck again and sat in the seat.
“Do it.”
“Wilco.”
This time the seat pressed on his body like a giant’s hand trying to crush it. The pressure on his chest was so great that it seemed to Steve at first that he would not be able to breathe. After that, the seat turned its back on the console so that the vector of the acceleration was directed towards Steve’s torso.
“Attention, three seconds to switching on braking engines,” warned the computer. A speedometer appeared on one of the displays within his field of vision. The drone needed to lose 93,000 m/sec to slow down enough to make it possible to open the deflector shaft.
Steve counted to three silently, but nothing happened. An instant later, it was as if he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer, as if the giant who was crushing him had decided that the pressure of one hand was not sufficient. It was now sitting with all his weight on Steve’s rib cage. At the same time, the cabin was bathed in the violet light of the plasma exhaust. An incredible noise built up in it and the smell of ozone hit his nostrils.
The numbers on the display were falling rapidly. Steve closed his eyes, breathing heavily. You asked for it, now put up with it! Gradually his body began to get accustomed to the overload, but it was still difficult to breathe. The minutes stretched out interminably.
Having lost enough speed, the drone extended a ten-metre telescopic rod forward and opened the high-strength deflector on the end of it like an umbrella. Now the material ejected by the unknown comet was not beating down on the drone’s nose, which its micro-particles had been eroding like an acid, but was caught by the deflector.
“Sir, the deflector is deployed. Five seconds to main engine start.”
Steve closed his eyes again. While the telescopic rod was being extended forward, he had had a few minutes to regain his breath. The thought that in a few seconds he would again be in the embrace of the invisible giant was unbearable.
And again the overload, like a kick from a giant boot, pressed on his chest.
As the computer had predicted, Steve eventually reached the space around Mars two hours late. The drone turned upside down to face the planet and after a quarter of an orbit around it, set course for the descent.
Mars slowly floated towards them, covering more and more of his field of vision. The drone seemed to be crawling like a snail, not moving at the monstrous speed with which Toshi had frightened him. Before the overloads began, Steve relaxed, enjoying the flight and watching the Martian landscape unfolding before him.
The shaking began unexpectedly, as if the drone were not flying, but floating on a smooth lake and then suddenly hit on the underside by submerged rocks. Everything inside began shuddering too. From outside, the explosions of plasma discharges could be heard, flaring up like lightning due to friction on the projecting surfaces of the hull plating.
Having lost the greater part of its kinetic energy, the drone hesitated, then set its nose below the horizon line. Now it was plunging into the planet’s atmosphere like a predator fish.
Steve could again see the approaching surface of the planet through the canopy. More and more details became apparent in the landscape opening up before him. The drone rushed down, cutting through the rarefied atmosphere.
Sweeping the landscape with his eyes, Steve was quite unable to find the spaceport. There were no structures directly ahead, only lifeless desert. He glanced at the map. Yes, the landing point should be somewhere there down below, not over the horizon.
The drone continued falling. Steve began looking at the altitude readings. It was now less than 5000 metres to the surface, but the drone showed no sign of decelerating. Two thousand, 1500, 1000... At about 500, the nose began to come up. Now it was as if the drone, rolling down a hill, had reached the less inclined ground at the foot of it. The overload became markedly apparent, a second after the seat had again pressed on his chest.
The nose rose higher and higher, his eyes becoming dark as it did so. Negative acceleration forced the blood from his brain down through his body, affecting his consciousness. The seat pressed almost unbearably, trying to stop the blood flowing down from Steve’s brain. It seemed that at any moment his body would collapse like a squashed tomato.
His side vision capability was almost lost. His field of vision narrowed like a tunnel, and everything beyond it seemed immersed in some murky liquid. One hundred metres! Steve’s fading consciousness no longer believed that the drone would stop in time. The computer must have gone on the blink, fooling about with such an extreme descent. At the next moment, it was as if the bottom of the drone had been hit by a hammer. The wheels had touched the ground. After a short landing run, the drone stopped stock still and all was quiet. With a light whistle, the seat let the air escape from its built-in cushions, reverting to its normal shape and releasing the pilot’s body.
Steve sighed with relief. Yes indeed, travel in the Falcon was much more pleasant. I’ll never get in one of these devilish contraptions again, he swore to himself. He got up from the seat, sensing with satisfaction the soft Martian gravity in all his muscles.
Then he realised that he did not know where he was or where he was supposed to go. He looked through the canopy glass. In all directions except one, where there was a low, slightly-sloped hill, the Martian desert stretched as far as the eye could see, with boulders of various sizes scattered all over it.
Looking directly in front, a strip of suspiciously level ground stood out in the desert landscape. It lacked the usual lights and markings of a landing strip, and its surface could not be distinguished in colour from the usual Martian sand. Nevertheless, his eyes could clearly make out that there were no rocks along this strip. This was clearly not just coincidence.
Steve went over to the other side of the cockpit, where there was a small porthole through which he could see towards the tail. There was the same picture there too, a flat strip without rocks. Usually, on landing, the engine exhausts burned the ground, leaving dark spots on it. Nothing of the sort could be seen here, nor were there any wheel tracks.
After putting on his spacesuit, he gave the command to open the canopy, which rose, letting in the cool dry Martian breeze. Steve jumped out and looked round.
The dim Martian sun was already down towards the horizon, and the rocks nature had scattered over the desert threw long shadows. There were no structures around; the planet appeared to Steve to be absolutely lifeless. But someone was supposed to meet him...
He went down on one knee and touched the strange soil on which the drone was standing. From close up, it was apparent that it was unnaturally even. The soil was densely packed, not friable as it usually was. Steve looked at the drone’s wheels. They had not sunk in even by a millimetre, but were standing as if on asphalt.
The drone must have brought him to a secret base, and the takeoff strip must have been specially concealed so that it would not be noticeable from space. In fact, ev
en standing on it on his own two feet, he wouldn’t immediately have noticed it. But if this was a strip built by people, then there must be a base somewhere nearby. Steve looked around again. Nothing to be seen but desert and the hill. So most likely the base was inside the hill.
Wondering what would happen next, Steve half-sat, leaning on the drone. In the distance, a little way from the hill, he noticed a column of dust, probably raised by some vehicle moving at high speed. The next moment, he suddenly recalled, as if in a film, the adventure on Mars in which he and Clive had once been involved. He instantly broke out in a cold sweat.
The canopy was still open. In a flash, Steve jumped back into the drone and gestured for the canopy to be closed. As soon as the onboard computer had restored the atmosphere, he opened the visor of his spacesuit.
“Do you see that column of dust at eleven o’clock?” he asked the computer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you bring it nearer?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Show me.”
The optics on spacecraft were always excellent. On military ones they proved to be better still. An image from a wide-format camera appeared on the screen. The polarised optical system, with improved digital imaging, gave a clear picture with good contrast, better than in real life. Steve gestured to increase the magnification.
Several harriers were clearly discernible in the dust clouds, and one large vehicle, maybe a transport vehicle or an infantry personnel carrier. It carried no identification markings. The group of vehicles was still some way off but was heading straight for him at great speed.
“Can you identify them?
“No, sir. I am not registering an IFF signal. Shall I request identification?”
“No, no, not necessary. Measure the distance,” ordered Steve.
“Fourteen kilometres.”
“How long will it take them to get here? Show the countdown.”
“Five and a half minutes.”
Steve feverishly considered what he should do. The distance to Earth was too great to find out from there if they were friend or foe. The signal would not get there and back in time. The local security forces might not know about his mission, and there was no time or authority for explanations.
Beyond the Event Horizon - Episode Two Page 7
