After a moment of astonishment, Grosvenor shook his head. “That is an overstatement,” he said. “One man is too easy to kill.”
“I notice,” said McCann, “you don’t deny possessing the knowledge.”
Grosvenor held out his hand in farewell. “Thanks for your high opinion of me. Although considerably exaggerated, it’s psychologically uplifting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The thirty-first star they visited was Sol-size, Sol-type. Of its three planets, one followed an orbit of eighty million miles. Like all the other habitable worlds they had seen, it was a steaming jungle and primeval sea.
The Space Beagle settled through its gaseous envelope of air and water vapour, and began to fly along at a low level, a great alien ball of metal in a fantastic land.
In the geology laboratory, Grosvenor watched a bank of instruments that metered the nature of the terrain below. It was a complex job which demanded the closest attention, since much of the interpretation of the data called for the associative processes of a highly trained mind. The constant stream of reflexions of the ultrasonic and short-wave signals being sent out had to be channelled into the proper computing devices at precisely the right time for comparative analysis. To the standard techniques with which McCann was familiar, Grosvenor had added certain refinements in accordance with Nexial principles, and an amazingly complete picture of the planet’s outer crust was being tabulated.
For an hour Grosvenor sat there, deeply involved in his educated guesswork. The facts emerging varied widely in detail, but consideration of molecular structure, arrangement and distribution of the different elements indicated a certain geologic sameness: mud, sandstone, clay, granite, organic debris — probably coal deposits — silicates in the form of sand overlying rock, water—
Several needles on the dials before him swung over sharply and held steady. Their reaction showed indirectly the presence of metallic iron in large quantities with traces of carbon, molybdenum—
Steel! Grosvenor snatched at a lever which precipitated a series of events. A bell started to ring. McCann came running. The ship stopped. A few feet from Grosvenor, McCann began to talk to Acting Director Kent.
“Yes, Director,” he was saying, “steel, not just iron ore.” He did not mention Grosvenor by name, but went on, “We set our instruments at a hundred feet maximum. This could be a city buried — or hidden — in a jungle mud.”
Kent said matter-of-factly, “We’ll know in a few days.”
Cautiously, the ship was kept well above the surface, and the necessary equipment was lowered through a temporary gap in its energy screen. Giant shovels, cranes, mobile conveyors were set up, along with supplementary devices. So carefully had everything been rehearsed that thirty minutes after the ship started to disgorge material it was again heading out into space.
The entire excavating job was done by remote control. Trained men watched the scene in communicator plates and operated the machines on the ground. In four days, the highly integrated mass of implements had dug a hole two hundred and fifty feet deep by four hundred feet wide and eight hundred feet long. What was exposed then was not so much a city as the incredible rubble of what had been a city.
The buildings looked as if they had crumpled under the weight of a burden too great for them to carry. The street level was at the full two-hundred-and-fifty-foot depth, and there they began to turn up bones. Cease-digging orders were given, and several lifeboats made their way down through the muggy atmosphere. Grosvenor went along with McCann, and presently he was standing with several other scientists beside what was left of one of the skeletons.
“Rather badly crushed,” said Smith. “But I think I can piece it together.”
His trained fingers arranged bones into a rough design. “Four-legged,” he said. He brought a fluoroscopic device to bear on one of the limbs. He said presently, “This one seems to have been dead about twenty-five years.”
Grosvenor turned away. The shattered relics that lay around might hold the secret of the fundamental physical character of a vanished race. But it was unlikely that the skeletons held any clue to the identity of the unimaginably merciless beings who had murdered them. These were the pitiful victims, not the arrogant and deadly destroyers.
He made his way gingerly to where McCann was examining soil dug up from the street itself. The geologist said, “I think we’ll be justified in taking a stratigraphical survey from here on down several hundred feet.”
At his word, a drill crew sprang into action. During the next hour, as the machine tore its way through rock and clay, Grosvenor was kept busy. A steady trickle of soil samplings passed under his eyes. Occasionally, he put a bit of rock or earth through a chemical-breakdown process. By the time the lifeboats headed back to the parent ship, McCann was in a position to give a fairly accurate generalized report to Kent. Grosvenor stayed out of the receptive field of the communicator plate while McCann gave the report.
“Director, you will recall that I was particularly asked to check if this could be an artificial jungle plant. It seems to be. The strata below the mud appears to be that of an older, less primitive planet. It is hard to believe that a layer of jungle could have been skimmed from some distant planet and super-imposed on this one, but the evidence points in that direction.”
Kent said, “What about the city itself? How was it destroyed?”
“We have made a few of the calculations, and we can say cautiously that the enormous weight of rock and soil and water could have done all the damage we saw.”
“Have you found any evidence to indicate how long ago this catastrophe took place?”
“We have a little geomorphological data. In several places we examined, the new surface has formed depressions in the old one, indicating that the extra weight is forcing down weaker areas below. By identifying the type of land fault that would sag under such circumstances, we have some figures that we intend to feed into a computing machine. A competent mathematician” — he meant Grosvenor — “has roughly estimated that the pressure of the weight was first applied not more than a hundred years ago. Since geology deals in events that require thousands and millions of years to mature, all the machine can do is to check the manual calculation. It cannot give us a closer estimate.”
There was a pause, and then Kent said formally, “Thank you. I feel that you and your staff have done a good job. One more question: In your investigation, did you find anything that might be a clue to the nature of the intelligence that could bring about such a cataclysmic destruction?”
“Speaking only for myself, without having consulted with my assistants — no!”
It was, Grosvenor reflected, just as well that McCann had so carefully limited his denial. For the geologist, the investigation of this planet was the beginning of the search for the enemy. For himself, it had proved to be the final link in a chain of discovery and reasoning that had started when they first began to hear the strange murmurings in space.
He knew the identity of the most monstrous alien intelligence conceivable. He could guess its terrible purpose. He had carefully analysed what must be done.
His problem was no longer: What is the danger? He had reached the stage where he needed, above all, to put over his solution without compromise. Unfortunately, men who had knowledge of only one or two sciences might not be able, or even willing, to comprehend the potentialities of the deadliest danger that had ever confronted all the life of the entire inter-galactic universe. The solution itself might become the centre of a violent controversy.
Accordingly Grosvenor saw the problem as both political and scientific. He analysed, with a sharp awareness of the possible nature of the forthcoming struggle, that his tactics must be carefully thought out and carried through with the utmost determination.
It was too soon to decide how far he would have to go. But it seemed to him that he dared not place any limitation upon his actions. He would do what was necessary.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
>
When he was ready to act, Grosvenor wrote a letter to Kent:
Acting Director Administrative Offices Expeditionary Ship Space Beagle
Dear Mr. Kent:
I have an important communication to make to all heads of departments. The communication relates to the alien intelligence of this galaxy, about the nature of which I have accumulated evidence adequate for action on the largest scale.
Would you please call a special meeting, so that I may present my suggested solution?
He signed it, “Sincerely yours, Elliott Grosvenor,” and wondered if Kent would notice that he was offering a solution, but not supporting evidence. While he waited for a reply, he quietly moved the rest of his personal belongings from his cabin to the Nexial department. It was the last act in a defence plan that included the possibility of a siege.
The answer arrived the following morning.
Dear Mr. Grosvenor:
I have communicated to Mr. Kent the gist of your memo of yesterday afternoon. He suggests that you make a report on the enclosed form, A — 16 — 4, and expressed surprise that you had not done so as a matter of course.
We are in receipt of other evidence and theory on this matter. Yours will be given careful consideration along with the rest.
Will you please submit the form, properly filled out, as soon as possible.
Yours truly John Fohran For Mr. Kent.
Grosvenor read the letter grimly. He did not doubt that Kent had made sharp remarks to the secretary about the only Nexialist on the ship. Even as it was, Kent had probably restrained his language. The turmoil, the reservoir of hatred that was in the man, was still suppressed. If Korita was right, it would come out in a crisis. This was the “winter” period of man’s present civilization, and entire cultures had been torn to pieces by the vaulting egotism of individuals.
Although he had not intended to offer factual information, Grosvenor decided to fill in the form the secretary had sent him. However, he only listed the evidence. He did not interpret it, nor did he offer his solution. Under the heading, “Recommendations,” he wrote, “The conclusion will be, instantly obvious to any qualified person.”
The titanic fact was that every item of evidence he had presented was known to one or another of the spacious science departments aboard the Space Beagle. The accumulated data had probably been on Kent’s desk for weeks.
Grosvenor delivered the form in person. He didn’t expect a prompt reply, but he remained in his department. He even had his meals sent up. Two twenty-hour periods went by, and then a note arrived from Kent.
Dear Mr. Grosvenor:
In glancing over Form A — 16 — 4, which you have submitted for consideration of the council, I notice that you have failed to specify your recommendations. Since we have received other recommendations on this matter, and intend to combine the best features of each in to comprehensive plan, we would appreciate receiving from you a detailed recommendation.
Will you please give this your prompt attention?
It was signed, “Gregory Kent, Acting Director”. Grosvenor took Kent’s personal signature to the letter to mean that he had scored a direct hit, and that the main action was about to begin.
He doctored himself with drugs that would produce symptoms indistinguishable from influenza. While he waited for his body to react, he wrote another note to Kent, this time to the effect that he was too sick to prepare the recommendations — “which are necessarily long, since they would have to include a considerable body of interpretive reasoning based on the known facts of many sciences. Still, it might be wise to start immediately on the preliminary propaganda in order to accustom the members of the expedition to the notion of spending an extra five years in space.”
As soon as he had slipped the letter into the mail chute, he called Dr. Eggert’s office. His timing, as it turned out, was sharper than he had anticipated. In ten minutes Dr. Eggert came in and put down his bag.
As he straightened, footsteps sounded in the corridor. A moment later, Kent and two husky chemistry technicians entered.
Dr. Eggert glanced round casually, and nodded cheerfully as he recognized the chemist chief. “Hello, Greg,” he said in his deep voice. Having acknowledged the other’s presence, he gave his full attention to Grosvenor. “Well,” he said finally, “looks like we’ve got a bug here, my friend. It’s amazing. No matter how much protection we give on these landings, some virus or bacteria break through occasionally. I’ll have you taken down to the isolation ward.”
“I’d rather stay up here.”
Dr. Eggert frowned, then shrugged. “In your case, it’s feasible.” He packed his instruments. “I’ll have an attendant up right away to look after you. We don’t take any chances with strange bugs.”
There was a grunt from Kent. Grosvenor who had glanced occasionally at the Acting Director with simulated puzzlement, looked up questioningly. Kent said in an annoyed tone, “What seems to be the trouble, Doctor?”
“Can’t tell yet. We’ll see what the lab tests bring out.” He frowned. “I’ve taken samples from almost every part of him. So far, the symptoms are fever and some evidence of fluid in the lungs.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t let you talk to him now, Greg. This may be serious.”
Kent said brusquely, “We’ll have to take the risk. Mr. Grosvenor is in possession of valuable information and” — he spoke deliberately — “I feel sure he is still strong enough to give it.”
Dr. Eggert looked at Grosvenor. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“I can still talk,” Grosvenor said weakly. His face felt hot. His eyes ached. But one of the two reasons why he had made himself sick was the hope that it would impel Kent to come up, as he now had.
The other reason was that he didn’t want to attend in person any meeting of scientists Kent might call. Here in this department and here alone he could defend himself from hasty actions the others might decide to take against him.
The doctor glanced at his watch. “Tell you what,” he said to Kent, and more indirectly to Grosvenor, “I’m sending up an attendant. The conversation has to be over by the time he gets here. All right?”
Kent said with false heartiness, “Fine!”
Grosvenor nodded.
From the door, Dr. Eggert said, “Mr. Fander will be up in about twenty minutes.”
When he had gone, Kent came slowly to the edge of the bed and looked down at Grosvenor. He stood like that for a long moment, and then said in a deceptively mild voice, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to do. Why are you not giving us the information you have?”
Grosvenor said, “Mr. Kent, are you really surprised?”
Once more there was silence. Grosvenor had the distinct impression of a very angry man restraining himself with difficulty. Finally, Kent said in a low, tense voice, “I am the Director of this expedition. I demand that you make your recommendations at once.”
Grosvenor shook his head, slowly. He suddenly felt hot and heavy. He said, “I don’t know just what to say to that. You’re a pretty predictable man, Mr. Kent. You see, I expected you to handle my letters the way you did. I expected you to come up here with” — he glanced at the other two men — “a couple of hatchetmen. Under the circumstances, I think I’m justified in insisting on a meeting of the heads, so that I can personally present my recommendations.”
If he had had time, he would have jerked up his arm then to defend himself. Too late, he saw that Kent was more furious than he had suspected.
“Pretty smart, eh!” the chemist said savagely. His hand came up. He struck Grosvenor in the face with his palm. He spoke again through clenched teeth. “So you’re sick, are you? People sick with strange diseases sometimes go out of their heads, and they sometimes have to be severely handled because they insanely attack their dearest friends.”
Grosvenor stared at him blurrily. He put his hand up to his face. And, because he was feverish and genuinely weak, he had trouble slipping the antidote into his mout
h. He pretended to be holding his cheek where Kent had struck him. He swallowed the new drug, and then said shakily, “All right, I’m insane. Now what?”
If Kent was surprised by the reaction, his words did not show it. He asked curtly, “What do you really want?”
Grosvenor had to fight a moment of nausea. When that was past, he replied, “I want you to start propaganda to the effect that, in your judgment, what has been discovered about the enemy intelligence will require the members of this ship to adjust themselves to staying in space five years longer than was anticipated. That’s all for now. When you’ve done that, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
He was beginning to feel better. The antidote was working. The fever was down. And he meant exactly what he had said. His plan was not inflexible. At any stage, Kent or, later on, the group could accept his proposals, and that would end his series of stratagems.
Twice, now, Kent parted his lips as if he intended to speak. Each time, he closed them again. Finally, he said in a choked voice, “Is this all you’re going to offer at this time?”
Grosvenor’s fingers under the blanket were poised on a button at one side of the bed, ready to press it. He said, “I swear you’ll get what you want.”
Kent said sharply, “It’s out of the question. I couldn’t possibly commit myself to such madness. The men won’t stand for even a one-year extension of the voyage.”
Grosvenor said steadily, “Your presence here indicates that you don’t think I have a mad solution.”
Kent clenched and unclenched his hands. “It’s impossible! How could I possibly explain my action to the department heads!”
Watching the little man, Grosvenor suspected that the crisis was imminent: “You don’t have to tell them at this point. All you have to do is promise the information.”
The Voyage of the Space Beagle Page 20
