Space 1999 #4 - Collision Course

by E. C. Tubb

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ whispered the pilot. ‘I simply don’t believe it!’

  ‘Paul! What’s happening? Report!’

  ‘The screens! Look at the screens!’

  They were inoperable, the surfaces remaining black as Koenig hit the switches. Turning he ran back into the air-lock, sealed the inner port, waited fuming as the cycle was completed and he could step into space.

  Once opened, he surged across the space, back into the other vessel, to stand in the command module and stare at what Morrow had seen on his screens.

  A planet where no planet should have been.

  A tremendous world against which the bulk of of the moon showed like a pea set before an orange.

  A wall in space against which they would surely crash.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There was time, there was always time; time to ponder the impossible, to pray, to question, to defy the fates and deities which threatened their survival.

  A game, thought Koenig bitterly. We are pawns torn from our own place and time by a cosmic upheaval, sent to wander like nomads in an unfamiliar cosmos, drifting between the camp-fires of alien suns, contacting worlds on which we cannot survive. It was inevitable that, eventually, they would meet one problem that couldn’t be solved, one danger which they couldn’t avoid.

  But they were men and, because of that and their heritage which had lifted them from mud to the stars, they would fight to the last.

  Fight with words, ideas, concepts and, when all else failed, with hope and faith.

  And, always, with action.

  ‘There is a mystery about this planet,’ said Koenig. ‘We had no reason to suspect its existence before we destroyed the asteroid. Certainly we didn’t see it. Now, abruptly, it is here, A world thirty times the size of the moon.’

  Thirty-four, Commander,’ corrected Kano. He sat with the rest of them at the desk in Koenig’s office. ‘The computer holds no data as to its origin.’

  ‘Which means that it appeared from nothing,’ said Morrow. ‘Which is just what it did do. I was watching. One second space was empty, the next that thing was hanging in the sky. Victor, could it be an illusion?’

  ‘No.’ Bergman shook his head. ‘It is tempting to think so, that it is a form of spacial mirage which has been formed by some freak of diffused radiation and dimensional warping, but our sensors report the presence of mass.’

  ‘Density?’

  ‘Extremely low, John, but high enough to utterly destroy us should we collide with it. The problem is similar to the one we recently faced with the asteroid. Unfortunately we cannot use the same solution. We don’t have enough nuclear explosives to destroy a world even if we had the moral right to do so.’

  Morrow said, grimly, ‘This is a matter of survival, Professor. What have morals to do with it?’

  ‘There could be people on that world, men and women and children, living, thinking and feeling beings who have the right to be considered. Are you willing to destroy them all?’

  ‘It isn’t my choice,’ snapped Morrow. ‘If we hit them they will die anyway. We will all die. I’d rather it be them, if they exist, than us. Sorry if my ideas offend you, but that’s the way I’m made.’

  ‘Life at any price,’ said Bergman slowly. ‘But sometimes the price can be too high.’

  The mechanical heart he had been given and which had enabled him to live when the woman he had intended to marry had died. The price he had paid for a life in which he was divorced from all extremes of emotion so that, to strangers, he appeared to be a living machine made of flesh and blood and bone.

  Koenig said, abruptly, ‘We’re wasting time. We have little more than a hundred hours before we strike and we have still to formulate a plan. Paul?’

  ‘I say we try to divert our path. We could repeat the original blast which threw us off orbit. In a minor degree, naturally, but it should work.’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Any such attempt would be fraught with the highest danger,’ said Kano precisely. ‘Old fissures which were then strained could easily yield under the impact of a second explosion. Also the degree of deviation required is too great to be achieved without using more explosives than we have.’

  ‘Then let the moon split,’ snapped Morrow. ‘As long as the base remains intact what does it matter?’

  A good point, but Koenig recognized the difficulties which the other had overlooked.

  ‘We’ve no time to plot fissure-lines, Paul. And we have no way of assessing the degree of deviation obtained from any explosion. Victor?’

  Bergman had been studying lists of figures; he looked up, frowning. ‘John, I want the complete use of the computer for the next two hours. Also the records of all atomic experiments in the restricted file.’ He smiled at Koenig’s expression, remembering. ‘Of course, we have no restricted file now, I’d forgotten.’

  ‘You’ve an idea, Victor?’

  ‘As yet a vague one, but it could provide the answer. When we destroyed the asteroid the instruments showed irrational findings, at least I thought they were, irrational at the time, now I’m not so sure. There was an inexplicable energy-loss from the nexus of the plasma cloud. I’d made the most careful calculations as to the mass of the asteroid, the amount of nuclear explosives used and the anticipated extent of fusion achieved, but the figures didn’t match.’

  Bergman turned to Kano. ‘Bad mathematics, perhaps, David, which is one of the things I want to check.’

  ‘You can use the computer,’ said Koenig. ‘But just what do you hope to find, Victor?’

  ‘A method by which we may save ourselves. Not by destroying either that planet or our moon, but by diverting them by a sub-etheric shock wave triggered by an atomic blast. These figures have given me the clue. If we detonate several opposed amounts of nuclear fuel at a precise distance we create a sub-atomic vortex which will act not on the actual particles of matter but on the sub-spacial matrix which confines them. We will move the mortar between the atomic bricks and, by so doing, move the bricks also. You see?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Morrow, dryly. ‘It’s simple. Why didn’t we think of it before?’

  He was being ironic, but the irony was an expression of relief as Koenig knew. A relief he shared. No matter how slim, they had a chance.

  ‘Let me get this straight, Victor. You. intend to explode a mass of nuclear material between us and the planet. Right?’

  ‘Yes. The exact position has to be determined, of course on a basis of relative mass.’

  ‘And you hope to create some kind of shock wave which will force us apart or, at least, divert our path so as to avoid collision. Yes?’

  ‘John, I’ve explained all this. As yet the possibility of success is problematical and yet I am certain that with the data so far obtained I can achieve that result.’ Bergman took a sip of water. ‘Think of it as a match lighting a paper which lights some wood which lights coal to melt ore to make steel—the detonator series which works in a cartridge or a bomb or a nuclear device. One energy level affecting another. What we need to do is to reach a sub-spacial level which can be done by using the very force of the blasts against each other to form a warp which—

  ‘Please, Victor, no lectures. Save the figures for the computer. But you’ll need all the nuclear explosives available.’ Koenig thumbed a button on his desk and to the face which appeared on the screen gave the necessary orders. ‘All stocks,’ he ended. ‘Strip the piles down to minimum requirements for the maintenance of the base.’

  ‘Right, Commander. Time?’

  ‘Fifty hours.’

  Fifty hours. Half-way to the mysterious planet. Half-way to death.

  Doctor Bob Mathias paused on his way through Medical Centre to check the monitoring instruments attached to the figure lying on the couch. Carter was still unconscious; nothing to worry about as yet, but if the condition continued for another two days stringent measures would have to be taken. The facilities of the base were not enough to maintain any
one in a state of permanent coma.

  Passing on he slowed as Helena came from the diagnostic room. Behind her the shapes of enigmatic machines showed dimly beneath a glow of blue, ultra-violet-loaded light, tiny lamps winking like a host of colourful stars, meters ranked like staring, watching eyes.

  ‘Any change, Helena?’

  ‘In Carter’s condition? No.’

  ‘We could apply electrical stimulus direct to the cortex,’ suggested Mathias. ‘The reaction could snap him out of his disoriented condition.’

  ‘You think that is what it is?’

  ‘With complications, yes.’ Mathias was definite. ‘His sensory apparatus was subjected to tremendous strain both in the initial explosion and the radioactive plasmic cloud which followed. The shields saved him from immediate, physical destruction, but his central nervous system was overloaded and his thalamus confused to the point where sanity could only be maintained by mental escape into unconsciousness.’

  Helena nodded, thoughtful. ‘You regard Carter’s condition as an almost classic case of withdrawal syndrome?’

  ‘To me it is obvious. A man, in peril of his life, mind and senses, confused, faced with either outright insanity or the shutting down of his mental receptors so as to hide in mental oblivion. Now he has to be wakened, as it were. Reassured as to his safety.’ Pausing he added, grimly, ‘You don’t need me to tell you, Doctor, that the longer the condition is allowed to continue the harder it will be to overcome.’

  ‘No,’ said Helena. ‘You don’t have to tell me. But there Is no point waking him to suffer avoidable physical discomfort.’

  It was a minor conflict which she, as the higher ranking of the two, would win if disagreement over a patient’s welfare could be considered a battle. Yet Mathias was right and she knew it. The mind, the all-important ego, was of far greater consequence than minor torments, but for reasons of which Mathias as yet knew nothing, she wanted to delay.

  ‘You’re right, Bob,’ she said with abrupt surrender. ‘I’ll make a detailed check and then commence treatment to restore his awareness. I would be pleased if you would assist me in the later stages. Say fifteen minutes?’

  Mathias nodded and moved away to tend to other patients as Helena crossed the room to Carter’s side. He looked very pale, his muscles flaccid, the arm she lifted falling back without the slightest trace of resistance. His breathing was regular and shallow, his blood-sugar low, the quivering lines of his electrocardiogram showing a low level of metabolic activity.

  It was to be expected—two days in a near-coma would have produced exactly that result, but the encephalographic pattern was not what she would have expected.

  Frowning, she rechecked the monitors.

  The brain, in essence, is a computer working on minute currents of electrical energy, the cells organic data banks, the connections threads of neuron tissue—the entire thing incredibly complex. Carter had been blasted with tremendous forces, bathed in wild radiations which, even though baffled by the shield, would still have left traces.

  Helena turned a mercury switch and watched the stream of figures pass across a screen from the geiger counters monitoring the pilot’s blood which was being passed through a system of filters designed to ‘wash’ away any dangerous radioactivity.

  They too were as she had expected. The level was safely low which meant the bone-marrow was uncontaminated and that the red and white corpuscles were in correct ratio.

  Switches closed beneath her hands as she shut down a part of the monitoring panel; the prelude to commencing the waking technique. Other dials glowed into life as a pump whined to hyperoxygenate the filtered blood.

  Something touched her hair.

  For a moment she froze, stunned by the unexpected, feeling hands at the nape of her neck, fingers lifting the mane of her hair. Carter! Rearing up behind her, reaching, touching . . .

  She spun and stepped back, seeing his face, his eyes, the terrible intensity stamped on his features.

  ‘No! No, Arra! Don’t leave me! You mustn’t leave me!’

  A tube pulled free from his arm and blood dribbled to the floor. Wires strained against tiny monitoring pads, some breaking, others tearing free as Carter lunged forward, hands lifted, reaching for the woman. He stumbled and a panel of instruments fell with a crash.

  ‘Helena!’ Mathias, startled by the noise, came racing forward, a hypogun in his hand. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Hallucinatory shock. Sedate him, quickly!’

  She retreated as again Carter lunged towards her, his expression changing as Mathias trapped his body with his free arm, his other hand rising with the hypogun to blast a charge of drugs through his skin, the fat beneath, into the bloodstream itself.

  ‘Arra! Ar . . .’

  ‘He’s gone!’ Mathias, with practised skill, eased the limp figure back on the couch and automatically began to replace the transfusion tubes and monitors. ‘He’ll be out for hours. Helena, what next?’

  She didn’t answer, not even hearing him as, taking the commlock from her belt, she snapped at the face which appeared on the screen.

  ‘Get me the Commander immediately!’ A moment then, ‘John, I must see you at once.’

  ‘You’re not still worried about that radiation exposure?’ Koenig frowned. ‘I told you all precautions were taken and there’s nothing to be concerned about.’

  ‘This is important, Commander!’ She deliberately used the formal mode of address. ‘The safety of Alpha could be involved. I repeat—I must see you immediately!’

  A lamp flashed on a panel, a meter kicked, a dial quivered, tell-tales relayed the metabolic processes of the man on the couch. Alan Carter, pilot, lost in a world of dreams, perhaps, or of oblivion. Perhaps Helena could tell but if she knew she had volunteered no information as yet and Koenig was impatient.

  ‘Is this why you insisted I come to Medical Centre? To look at Alan undergoing treatment?’

  ‘You know me better than that, John.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Two reasons. The first is that Carter was and is suffering from a strong hallucination. When first he woke he mistook me for someone else. He touched my hair, tried to hold me. When I moved away he became almost frenzied. Bob had to sedate him.’

  ‘You said “was and is”.’ Koenig glanced at the panels of the monitors. ‘Are you saying that, even though unconscious, he is suffering from hallucinations?’

  ‘No, but what I am saying is that, should he wake now, he will not be normal as we term normality. The hallucination he obviously suffered when he saw me is still present. Look!’ Helena operated the panel and pointed at the uneven lines of the encephalogram. ‘That is not the normal pattern of an unconscious brain. It is not even of one in a coma. If I was simply watching the pattern and not seeing Alan I’d be willing to swear that he was awake and aware. Obviously he is not. Therefore something must have affected his normal mental condition.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Whatever that was must have taken place while he was in the plasmic cloud. You were also exposed.’

  ‘And so was Paul.’

  ‘He stayed inside the Eagle and was protected by the shields, John. You ventured outside. I submit that you too could be affected like Alan, your senses affected in a way which you probably don’t even realize.’

  Koenig said flatly, ‘I’m not suffering from hallucinations, Helena. And I haven’t time to waste in idle speculation. Victor has resolved how the nuclear charges are to be placed and we have to get on with the job. I appreciate your concern, but believe me, it is misplaced.’

  She caught his arm as he turned to move away, the grip of her fingers surprisingly strong.

  ‘I said there were two reasons for asking you here, John. Aren’t you interested in the second?’

  He had to be interested. No matter how mistaken he thought she might be, or how great the urgency of other matters, the safety of the base was paramount—and she had stated that safety could be involved.

&nbs
p; And, as he knew, Helena was not given to. wild or hysterical judgments.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and his regret was genuine. ‘It’s just that there’s so much to do and so little time in which to do it. What, do you want to tell me?’

  For answer she led him into the diagnostic room, to a place before the enigmatic instruments, her eyes catching and reflecting little gleams of coloured light, the aureole of her hair a trap for drifting shadows.

  Then lights bloomed from shaded sources and something of mystery and magic was replaced by the cold and irrefutable logic of science.

  ‘These are the computer recordings taken from Eagle One,’ said Helena. She picked up two flat discs each marked for purposes of identification. ‘One is from the vessel itself and shows every move, course and velocity change since it left Alpha to the time of its return. The other is the individual biological monitor of Alan. We would normally have been able to receive them both in Main Mission but the plasma cloud made it impossible. However both records are quite definite. Now watch.’

  She slipped the first record into a slot, tripped a series of switches and lifted her hand to the stream of symbols which appeared on the read-out screen.

  ‘See, John? Eagle One rose, steadied, made directly towards the asteroid. The malfunction became apparent—’

  ‘I can read a recording, Helena,’ said Koenig. ‘But what are you trying to prove?’

  ‘Not. trying, John, merely displaying the evidence that something is terribly wrong. Alan was unconscious when you found him, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you will agree that, under no circumstances could a man in that condition operate an Eagle?’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked at her, conscious of the strain in her voice, the concern. ‘But Alan could have been unconscious all the time. His locator beacon was activated and there were other things.’

  ‘All of which have been recorded by the ship-computer. The ship was under pilot-control at all times—we couldn’t take over from base, remember?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, none was necessary. ‘John, Alan was unconscious from the moment the charges exploded.’