Another item. This had been most painstakingly contrived. There must be orders to take effect if the first part did not dispose of Calhoun. The ship had been a deadfall trap, which he’d evaded. It might now be a booby trap, just in case the deadfall failed to work. Yes. A man who orders a machine to commit murder will have given it other orders in case its first attempt fails. If Calhoun went down to verify his suspicion of an extra control-central, that might be the trigger that would blast the whole ship; that in any event would try to kill him again.
Murgatroyd said, “Chee! Chee!” The vision screens meant to him that there must be people waiting outside to give him sweet cakes and coffee. He began to be impatient. He added in a fretful tone, “Chee!”
“I don’t like it either, Murgatroyd,” said Calhoun wryly. “Somebody’s tried to kill us—at any rate me—and he must think he had some reason, but I can’t guess what it is! I can’t even guess how anybody could get to a Med Ship at Headquarters to gimmick it if they wanted to slaughter innocent people like you and me! Somebody must have done it!”
“Chee-chee!” said Murgatroyd, urgently.
“You may have a point there,” said Calhoun slowly. “We, or at least I, should be dead. We are expected to be dead. There may be arrangements to make certain we don’t disappoint somebody. Maybe we’d better play dead and find out. It’s probably wiser than trying to find out and getting killed.”
A man who has detected one booby trap or deadfall designed for him is likely to suspect more. Calhoun was inclined to go over his ship with a fine-toothed comb and look for them. A setter of booby traps would be likely to anticipate exactly that and prepare for it. Lethally.
Calhoun looked at the pilot’s chair. It might not be wise to sit there. Anybody who received the ship’s self-sent call would receive with it an image of that chair and whoever sat in it. To play dead, he shouldn’t do anything a dead man couldn’t do. So he shrugged. He sat down on the floor.
Murgatroyd looked at him in surprise. The signal-going-out light burned steadily. That signal now filled a sphere two hundred million miles across. If there was a ship waiting to pick it up—and there’d be no reason for the call otherwise—it might be one or two or ten light-hours away. Nobody could tell within light-hours where a ship would break out of overdrive after three weeks in it.
Calhoun began to rack his brains. He couldn’t guess the purpose of his intended murder, but he didn’t mean to underestimate the man who intended it.
Murgatroyd went to sleep, curled up against Calhoun’s body. There were the random noises a ship tape makes for human need. Absolute silence is unendurable. So there were small sounds released in the ship. Little, meaningless noises. Faint traffic. Faint conversation. Very faint music. Rain, and wind, and thunder as heard from a snug, tight house. It had no significance, so one did not listen to it, but its absence would have been unendurable.
The air apparatus came on and hummed busily, and presently shut off. The separate astrogation unit seemed to cough, somewhere. It was keeping track of the position of the ship, adding all accelerations and their durations—even in overdrive—ending with amazingly exact data on where the ship might be.
Presently Murgatroyd took a deep breath and woke up. He regarded Calhoun with a sort of jocular interest. For Calhoun to sit on the floor was unusual. Murgatroyd realized it.
It was at just this moment, but it was hours after breakout, that the space-communicator speaker said metallically, “Calling ship in distress! Calling ship in distress! What’s the trouble?”
This was not a normal reply to any normal call. A ship answering any call whatever should identify the caller and itself. This wasn’t normal. Calhoun did not stir from where he sat on the floor. From there, he wouldn’t be visible to whoever saw a picture of the pilot’s chair. The call came again.
“Calling ship in distress! Calling ship in distress! What’s your trouble? We read your call! What’s the trouble?”
Murgatroyd knew that voices from the communicator should be answered. He said, “Chee?” and when Calhoun did not move he spoke more urgently, “Chee-chee-chee!”
Calhoun lifted him to his feet and gave him a pat in the direction of the pilot’s chair. Murgatroyd looked puzzled. Like all tormals, he liked to imitate the actions of men. He was disturbed by breaks in what he’d considered unchangeable routine. Calhoun pushed him. Murgatroyd considered the push a license. He padded to the pilot’s chair and swarmed into it. He faced the communicator screen.
“Chee!” he observed. “Chee! Chee-chee! Chee!”
He probably considered that he was explaining that for some reason Calhoun was not taking calls today, and that he was substituting for the Med Ship man. However, it wouldn’t give that impression at the other end of the communication link-up. It would be some time before his words reached whoever was calling, but Murgatroyd said zestfully, “Chee-chee!” and then grandly, “Chee!” and then in a confidential tone he added, “Chee-chee-chee-chee!”
Anybody who heard him would be bound to consider that he was the tormal member of the Med Ship’s crew, that her human crew member was somehow missing, and that Murgatroyd was trying to convey that information.
There came no further calls. Murgatroyd turned disappointedly away. Calhoun nodded rather grimly to himself; somewhere there would be a ship homing on the call the Med Ship was sending without orders from him. Undoubtedly somebody in that other ship watched, and had seen Murgatroyd or would see him. It would be making a very brief overdrive hop toward the Med Ship. Then it would check the line again, and another hop. It would verify everything. The care taken in the call just made was proof that somebody was cagey. At the next call, if they saw Murgatroyd again, they would be sure that Calhoun was gone from the Med Ship. Nobody would suspect a furry small animal with long whiskers and a prehensile tail of deception.
Murgatroyd came back to Calhoun, who still sat on the floor lest any normal chair be part of a booby trap to check on the success of the air-lock device.
Time passed. Murgatroyd went back to the communicator and chattered at it. He orated in its direction. He was disappointed that there was no reply.
A long time later the communicator spoke briskly—the automatic volume control did not work, until the first syllable was halfway spoken. It had to be very neat indeed.
“Calling distressed ship! Calling distressed ship! We are close to you. Get a line on this call and give us coordinates.”
The voice stopped and Calhoun grimaced. While the distress call—if it was a distress call—went out from the Med Ship there was no need for better guidance. Normally, a ship legitimately answering a call will write its own identification on the spreading waves of its communicator. However, this voice didn’t name Aesclipus Twenty. It didn’t name itself. If these messages were picked up some light-hours away on a planet of the sun Kryder, nobody could realize that a Med Ship was one of the two ships involved, or gain any idea who or what the other ship might be. It was concealment. It was trickiness. It fitted into the pattern of the false images still apparent on the Med Ship’s screens and the deceptive data given by its instruments.
The voice from outside the ship boomed once more and then was silent. Murgatroyd went back to the screen. He made oratorical gestures, shrilled “chee-chees,” and then moved away as if very busy about some other matter.
Again a long, long wait before anything happened. Then there was a loud, distinct clanking against the Med Ship’s hull. Calhoun moved quickly. He couldn’t have been seen from the communicator before, and he’d wanted to hear anything that came to the Med Ship. Now it would probably be boarded, but he did not want to be seen until he had more information.
He went into the sleeping cabin and closed the door behind him. He stopped at a very small cupboard and put something in his pocket. He entered a tall closet where his uniforms hung stiffly. He closed that door. He waited.
More clankings. At least two spacesuited figures had landed on the Med Ship’s hull-
plating. They’d still have long, slender space ropes leading back to their own ship. They clanked their way along the hull to the open air-lock door. Calhoun heard the changed sound of their magnetic shoe soles as they entered the air-lock. They’d loosen the space ropes now and close the door. They did. He heard the sound of the outer door sealing itself. There was the hissing of air going into the lock.
Then the inner door opened. Two figures came out. They’d be carrying blasters at the ready as they emerged. Then he heard Murgatroyd.
“Chee-chee-chee! Chee!”
He wouldn’t know exactly how to act. He normally took his cue from Calhoun. He was a friendly little animal. He had never received anything but friendliness from humans, and of course he couldn’t imagine anything else. So he performed the honors of the ship with a grand air. He welcomed the newcomers. He practically made a speech of cordial greeting.
Then he waited hopefully to see if they’d brought him any sweet cakes or coffee. He didn’t really expect it, but a tormal can always dream.
They hadn’t brought gifts for Murgatroyd. They didn’t even respond to his greeting. A tormal was standard on a Med Ship. They ignored him. Calhoun heard the clickings as spacesuit face-plates opened.
“Evidently,” said a rumbling voice, “he’s gone. Very neat. Nothing to clean up. Not even anything unpleasant to remember.”
A second voice said curtly, “It’ll be unpleasant if I don’t cut off the rest of it!”
There was a snapping sound, as if a wire had forcibly been torn free from something. It was probably a cable to the control-board which, in the place of a rarely or never used switch, had connected something not originally intended, but which if the cable were broken could not act. Most likely the snapping of this wire should return the ship to a proper control-central system’s guidance and operation. It did.
“Hm,” said the first voice, “there’s Kryder on the screens, and there’s our ship. Everything’s set.”
“Wait!” commanded the curt voice. “I take no chances, I’m going to cut that thing off down below!”
Someone moved away. He wore a spacesuit. The faint creaking of its constant volume joints were audible. He left the control-room. His magnetic shoes clanked on uncarpeted metal steps leading down. He was evidently headed for the mechanical and electronic section of the ship. Calhoun guessed that he meant to cut completely loose the extra, gimmicked control-central unit that had operated the ship through the stages that should have led to his death. Apparently it could still destroy itself and the Med Ship.
The other man moved about the cabin. Calhoun heard Murgatroyd say, “Chee-chee!” in a cordial tone of voice. The man didn’t answer. There are people to whom all animals, and even tormals, are merely animate objects. There was suddenly the rustling of paper. He’d found the data sheets Calhoun had been studying to the very last instant before breakout.
Clankings. The man with the curt voice came back from below.
“I fixed it,” he said shortly. “It can’t blow now!”
“Look here!” said the rumbling voice, amused. “He had reports about your Med Ship on Castor IV!” He quoted sardonically, “It has to be assumed that a blaster was fired inside the ship. In any event the ship’s fuel stores blew and shattered it to atoms. There is no possibility for more than guesses as to the actual cause of the disaster. The Med Ship’s doctor was evidently killed, and there was some panic. The destruction of a large sum in currency, which the Med Ship was to have left off at a nearby planet to secure the shipment of uncontaminated foodstuffs to Castor IV, caused some delay in the restoration of normal health and nourishment on the planet. However—” The rumbling voice chuckled. “That’s Kelo! Kelo wrote this report!”
The curt voice said, “I’m going to check things.”
Calhoun heard the sounds of a thorough checkover, from air apparatus to space communicator. Then the ship was swung about, interplanetary drive went on and off and somebody who knew Med Ships made sure that the Aesclipus Twenty responded properly to all controls. Then the curt voice said, “All right. You can go now.”
One man went to the air-lock and entered it. The lock-pumps boomed and stopped. The outer lock door opened and closed. The man left behind evidently got out of his spacesuit. He carried it below. He left it. He returned as the rumbling voice came out of a speaker, “I’m back on our ship. You can go now.”
“Thanks,” said the curt voice, sarcastically.
Calhoun knew that the newcomer to the ship had seated himself at the control-board. He heard Murgatroyd say, almost incredulously, “Chee? Chee?”
“Out of my way!” snapped the curt voice.
Then the little Med Ship swung, and seemed to teeter very delicately as it was aimed with very great care close to the nearby yellow star. Before, the ship’s screens had untruthfully insisted that Med Service Headquarters surrounded the ship. Now they worked properly. There were stars by myriads of myriads, and they looked as if they might be very close. Yet the bright yellow sun would be the nearest, and it was light-hours away. A light-hour is the distance a ray of light will travel, at a hundred eighty-odd thousand miles per second, during thirty-six hundred of them.
There was a sensation of shocking dizziness and intolerable nausea, swiftly repeated as the Med Ship made an overdrive hop to carry it only a few light-hours. Then there was that appalling feeling of contracting spiral fall. Murgatroyd said protestingly, “Chee!”
Then Calhoun moved quietly out of the closet into the sleeping cabin, and then out of that. He was more than halfway to the control-board before the man seated there turned his head. Then Calhoun leaped ferociously. He had a pocket blaster in his hand, but he didn’t want to use it if it could be helped.
It was just as effective as a set of brass knuckles would have been, though. Before the other man regained consciousness, Calhoun had him very tidily bound and was looking interestedly over the contents of his pockets. They were curious. Taken literally, they seemed to prove that the man now lying unconscious on the floor was a Med Ship man on professional assignment, and that he was entitled to exercise all the authority of the Med Service itself.
On the word of his documents, he was considerably more of a Med Ship man than Calhoun himself.
“Curiouser and curiouser!” observed Calhoun to Murgatroyd. “I’d say that this is one of those tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive. But what’s going on?”
III
The Aesclipus Twenty hovered, using emergency rocket fuel lavishly while her motion relative to the ground below her carried her past a ridge of high, snow-clad mountains and then over a shoreline with pack ice piled against its beaches.
This was not the planet from which a call had been sent and which Calhoun was answering. There was no sign of habitation anywhere. Cold blue sea swept past below. There were some small ice cakes here and there, but as the shore was left behind they dwindled in number and the water surface became unbroken save by waves. The mountains sank to the horizon, and then ahead—in the direction of the Med Ship’s motion—an island appeared. It was small and rocky and almost entirely snow-covered. There was no vegetation. It was entirely what Calhoun had expected from his examination by electron telescope from space.
This was approximately the equator of the planet Kryder III, which was one planetary orbit farther out than the world which was Calhoun’s proper destination. This was an almost frozen planet. It would be of very little use to the inhabitants of Kryder II. There might be mineral deposits worth the working, but for colonization it would be useless.
Calhoun very painstakingly brought the little spaceship down on the nearest possible approach to bare flat stone. Ragged, precipitous peaks rose up on either hand as the ship descended. Miniature glaciers and waterfalls of ice appeared. Once there was a sudden tumult and a swarm of furry—not feathered—creatures poured out of some crevice and swarmed skyward, doubtless making a great outcry because of having been disturbed.
Then
the rocket flames touched ice and stone. Steam floated in clouds about the ship. It appeared on the vision screens as an opaque whiteness. Then the Med Ship tapped stone, and tapped again, and then settled only very slightly askew on what would have to be fairly solid rock. Writhing steam tendrils blotted out parts of all the outside world for long minutes afterward. At last, though, it cleared.
Murgatroyd looked at the snowscape. He saw a place of cold and ice and desolation. He seemed to reach a conclusion.
“Chee!” he said with decision.
He went back to his private cubbyhole. He’d have none of such a landing place. He preferred to touch ground where there were people to stuff him with assorted edibles.
Calhoun waited alertly until it was certain that the ship’s landing-fins had complete solidity under them. Then he pushed himself away from the control-board and nodded to his prisoner.
“Here we are,” he observed. “This is Kryder III. You didn’t intend to land here. Neither did I. We both expected to touch ground on Kryder II, which is inhabited. This world isn’t. According to the Directory, the average daytime temperature here is two degrees Centigrade. We’ve landed on an island which is forty miles away from a continental landmass. Since you aren’t inclined to be cooperative, I’m going to leave you here, with such food as I can spare and reasonable equipment for survival. If I can, I’ll come back here for you. If I can’t, I won’t. I suggest that while I get things ready for you to go aground, that you think over your situation. If you give me information that will make it more likely I can come back, it’ll be all to the good for you. Anything you hold out will lessen my chances and therefore yours. I’m not going to argue about it. I’m not threatening you. I’m simply stating the facts. Think it over.”
First Contacts: The Essential Murray Leinster Page 53
