by John Kippax
'I was thinking this way, Miss Niebohr.' He drummed his fingers, left to right, with a light touch. 'You have already gained much prestige in taking on this project; you would gain more if you were able to use a number of Space Corps personnel.'
'With Junius F. Carter in charge?'
'Yes. But with a Junius F. Carter who will receive a severe lecture from me before he goes, on the simple factual basis that in serving Koninburger and Excelsior in this matter - and he is a good administrator - he is serving the Corps. He will at all times keep out of Koninburger's way; that will be a written, witnessed personal order from me to one of our World Admirals, you see?'
'Except for one thing.'
'Which is?'
"His heart. Isn't he due for a replacement regrowth?'
'Yes. But we'll have Vee Twelve there at the right time, with George Maseba in charge. The Surgeon General approves, even if the heart has to be sent out by drone.'
Elsa said: 'This deception is a weight on my mind. It's like a bubble of hot glass in the process of being blown, always pressured, with the glass becoming more resistant until...'
'If my information is correct, you lack minor routine technicians, maintenance men who are well-trained and thorough like the squads in Carter's shipyards, and - ah - it might be better for all concerned if your male-to-female ratio were better balanced. You take my point?'
'I agree.'
There must be good - no, perfect liaison with Fane and Uschl. And all this must be timed so that I talk to Koninburger on his personal vid when the new people are ready to come to Antarctic Project Elkan Base - as he thinks - when in actual fact they will already be in orbit round Balomain Four. Thus, when they come twenty-four hours after I have spoken to him, all will seem - and will be - well. You agree?'
'Mr President, I couldn't fail to disagree with you less.'
'I like the complexity of that remark,' Henry Fong said. 'It's a Mobius strip in words.'
She smiled, and got up from her chair. 'Oh, one thing, Mr President. I've just realized that you never had a copy of the orders I gave for this job. I do apologize. Why did you not ask?'
Fong returned the smile. 'I simply waited, Miss Niebohr.' He watched her open a briefcase. 'And now you are going to give me one?'
She handed him a folder; he thanked her, and walked with her to the door, and bade her goodbye. Once reseated at his desk, he took out another folder, and opened it alongside the one she had given him. He compared the first pages; then he pressed a button, and sat smiling and turning over the pages of first one, and then the other.
Paul Sharva, Commander (JAP Branch) came in to his master's office. He was a handsome Persian, built like an oak.
'Sir?'
'The lady has deigned to give me a copy of her operations order for Project Elkan. I feel that a few gentle chuckles are in order. Come and see.'
Sharva was solemn. 'You surely don't think that she imagines we didn't get a copy of the thing?'
'Of course not. She knows very well that, one way or another, I can get a copy of any document I wish. So we can expect something interesting in comparing the one our WBI took, with this new one.'
'Agreed, sir.'
Page after page was turned.
'She played it straight,' Sharva said.
'The sting may be in the tail, Paul.'
The last page was turned. And Henry Fong, President of Earth, really did chuckle.
'There. An appendix containing the names of all personnel in her organization whom she knows to be World Bureau of Investigation agents.'
Sharva counted them. 'Eleven,' he said. 'Eleven she knows.'
The President looked up at his big aide in surprise. 'Come come, Paul. Eleven she says she knows; she will certainly know more than she admits. She might even be clever enough to have discovered the lot, but she wouldn't dream of saying so to me.'
'Understood.'
'I think I ought to let her know the names of all of them.'
Sharva knitted his brows and showed minimal alarm. 'You mean, she may well look on them as a kind of insurance?'
The President was amused. 'I wouldn't have put it quite like that. It's really no more than a game, in this instance.'
Sharva agreed. 'With unknown jokers in the pack,' he said.
'Like whom?'
'Like the aliens, sir.'
'Yes.' Now Fong was once more grave. 'Still, she knows the risks. So do we all. But if Project Elkan succeeds in taking a step or so towards evening the score, we may yet see Elsa Niebohr invested with the Order of Honoured Citizen of United Earth.'
Sharva contemplated the possibility with tightened lips. He said: 'And there are only six of those at the moment.'
'Quite. But there are some who believe that seven is a very auspicious number.'
Koninburger was in his comfortable quarters. He had broken off his recording of his personal log so that the zealous Uschl could run the daily check on him.
'Fit through and through,' Uschl said. 'Your health continues to improve. It is remarkable.'
'I am well served this time, Hans. There are no political wrangles surging in the background. Should I praise private enterprise, or would that irritate you?'
Koninburger knew that Uschl was in favour of the galaxy's wealth being used for the good of all; despite much propaganda, according to Uschl, this ideal was by no means wholly adopted by man. What Koninburger did not know was that Uschl, being the clever fellow he was, had realized that this baiting of himself by the other was actually good for Koninburger, and so he allowed his patient - Uschl could think of Koninburger in no other way - to carry on whenever he felt like it.
'Bedtime now, Herr Professor,' Uschl said.
'When I have finished my little recording,' Koninburger said, 'and then I shall be ready to sleep.'
'I will sit and wait until you have finished,' Uschl said, 'and see you on your way to sleep before I go.'
World Admiral Carter, though he was sensible of certain emphatic restrictions upon his way of living, was nevertheless satisfied to be on Project Elkan Base, known to Koninburger as the Antarctic area of Sol Three. The great pressured domes on the surface were well situated, with three empty ones and gigantic superdomes for ships stored in two more. He had found satisfying work to do in upping the maintenance standard of the Base, though he carefully drew the line at having anything to do with computers. He decided that the magicians of the team, all civilians, could well look after their own magic. Quarters were good, food improved under his lashing tongue and the insistence that he had the same food as base personnel, and if he didn't like it, he would come and say so, and everyone who knew him knew that if Carter had one characteristic above all others, it was that he kept his word.
He had found a friend, too. An unlikely one, perhaps, but
Carter was essentially a friendly character, with a regard for all those (even Koninburger) who did their jobs well. Doctor Baksh was the doctor responsible for the health of the Corps personnel; he was of Hindu origin, but he slayed Carter on their first meeting by talking English with a regional accent, that of the centre of the county of Lancashire, a manner of speech with which those British from other parts of their islands themselves often had difficulty in understanding. Baksh said 'thee' and 'thou' and 'tha', and 'luking' for 'looking' and 'buke' for 'book' and 'nowt' for 'nothing' and many other variations of the language ranging from near guesses to total incomprehensibility.
And he played chequers like a demon. They were at the fourth game of the evening, the first three having all been won by Baksh, and the present situation on the board seemed to need a little impending disaster music for Carter.
'Joe,' Carter said, 'what happens if Koninburger comes topside?'
'I'll tell thee summat for nowt,' Baksh said. He made a move. 'We're playing draughts, and tha's going downhill again.'
Carter grunted. 'I mean, suppose he gets the idea and wants to see topside, and just does it?'
'Has tha not got
ten howd o't fact that all tha can see o' th' outside from th' inside lukes like it's covered i' snow? And that domes are warmed because it's cold outside? Don't be bloody gormless, Junius.'
'And suppose you've got to explain to Koninburger that he's got to wear a breathing mask if he goes outside?'
Baksh made another move, and said: 'There, now tha's in a reet mullock. Why not give up? What'll we play, tiddlywinks?' He cleared the board. 'T masks'll be said to be for comfort, added protection against t' cold.'
'Yeah.' Carter thought for several seconds. 'How good an astronomer is K?'
'You mean—'
'If he comes up in daylight, he can still be fooled, with the sprayed hills and the rest of it, but if he comes up at night, maybe one look at what he sees to be the wrong set of stars, and he passes out. He knows he's not on Earth, and that's a death sentence to him.'
Baksh looked grave; in his black, thinning hair, he shone brown across his skull. 'I wonder if that point's ever been put t' Fane? Not that it'd really matter.'
'Why not?'
'Because Fane's done such a greet job on him that Koninburger believes emphatically he works under t' ground wi' his staff because of t' danger factor when he gets on t' practical work, and for environmental reasons. Tha sees that?'
'I see it.' Carter gave Baksh a cigar, and lit one himself.
'Koninburger feels specially good because he's being treated with some show of t' respect that's due to him; and I'll not deny he's entitled. Me, I admire Fane. A super specialist... What's tha think, Junius? Are they going to come through wi't' goods - the real subspace thing?'
'If it wasn't such a slow job,' Carter said, 'I'd think better of its chances... well, it's a try that has to be made.'
'Aye. And tha can't play "Hamlet" without t' Prince.'
A knock at the door of Carter's hut, and a Corps man came in and saluted.
'Monitored message sir; knew you'd want it.'
'Thanks, Vecchio boy,' Carter said. 'OK, you needn't wait.' Carter scanned the message; it was a standard Corps code.
'Can I ask what it is?' Baksh asked.
'Don't see why not.' Carter read it out, slowly, making it sound as though he was reading in caps. vi2vi2vi2vi2
V12 V12 ALL CORPS SHIPS. ALL CORPS SHIPS. OUR POSITION SEC FIGURES FIVE ONE STOP SEVEN THREE STOP TWO NINE STOP ONE OH ONE STOP DECELERATION DOWN TO POINT FOUR FIVE AND CONTINUING. UFO AHEAD UFO AHEAD NO RECOGNITION SIGNALS AS YET STOP PREPARING LAUNCH MISSILES STOP BRUCE VI2
'What's it mean, then?' Baksh asked.
'Anything from a piece of stray wreckage,' Carter said, 'to a ship belonging to the gentlemen who are the reason why you and I are right here at this moment.'
'Charlie Alien.'
'Yeah.'
'What do we do?'
'We play chequers,' Carter said.
'Because there's nowt else we can do.'
'Aye,' Carter said, 'because there's nowt else we can do. Dammit, Joe,' he added, 'you've got me doing it too.'
'Doing what?'
'Talking with that blasted accent.'
Baksh was incensed 'What's tha mean, accent? What about thi' sen? Tha's got a bloody accent tha could put wheels on. I'll tak' white, just for a change; fat lot o' good tha'll get out on it.'
'Yeah.' Carter's eyes were on the chequers board, but his mind was out in space, with Vee Twelve and Tom Bruce and his crew facing - what?
Venturer Twelve, decelerating, missiles ready, was now creeping at point zero two light, and slowing constantly. Every man and woman was concerned with only one thing, that unknown, shimmering gold ball which lay ahead.
Lindstrom and Bruce were at the Captain's repeater board, which gave them the whole picture. Once more the recognition request went out, and once more, and once more again.
Bruce said; 'Range?'
'Twenty-five thousand kilometres.'
'Wait. Give me top magnification on this thing.'
Top mag showed them only the shimmering ball.
Bruce grunted.
Recognition requests were repeated. No answer.
'Size?'
'Sixty-five metres, absolutely spherical.'
'Material?' 'Not recognizable... maybe not metal. Maybe a kind of ceramic.'
'Ceramic,' Bruce muttered, 'bloody hell.'
'Good insulator,' Lindstrom said.
'That's not very useful.'
'No. Sorry.'
'Range?'
'Nineteen thousand, five hundred kilometres, closing at point zero one eight light, and decelerating, scale "E".'
Down at power units, Kusnetzov stared at his repeater screen with distaste. 'Could be a booby trap.'
Balakirev, his CPO, frowned and said. 'No, comrade.'
'And why not?'
'You don't need a sledgehammer to kill a maggot. All that amount of explosive? Never.'
'Are you,' Sergei Kusnetzov asked with Siberian iciness, 'calling our ship a maggot?'
'No, no, comrade Commander, of course not. Perish the thought. All the same - well - it's not their style, is it?'
'You'd better take the elevator,' the chief engineer growled, 'and go up to bridge and tell the Captain what to do.'
'What would you do, sir?' asked Balakirev, greatly daring.
'Shoot.'
'It needn't be the same aliens we met before, comrade Commander. They could come in all sizes.'
'Like CPO engineers, whose rank has not yet been made substantive,' barked Kusnetzov. 'Shut up.'
The repeater voices came to them. CPO Balakirev went and checked the Decel/Accel meters. He came back. 'Scale "E", right on the nose.'
His chief said, through clenched teeth: 'I know. This department is always right on the nose. Shut up!'
The distort voices told the story.
Up at bridge, Bruce tried again, with the recognition signal. Nothing.
'Sensors?'
'Nothing new.'
Tee.' Bruce said.
'Sir?'
'Every ten seconds, fire four.'
'Four fired.'
Four closely timed thuds sounded through the ship.
Lee said: '.. .fifteen thousand... fourteen thousand... thirteen thousand... twelve thousand... eleven thousand—'
'Destruct.'
The screen blossomed briefly as four missiles blew, bright orange.
'Four fired.'
Once more the thuds, the four in streaks directed at the artifact, once more the reading off by Lee... 'Seven thousand kilos... six thousand... five thousand... four thousand...'
'Destruct.'
The order was obeyed.
Lindstrom said: 'What in hell are you doing? Playing chicken?'
'That's right. Except that this character won't play.'
'God bless us every one,' Lindstrom said.
Four more missiles. Lee Hoon Hock's voice was austerely calm. '.. .three thousand... two thousand... one thousand. .
And still the fine lines of the missiles were streaking for target.
When the missiles, as interpreted by the correction scale, were almost touching the ship - a distance of a hundred kilometres - the third quartet blew up. And when the orange fire had faded, the unknown object remained the same, gold, shimmering, unharmed. Venturer Twelve had almost stopped.
'Wait.'
The seconds stretched out to minutes, and the unknown gave no sign.
Ten minutes,' Bruce said, 'and nothing happens. Boarding procedure one from when we're at five kilometres from the object. Prepare to board. Party, report your names.'
The answers came in smartly, the distortion sometimes creating curious transient anomalies.
'Lindstrom.' She spoke her name to Bruce, and left.
'Creighton.' Bruce grimaced.
'Caiola.'
'Panos, in charge raft.'
'Balakirev.'
Bruce seesawed, his hands sliding back and forth over knee and thigh. The Earth ship was closing upon the unknown.
Bruce seldom felt oppressed by hi
s responsibilities, but he felt so now. This object ahead could be anything at all; the wildest possibilities could not be discounted; the form of intelligent life didn't have to be remotely like the prognostications of Creighton who, as time went by, was not a scrap more in favour with Bruce. It could be a bomb, or maybe a kind of trap which, when Vee Twelve was close enough, might open out and enclose the much bigger Earth ship. It crossed Bruce's mind that it could be some kind of automatic satellite, a machine sent out on a predetermined course; predetermined by whom - by what - he could not guess. Perhaps - if it were all machine - the firing of the missiles might have linked in with some mechanism which commanded it to stop. Lindstrom, Creighton, Caiola, Panos, Balakirev were ready with raft loaded with all the necessary gear. It would have been possible to take the first reserve plan, which was based on the use of one of the scoutships, but scoutships were designed in terms of fast pursuit and slambang attack, and not easily manoeuvrable in terms of a few metres or less. Because of this, then, the five had to go suited in an open raft, propelled by a simple jet, exposed to all possible dangers, including the dreaded one of a tiny meteor penetrating the suit.
All other men's skills we must cherish, All other men's hearts are our own.
Ivan Kavanin, honoured poet of Earth, had written those lines. He was right; Bruce felt for his crew a love which he would not have tried to express. About only one of the party of five did he have reservations, Creighton, obviously, and even in that case he was forced to recognize that Creighton was ready to do his job, seemed to possess a fire for his speciality just as Bruce possessed a fire for all the crew, and for his eternal watch over their duties and their lives.
Some might have thought that the Captain would have gone down to the hangar and seen them off, but that was not Bruce's way. He had seen their preparations, consulted others about the plan, its supplies and its crew. He could have gone himself, but he did not need his book of rules to tell him who should do what. The ship was still to be commanded by him, and the second-in-command must be in charge of the raft, with an engineer, an experienced Warrant Officer, a medical CPO and a Doctor/Specialist.
