Sound of Terror

by Don Berry

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Illustrated by Ed Emsh]

  _What is more frightening than the fear of the unknown? Johnny found out!_

  SOUND OF TERROR

  BY DON BERRY

  The day was still no more than a ragged streak of red in the east; thepre-dawn air was sharply cold, making Johnny Youngbear's face feelslightly brittle as he dressed quietly in the gray bedroom.

  He sat down on the bed, pulling on his boots, and felt his wife stirsleepily beneath the covers. Suddenly she stiffened, sat upright in thebed, startled into wakefulness. Johnny put one dark, bony hand on herwhite shoulder, gently, reassuring. After a moment, finding herself, sheturned away and lit a cigarette. Johnny finished pulling on his bootsand stood, his hawk-like face unreadable in the cold gray lightstreaming through the huge picture window.

  "Johnny?" said his wife hesitantly.

  He murmured an acknowledgement, watching the bright flare of color asshe drew on the cigarette. Her soft, dark hair was coiled loosely aroundher shoulders, very black against the pale skin. Her eyes were invisiblein shadow, and Johnny could not read their expression. He turned away,knowing she was watching him.

  "Be careful," she said simply.

  "Try," he said. Then he shrugged. "Not my day, anyway."

  "I know," she said. "But--be careful."

  He left the house and walked out into the chill desert dawn. He turnedhis face to the brightness in the east, trying to catch a little warmth,but could not.

  He warmed up the jeep, listening to the engine grumble protest until itsettled to a flat, banging roar. He swerved out of the driveway with ascreaming of tires. Reaching the long ribbon of concrete that led outinto the desert, he settled down hard on the accelerator, indifferent tothe whining complaint of the jeep's motor.

  It was eight miles from his sprawling house to the Mesa Dry Lakelaunching site, due east, into the sun. He pulled to the top of Six MileHill and stopped in the middle of the highway. Two miles ahead wasLaunching Base I, throwing long, sharp shadows at him in the rosy dawnlight. A cluster of squat, gray blockhouses; a long runway tapering intothe distance with an Air Force B-52 motionless at the near end; that wasall.

  Except the Ship.

  The Ship towered high, dominating the desert like a pinnacle of brightsilver. Even silhouetted against the eastern sky, it sparkled andglistened. Impassive it stood, graceful, seeming to strain into the sky,anxious to be off and gone. The loading gantry was a dark, spideryframework beside The Ship, leaning against it, drawing strength from itssleek beauty.

  Johnny watched it in silence for a moment, then turned his eyes up, tothe sky. Somewhere up there a tiny satellite spun wildly about theearth, a little silver ball in some celestial roulette wheel. Graduallyit would spiral closer and closer, caught by the planet's implacablegrasp, until it flared brightly like a cigarette in the heavens beforedissolving into drops of molten metal.

  But it would have served its purpose. In its short life it would havegiven Man knowledge; knowledge of space, knowledge enough that he couldgo himself, knowing what he would find in the emptiness between theearth and the moon. Or knowing nearly.

  _What's it like out there?_

  The satellite answered partly; the Ship would answer more.

  Johnny slammed the jeep into gear, hurtled down the other side of SixMile Hill. Through his mind ran the insistent repetition of an old songhe knew, and he hummed it tunelessly through closed teeth.

  _I had a true wife but I left her ... oh, oh, oh._

  The jeep skidded to a halt beside Control. Mitch Campbell's greenstation wagon was already there, creaking and settling as the motorcooled.

  Control was full of people; Air Force brass, technicians, observers,enlisted men of indiscernible purpose. The room hummed with the mutedbuzz of low, serious conversation.

  Mitch Campbell sat in one corner, apparently forgotten in the confusion.He had nothing to do. Not yet. He was already in flight dress, holdingthe massive helmet in his hands morosely, turning it over and over,staring at it as though he thought he might find his head inside if helooked carefully enough.

  "Morning, Colonel," said Johnny, forcing his voice to be casual andcheerful. "You're up early this morning."

  "Morning, Colonel, yourself," said Mitch, looking up.

  "Big date today?"

  "Well--yeah, you might say so," Mitch said, smiling faintly and withobvious effort. "Thought I might go once around lightly," he said,hooking his thumb upwards. Upwards through the concrete ceiling, intothe air, through the air, up where there was no air for a man tobreathe. Once around lightly.

  Around the world. Lightly.

  "Tell you what, Mitch."

  "O.K., tell me what," he said.

  "You like the movies?" Johnny asked. "You like to get a little adventurein your soul? You like a little vicarious thrill now and then?"

  "Yeah, I like that."

  "Tell you what. We'll go. No, don't thank me. We'll go. Tonight. Eighto'clock, you come by."

  "Wives and everybody?" Mitch asked.

  "Why not?" Johnny said. "They're cooped up in the house all day."

  They both knew the wives would be in Control in an hour, listening tothe radio chatter, waiting, eyes wide, shoulders stiff and tight.

  "Fine," said Mitch. "Fine."

  A crew-chief came up and touched Johnny's shoulder. "Colonel Youngbear,"he said, "Observation is going up."

  Johnny stood and looked out the tiny window at the red-painted B-52.

  "See you tonight, Mitch. Eight o'clock? Don't forget. Westerns."

  "See you," said Mitch. He looked back down at the helmet and was turningit over and over again when Johnny left.

  * * * * *

  The Observation B-52 climbed, screaming.

  Johnny lit a cigarette and watched out the port at the contrails rollingstraight and white behind the jets.

  He sat by the radioman, a Sergeant, ignoring the rest of the officers inthe converted bomb-bay.

  "Hope he makes it, Colonel," said the Sergeant.

  "He'll make it," Johnny said flatly, irritated. Relenting, he added in agentler tone, "The pilot section breaks away. If he gets in serioustrouble, he can dump it and ride the nose down. Like a bird. He'll makeit."

  There was a raucous buzz, and a squawk box said: "On my mark it will beZero minus four minutes ... mark!" The voice of Control, 35,000 feetbelow.

  The B-52 swung ponderously onto the base leg of its circle, and therewas a creaking of stretching metal inside.

  "Minus two minutes." _Not my day, anyway_, Johnny thought. He litanother cigarette.

  "Control," said a new voice, "This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Red Flightis in position."

  "Rog, Red Leader," Control acknowledged. The Observation flight of jetfighters was waiting, too.

  "Minus five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... mark!"

  Silence.

  _I had a true wife but I left her ... oh, oh, oh._

  There was another rattle of the speaker, and Mitch's voice came through,grunting, heavy, as the acceleration of the Ship laid a heavy hand onhis chest.

  "Acceleration ... eight gee ... controls respond."

  Silence.

  "There he is," someone said. A wavering trail of smoke was barelyvisible below, a thread of white, coming up fast, blown erratically bywinds into a distorted tiny snake.

  "Altitude ..." said Mitch's voice, "40,000.... Acceleration ...dropping."

  The white snake wriggled up to their level, rose above them. Johnnycould not see the silver head.

  "Altitude ... 65,000.... I have a loud, very high buzz in my headph
ones.I'm going to--there, it's gone now, went out of my range."

  His voice sounded wrong to Johnny, but he couldn't pin it down.

  "Altitude ... 105,000. Beginning orbital correction.Beginning--beginning ... I can't--I'm--I'm--" The voice becameunintelligible. It was pitched very high, like a woman's, and it soundedas if his teeth were chattering.

  "Mitch," Johnny pleaded softly. "Mitch, baby. Dump it, boy, come onhome, now. Dump it."

  There was no more from the speaker. A confused babble broke out in thebomb-bay. The Sergeant fiddled with his dials frantically, spinningacross wavelengths, trying to find a word. The confusion ceased when thespeaker rattled again, seeming hours later.

  "Uh, hello, Control, this is Red Three, do you read me?" One of thefighter