The Director made no reply. Grosvenor saw that Smith was examining the break in the wall. The biologist glanced up. “If only Breckenridge weren’t dead. We need a metallurgist to explain this. Look!”
He touched the broken edge of the metal. A piece crumbled between his fingers and slithered away in a fine shower of dust to the floor. Grosvenor pushed his way in.
“I know something of metallurgy,” he said.
Several men automatically made way for him. And presently he was standing beside Smith. The biologist frowned at him. “One of Breck’s assistants?” he asked pointedly.
Grosvenor pretended not to hear. He bent down and ran the fingers of his space suit through the pile of metallic debris on the floor. He straightened quickly, “No miracle here,” he said. “As you know, such cages as this are made in electro-magnetic moulds, and we use a fine metallic powder for the job. The creature used his special powers to interfere with the forces holding the metal together. That would account for the drain on the telefluor power cable that Mr Pennons noticed. The thing used the electric energy, with his body as a transforming engine, broke down the wall, ran along the corridor, and so down into the engine room.”
He was surprised that he was allowed to complete the hurried analysis. But it seemed clear that he had been accepted as an assistant of the dead Breckenridge. It was a natural error in so big a ship, where men had not yet had time to identify all the lower-rank technicians.
“In the meantime, Director,” Kent said quietly, “we are faced with a super-being in control of the ship, completely dominating the engine room and its almost unlimited power, and in possession of the main section of the machine shops.”
It was a simple statement of the situation. And Grosvenor felt its impact upon the other men. Their anxiety showed on their faces.
A ship’s officer spoke up. “Mr. Kent is wrong,” he said. “The thing doesn’t dominate the engine room completely. We’ve still got the control bridge, and that gives us first control of all the machines. You gentlemen, being supernumeraries, may not know the mechanical set-up we have. Undoubtedly, the creature could eventually disconnect us, but right now we could cut off all the switches in the engine room.”
“For God’s sake!” said a man, “why didn’t you just shut off the power instead of putting a thousand men into space suits?”
The officer was precise. “Captain Leeth believes we are safer within the force fields of our space suits. It is probable that the creature has never before been subjected to five or six gravities of acceleration. It would be unwise to give up that and other advantages in panicky moves.”
“What other advantages have we got?”
Morton spoke up. “I can answer that. We know things about him. And right now I’m going to suggest to Captain Leeth that we make a test.” He turned to the officer. “Will you ask the commander to authorize a little experiment I want to make?”
“I think you’d better ask him yourself, sir. You can reach him by communicator. He’s up on the bridge.”
Morton came back in a few minutes. “Pennons,” he said, “since you’re a ship’s officer and head man in the engine room, Captain Leeth wants you to take charge of this test.”
It seemed to Grosvenor that there was a hint of irritation in Morton’s tone. Evidently, the commander of the ship had been in earnest when he had said that he was taking charge. It was the old story of partially divided commands. The dividing line had been defined as precisely as possible, but obviously the authorities could not predict all contingencies. In the final issue, much depended on the personality of the individuals. Until now, the ship’s officers and crew, all military people, had meticulously carried out their ship duties, subordinating themselves to the purpose of the tremendous voyage. Nevertheless, past experience on other ships had proved to the government that for some reason military men did not have a high opinion of scientists. In moments such as this, the hidden hostility showed itself. Actually, there was no reason why Morton should not be in charge of his own experimental attack.
Pennons said, “Director, there isn’t time for you to explain the details to me. You give the orders! If I disagree with any of them, we’ll talk it over.”
It was a graceful surrender of prerogative. But then Pennons, as chief engineer, was a fully-fledged scientific man in his own right.
Morton wasted no time. “Mr. Pennons,” he said crisply, “detail five technicians to each of the four approaches to the engine room. I’m going to lead one group. Kent, you take number two. Smith, number three. And Mr. Pennons, of course, number four .We’ll use mobile heaters and blast through the big doors. They’re all shut, I noticed. He’s locked himself in.
“Selenski, you go up to the control bridge and shut off everything except the drive engines. Gear them to the master switch, and cut them all off at the same time. One thing, though. Leave the acceleration on full blast. No anti-acceleration must be applied to the ship. Understand!”
“Yes, sir!” The pilot saluted, and started along the corridor.
Morton called after him, “Report to me through the communicators if any of the machines start to run again!”
The men selected to assist the leader were all members of the fighting crew. Grosvenor, with several others, waited to watch the action from a distance of about two hundred feet. He felt an empty sense of waiting for disaster as the mobile projectors were brought up and the protective screens arranged. He appreciated the forcefulness and the purpose of the attack that was about to be made. He could even imagine that it might be successful. But it would be a hit-or-miss success, not actually predictable. The affair was being handled on the basis of an old, old system of organizing men and their knowledge. Most irritating was the fact that he could only stand by and be negatively critical.
Morton’s voice came over the general communicator. “As I’ve said, this is largely a test attack. It’s based on the presumption that he hasn’t been in the engine room long enough to do anything. That gives us an opportunity to conquer him now, before he’s had time to prepare against us. But aside from the possibility that we can destroy him immediately, I have a theory. My idea is this: Those doors are built to withstand powerful explosions, and it will take fifteen minutes at least for the heaters to burn them down. During that period, the creature will have no power. Selenski is about to shut it off. The drive, of course, will be on, but that’s atomic explosion. My guess is he can’t touch stuff like that. In a few minutes you’ll see what I mean—I hope.”
His voice went up in pitch as he called, “Ready, Selenski?”
“Ready.”
“Then cut the master switch!”
The corridor—the whole ship, Grosvenor knew—was abruptly plunged into darkness. He clicked on the light of his space suit. One by one, the other men did the same. In the reflections from the beams, their faces looked pale and tense.
“Blast!” Morton’s command was clear and sharp in the communicator.
The mobile units throbbed. The heat that sprayed out of them, though not atomic, was atomic generated. It poured upon the hard metal of the door. Grosvenor could see the first molten drops let go of the metal and begin to flow. Other drops followed until a dozen streams moved reluctantly out of the path of the energy. The transparent screen began to mist, and presently it was harder to see what was happening to the door. And then, through the misted screen, the door began to shine with the light of its own hotness. The fire had a hellish look to it. It sparkled with a gemlike brightness as the heat of the mobile units ate at the metal with slow fury.
Time went by. At last Morton’s voice came, a husky sound. “Selenski!”
“Nothing yet, Director.”
Morton half whispered, “But he must be doing something. He can’t just be waiting in there like a cornered rat, Selenski!”
“Nothing, Director.”
Seven minutes, then ten, then twelve went by.
“Director!” It was Selenski’s voice, taut. “He’s
got the electric dynamo running.”
Grosvenor drew a deep breath. And then Kent’s voice sounded on the communicator. “Morton, we can’t get any deeper. Is this what you expected?”
Grosvenor saw Morton peering through the screen at the door. It seemed to him, even from the distance, that the metal was not as white-hot as it had been. The door grew visibly redder, and then faded to a dark, cool color.
Morton was sighing. “That’s all for now. Leave the crew men to guard each corridor! Keep the heaters in place! Department heads come up to the control bridge!”
The test, Grosvenor realized, was over.
CHAPTER FIVE
To the guard at the entrance of the control bridge, Grosvenor handed his credentials. The man examined them doubtfully.
“I guess it’s all right,” he said finally. “But so far I haven’t admitted anyone in here who’s under forty. How did you rate?”
Grosvenor grinned. “I got in on the ground floor of a new science.”
The guard looked again at the card, and then said as he handed it back, “Nexialism? What’s that?”
“Applied whole-ism,” said Grosvenor, and stepped across the threshold.
When he glanced back a moment later, he saw that the man was gazing after him blankly. Grosvenor smiled, and then put the incident out of his mind. It was the first time he had been on the bridge. He gazed around him with curious eyes, impressed and fascinated. In spite of its compactness, the control board was a massive structure. It was built in a series of great curving tiers. Each arc of metal was two hundred feet long, and a full sweep of steps led steeply from one tier to the next. The instruments could be manipulated from the floor, or, more swiftly, from a jointed control chair that hung from the ceiling at the end of a power-driven, upside-down crane structure.
The lowest level of the room was an auditorium with about a hundred comfortable chairs. They were big enough to hold men wearing space suits, and nearly two dozen men so dressed were already sitting in them. Grosvenor settled himself unobtrusively. A minute later, Morton and Captain Leeth entered from the captain’s private office, which opened from the bridge. The commander sat down. Morton began without preamble.
“We know that of all the machines in the engine room, the most important to the monster was the electric dynamo. He must have worked in a frenzy of terror to get it started before we penetrated the doors. Any comments on that?”
Pennons said, “I’d like to have somebody describe to me just what he did to make those doors impregnable.”
Grosvenor said, “There is a known electronic process by which metals can be temporarily hardened to an enormous degree, but I’ve never heard of it being done without several tons of special equipment, which doesn’t exist on this ship.”
Kent turned to look at him. He said impatiently, “What’s the good of knowing how he did it? If we can’t break through those doors with our atomic disintegrators, that’s the end. He can do as he pleases with this ship.”
Morton was shaking his head. “We’ll have to do some planning, and that’s what we’re here for.” He raised his voice. “Selenski!”
The pilot leaned down from the control chair. His sudden appearance surprised Grosvenor. He hadn’t noticed the man in the chair. “What is it, sir?” Selenski asked.
“Start all the engines!”
Selenski swung his control seat skillfully toward the master switch. Gingerly, he eased the great lever into position. There was a jerk that shook the ship, an audible humming sound, and then for several seconds a shuddering of the floor. The ship steadied, the machines settled down to their work, and the humming faded into a vague vibration.
Presently, Morton said, “I’m going to ask various experts to give their suggestions for fighting pussy. What we need here is a consultation between many different specialized fields and, however interesting theoretical possibilities might be, what we want is the practical approach.”
And that, Grosvenor decided ruefully, effectively disposed of Elliott Grosvenor, Nexialist. It shouldn’t have. What Morton wanted was integration of many sciences, which was what Nexialism was for. He guessed, however, that he would not be one of the experts whose practical advice Morton would be interested in. His guess was correct.
It was two hours later when the Director said in a distracted tone, “I think we’d better take half an hour now to eat and rest. This is the big push we’re coming to. We’ll need everything we’ve got.”
Grosvenor headed for his own department. He was not interested in food and rest. At thirty-one, he could afford to dispense with the occasional meal or a night of sleep. It seemed to him he had half an hour in which to solve the problem of what should be done with the monster that had taken control of the ship.
The trouble with what the scientists had agreed on was that it was not thorough enough. A number of specialists had pooled their knowledge on a fairly superficial level. Each had briefly outlined his ideas to people who were not trained to grasp the wealth of association behind each notion. And so the attack plan lacked unity.
It made Grosvenor uneasy to realize that he, a young man of thirty-one, was probably the only person aboard with the training to see the weaknesses in the plan. For the first time since coming aboard six months before, he had a sharp appreciation of what a tremendous change had taken place in him at the Nexial Foundation. It was not too much to say that all previous education systems were outdated.
Grosvenor took no personal credit for the training he had received. He had created none of it. But as a graduate of the Foundation, as a person who had been put aboard the Space Beagle for a specific purpose, he had no alternative but to decide on a definite solution, and then use every available means to convince those in authority.
The trouble was he needed more information. He went after it in the quickest possible fashion. He called up various departments on the communicator.
Mostly, he talked to subordinates. Each time he introduced himself as a department head, and the effect of that was considerable. Junior scientists accepted his identification of himself and were usually very helpful though not always. There was the type of individual who said, “I’ll have to get authority from my superiors.” One department head—Smith—talked to him personally, and gave him all the information he wanted. Another was polite and asked him to call again after the cat was destroyed. Grosvenor contacted the chemistry department last and asked for Kent, taking it for granted—and hoping—that he would not get through. He was all ready to say to the subordinate, “Then you can give me the information I want.” To his annoyance and amazement he was connected with Kent at once.
The chemist chief listened to him with ill-concealed impatience, and abruptly cut him off. “You can obtain the information from here through the usual channels. However, the discoveries made on the cat’s planet will not be available for some months. We have to check and countercheck all our findings.”
Grosvenor persisted. “Mr. Kent, I ask you most earnestly to authorize the immediate release of information regarding the quantitative analysis of the cat-planet atmosphere. It may have an important bearing on the plan decided upon at the meeting. It would be too involved at the moment to explain fully, but I assure you—”
Kent cut him off. “Look, my boy,” and there was a sneer in his tone, “the time is past for academic discussion. You don’t seem to understand that we’re in deadly danger. If anything goes wrong, you and I and the others will be physically attacked. It won’t be an exercise in intellectual gymnastics. And now, please don’t bother me again for ten years.”
There was a click as Kent broke the connection. Grosvenor sat for several seconds, flushing at the insult. Presently, he smiled ruefully, and then made his final calls.
His high-probability chart contained, among other things, check marks in the proper printed spaces showing the amount of volcanic dust in the atmosphere of the planet, the life history of various plant forms as indicated by preliminary studies of their se
eds, the type of digestive tracts animals would have to have to eat the particular plants examined and, by extrapolation, what would be the probable ranges of structure and type of the animals who lived off the animals who ate such plants.
Grosvenor worked rapidly, and since he merely put marks on an already printed chart, it was not long before he had his graph. It was an intricate affair. It would not be easy to explain it to someone who was not already familiar with Nexialism. But for him it made a fairly sharp picture. In the emergency it pointed at possibilities and solutions that could not be ignored. So it seemed to Grosvenor.
Under the heading of “General Recommendations,” he wrote, “Any solution adopted should include a safety valve.”
With four copies of the chart, he headed for the mathematics department. There were guards, which was unusual and an obvious protection against the cat. When they refused to let him see Morton, Grosvenor demanded to see one of the Director’s secretaries. A young man emerged finally from another room, politely examined his chart, and said that he would “try to bring it to Director Morton’s attention.”
Grosvenor said in a grim tone, “I’ve been told that kind of thing before. If Director Morton does not see that chart, I shall ask for a Board of Inquiry. There’s something damn funny going on here in connection with the reports I make to the Director’s office, and there’s going to be trouble if there’s any more of it.”
The secretary was five years older than Grosvenor. He was cool and basically hostile. He bowed, and said with a faintly satirical smile, “The Director is a very busy man. Many departments compete for his attention. Some of them have long histories of achievement, and a prestige that give them precedence over younger sciences and—” he hesitated—“scientists.” He shrugged, “But I shall ask him if he wishes to examine the chart.”
Space Beagle- the Complete Adventures Page 15