Space 1999 #1 - Breakaway

by E. C. Tubb

  ‘Operator, have Professor Bergman and Doctor Russell report to me immediately.’

  To Simmonds he said, ‘I’ve asked them both because they are equally involved. The position here is damned serious. Victor will tell you.’

  Bergman had brought a bundle of papers with him, graphs and charts, a list of equations which he dropped on the desk.

  ‘The proof if you need it, Commissioner, but I can tell you what they say. Area Two is stacked with much the same waste material as was Area One, but with one important difference. Five years ago you sent up a far larger proportion of cesium and lithium in relation to the normal uranium-contaminated waste. There is also a high proportion of trans-uranic elements, some of which went into Area One, but most of which has been dumped in Area Two.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘To put it briefly there is a catalytic reaction. I’ve had very little time to make an investigation and none at all to conduct experiments, but it is my opinion that, this particular blend of waste affects the surrounding lunite in such a way that a magnetic field of incredible density is formed. This field, coupled with the induced reaction of the lunite, creates a feed-back cycle which inevitably results in fusion.’

  ‘Fission?’

  ‘Fusion, Commissioner.’ Bergman was grim. ‘There is probably an initial fission and that is what happened at Area One. With the far greater amounts involved at Area Two fusion will result with the formation of a plasma which will convert the surrounding lunite into almost total energy.’

  No, he was exaggerating, trying to frighten him, Simmonds was sure of it. It couldn’t be true.

  ‘Assuming that what you say is the case, Professor, what will happen if and when the area detonates?’

  A Lunar globe stood on the desk, the surface a pattern of craters. Bergman rested his finger on the edge of Tycho.

  ‘Here is the base.’ His finger moved to the dark side. ‘Here was Area One.’ Another movement, smaller, ‘Here is Area Two. If what we are sure will happen does—’ He hit the globe and sent it rolling.

  More exaggeration, it had to be!

  ‘The area is on the side of the moon opposite to its orbital motion,’ said Bergman. ‘It is barely possible that the entire globe will be split, certainly a large portion of the surface will be vaporized. If the area was on the other side—’

  ‘It might check the orbital motion and send the moon crashing down to Earth.’ Simmonds was being sarcastic, not realizing how he betrayed his ignorance. If suddenly checked, the moon would swing into a closer orbit, breaking apart as it passed Roches Limit to shatter and form Saturn-like rings. ‘You paint a grim picture, Professor. Naturally you have a solution to the problem?’

  Koenig said, ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘As I see it there are only two things we can do. We can evacuate the base—’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘—or we can try to dispose the accumulated mass of waste.’

  ‘Then do it.’ Simmonds was eager. There would be time later for argument and, if there was danger, then let Koenig do what he thought best. At worst it would provide a rope with which to hang him. ‘On the basis of the information I have been given I authorize you to take whatever steps you think necessary to safeguard the installations and the base.’

  Koenig said, flatly, ‘It’s already being done.’

  The Eagles had been converted, the passenger modules stripped and replaced by electro-magnets suspended on cables. Grabs which could be lowered, lifted at the touch of a control.

  They watched from Main Mission, Helena fascinated by the dance of the machines. The mounds had been smashed open, their contents exposed, and the cluster of ships moved in, the grabs lowering, lifting with an attached container, moving up and away to drop it at a far distance.

  Morrow’s voice made a quiet accompaniment to the complex weaving of the vessels as he directed the dispersal.

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘All smooth as yet, Commander. I’ve had to pull out a few Eagles for repair.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Minor collision impact—but they’ve got the hang of it now.’

  Bergman said, quietly, ‘John, if Area Two goes it’ll happen fast. Those pilots won’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Koenig was harsh. ‘Call off the operation and just sit here waiting? You know better than that, Victor. We have to do what we can—but this I promise. If things look bad I’ll abort the mission. Until then we work.’

  Work—he had dedicated his life to it and, watching him, Helena could sense his hidden strain. The conflict he fought with himself, the knowledge that he was risking men’s lives, the fear that his orders had sent them to their deaths. He was a commander with a conscience and, perhaps, too much imagination—a combination which gave him humanity but which tore him inside.

  Simmonds said, ‘Commander, you don’t need me. I had better get back to Earth and—’

  ‘No chance, Commissioner.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve commandeered your Eagle. Carter’s taken it to maintain high-altitude observation. Sorry.’

  ‘Another ship then.’ Simmonds was nervous. ‘John, I really must get back.’

  ‘You can’t—every other Eagle is committed.’ Koenig glanced at Sandra. ‘Levels?’

  ‘Heat constant. Magnetic fields fluctuating.’

  ‘We’re holding.’ Bergman’s voice was heavy with relief. ‘Thank God for that. We might even make it in time.’

  ‘We’re on the edge if my figures are right. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘But everything’s all right?’

  ‘As yet, yes, but that fluctuation worries me. It could be a natural effect or a warning. If the heat had risen—’

  ‘That would be bad?’

  ‘Very bad.’

  ‘I see.’ Simmonds took a deep breath, controlling himself. ‘However, it looks as if everything is all right now. John, you’ll have to let me have a ship. I’ll have to get back and issue a communique. Something to allay anxiety and gain time for us to plan what needs to be done. You see—’

  Koenig snapped, ‘All I can see at this moment, Simmonds, is men risking their lives to avert total disaster. And I’m not going to add to that risk by taking out a ship. Forget it.’

  ‘Commander—’ Sandra cried out, ‘The heat! It’s rising!’

  ‘Report!’

  ‘1192 celsius! 1834 . . . 2489 . . . 2993 . . .’

  ‘Paul! Abort the mission!’ Koenig glared at the screen. ‘Hurry, damn you! Get those men out of there!’

  Like startled birds the Eagles dispersed, flying up and away as if from a flame, waste cans falling, others swinging at the end of cables, still clamped to the electromagnets, forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

  One fell to smash against a pylon, to shatter, to fall into a reaching gout of blue. Flame which spat high, spreading, catching some of the vessels and burning them like moths. Fusing metal and charring flesh and bone. Within seconds the entire area was an inferno.

  ‘Heat still rising.’ Shaken, Sandra continued to report. ‘3485 . . . 3874 . . . 4284—Magnetic fields intense and fluctuating.’

  The screen flared, turned into an eye-searing patch of brightness and then, abruptly died.

  ‘Burnt out,’ said Bergman. ‘John! It’s happened!. Area Two has—’

  The shock-wave cut him short.

  Koenig staggered, fell as the entire complex shook to a giant’s blow, heard screams and the crash of falling equipment. Rising he lunged toward the communicator, falling again before he could reach it, an invisible force slamming him hard against the floor, holding him there, piling a mounting pressure on his limbs, his torso.

  ‘Ten G,’ he thought, maybe more but call it ten. An acceleration of ten gravities. Three hundred and twenty feet per second. In one minute they would be travelling at a speed of almost 15,000 miles an hour. In one
hour as many miles a minute. Add the moon’s own orbital velocity and they would achieve a velocity of close to 2,000,000 miles an hour that was seven minutes to Earth, forty-six hours to the Sun, half that to the orbit of Mars . . .

  Unconsciousness came in a swirl of figures, equations dancing as if alive, spider-shapes lined in blazing light, retinal images which blurred and flashed to blur and fade, to fade and die.

  ‘Commander! Wake up! Commander!’

  Koenig groaned. His mouth tasted of blood, his eyes ached, his head, every muscle of his body shrieked with pain. ‘Commander!’

  It was Carter. He looked pale, blood dried on his mouth, his ears. He sucked in his breath as Koenig opened his eyes.

  ‘Thank God! For a minute there I thought you were all dead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘All hell broke loose. I was lucky, I managed to land well away and then I had to sit it out.’ The captain rubbed at his nose, looked at the smears on his hand. ‘The Mare Cantabrium is gone. All of the Great Lunar Sea. All the Sura Mountains—I saw it go. The space station too and the probe. All gone.’ He added, grimly, ‘A lot of the Eagles too and their pilots. The poor devils had no chance.’

  Koenig sat upright, wincing. The acceleration pressure had gone—later he would find out just how long it had lasted and the intensity, but that would have to wait.

  ‘Area Two?’

  ‘Turned into a rocket engine just as Victor said it might. I saw the plasma forming just before I landed—and I had hell’s own job to make it back. God knows where we are heading for now, but one thing’s certain—we’ll never make it back to Earth.’

  ‘Help me up.’ Koenig staggered a little as he rose to his feet. Bergman, breathing heavily, lay to one side. Morrow as conscious as were most of the others, Helena among them. Simmonds was dead.

  He lay where he had fallen, his head at an ugly angle, a patch of blood bright beneath his temple. The fall had broken his skull and the acceleration pressure had done the rest. His face, beneath the beard, looked oddly peaceful.

  ‘Paul, check the base. All systems to be made fully operational—top priority.’

  ‘Commander! Men are hurt, dead!’

  ‘You heard what I said—ensure our environment.’ The injured would have to wait a little—the dead wouldn’t care. ‘Kano, get to the computer. Find out where we are in relation to Earth and where we are heading. Full data.’

  Koenig blinked, fighting the darkness which edged his vision, the pain which lacerated his chest each time he breathed. His ears held a high-pitched ringing which dulled the blurr of voices reporting from various sections of the base.

  Morrow’s voice rose above the rest. He had been busy and he almost shouted as a screen came to life beneath his hands.

  ‘Commander! I’m getting a long range video picture! I’m bouncing it off the Mars satellite!’

  A picture which ended all doubt.

  Earth and the moon were parting, the gap between them already wide and increasing as they watched. The tremendous explosion followed by the rocket-thrust of the fissioning material had robbed the planet of its satellite which was now hurtling into the empty vastness of space.

  The moon and Alpha Base and all the men and women it contained.

  Morrow said, quietly, ‘Commander, can we make it back to Earth?’

  A question Koenig couldn’t answer. He lacked the essential data, but if he didn’t have it the computer would.

  ‘Kano?’

  ‘Ready, Commander.’

  ‘Tell me what it says. Punch it up on the big screen—it affects all of us here.’

  Bleakly Koenig watched the captions as they appeared.

  Carter had been right.

  They could not return to Earth.

  Too many Eagles had been destroyed. Their velocity was too high, the fuel capacity of the vessels too low, any ship attempting the journey would die to drift forever in the void. A coffin which could contain at best only a fraction of those in the base.

  Facts tersely related by the captions on the screen. To be followed by another—the last.

  HUMAN DECISION REQUIRED.

  His decision and one he could not avoid. For a moment Koenig stood, thinking, then with an abrupt gesture closed the circuit which would carry his voice to every part of the base, to every man and woman under his command.

  ‘Attention, all sections Alpha. This is Commander Koenig. Our moon has been blasted out of orbit and we have been cut off from Earth. There is no hope or possibility of return. To try would be to fail so, in my judgement, we do not try.’

  A pause while he allowed it to sink in, the harsh reality to be accepted.

  Then he continued, quickly, ‘But we are not without hope. We have power, environment and, therefore, the possibility of survival. Meta is close and our path is carrying us towards it. There, perhaps, we shall find a new home. There or somewhere. That is all.’

  Meta, the target of the probe, the mysterious world from which came the equally mysterious signals. Luck? Coincidence?

  Necessity, rather—now that Earth was lost to them they would have to find a new home. A new world which they could call their own.

  Meta, perhaps?

  It would have to be Meta.

  To Carter, standing at his side, Koenig said, dryly, ‘Well, Captain, it looks as if you’ve got your wish to go exploring—only now you’ve got every man and woman in Alpha as your crew.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They renamed it Terra Nova, wishful thinking, perhaps, but it looked good. Koenig listened to the reports from the reconnaissance team; both Parks and Bannion were enthusiastic.

  ‘It’s just like Earth! I’ve seen rivers and trees, lakes, mountains, valleys—it’s a paradise!’

  ‘Calm down Parks. Any signs of civilization, Bannion?’

  ‘None, Commmander, and that’s the beauty of it. The planet’s just waiting for us to take over.’

  ‘Any snow? Ice?’

  ‘A little at the poles.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough, Commander?’ Bannion sounded cheerful, intoxicated with the thrill of discovery. ‘As Parks said—it’s just like Earth.’

  Just like Earth, and that was wrong. Koenig frowned as he walked from the busy console, half-hearing Morrow giving orders, sending the reconnaissance Eagle on a new flight path and authorizing a landing. He, and the pilots, had overlooked the obvious.

  Meta—Terra Nova—should have been a ball of ice.

  It had come from somewhere deep in space, torn from its primary or sent wandering by some cosmic cataclysm, and for unknown years it must have drifted through the chill of the airless void.

  Without a sun to warm it the air would have frozen, flakes of various gases, oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, all drifting down as snow to pile on the frigid ice. If life had survived it would have been in subterranean caverns sealed against the outside hostility. Living as the personnel of Alpha lived, in a closed environment.

  And there had to be life.

  Someone or something must be behind the signals.

  Sitting at his desk Koenig touched a button and listened to the blur of sound. Did the pips and squeaks, the hums and blips hold a new urgency? Had a note of desperation been added?

  His own fears, he thought, someone else could hear a welcome in the sounds, a greeting—but anyone else would have been under less strain.

  He moved a little, feeling the dull ache in his side. The rib had knitted, the internal lacerations healed, but some adhesion still remained. Later, when he had time, he would get Helena to look at it.

  Or, no, not Helena. Doctor Mathias—there was no point in exacerbating her irritation, the cold hostility she had shown when, finally, he had allowed her to treat his injuries.

  A woman who had been hurt, he thought. One who had opened a door a crack to have it slammed in her face. And yet there had been nothing else he could have done. She should have understood, but, woman-like, she had chosen t
o retreat into her shell of iron composure.

  A pity, but now he had other things to worry about.

  The moon had taken a path up and out, rising high above the plane of the ecliptic and moving away from the sun. The hope that it would take up a new orbit around the primary was gone—before them lay nothing but the empty darkness of interstellar space.

  Chance had taken them close to Terra Nova and, with luck, they could be captured by the planet and taken into orbit around it.

  A remote possibility, but it existed. The velocities were close and, if the world’s mass was high enough it could happen. Had to happen if they hoped to stay alive.

  Koenig leaned back, listening to the signals, his mind filled with equations. Velocity, mass, direction, time—a host of variables. But, even if the hoped-for capture was not to be, they still had a chance.

  They could evacuate to the new world.

  Every man and woman in the base could be landed—if they began the operation in time.

  Time—it always came back to that.

  And, always, there seemed to be so little time.

  Too little, for example, for Terra Nova to have been warmed by the sun. A mystery—and one which had to be solved.

  To the communicator he said, ‘Morrow, have you any detail yet on the landing?’

  ‘Touchdown in two minutes, sir.’

  ‘Orders?’

  ‘As received. To land, to move no further than ten feet from the Eagle if the terrain permits. To take atmospheric samples, local radiation levels and then to return. Maximum permitted time three minutes.’

  ‘Suited?’

  ‘Naturally, Commander.’

  Morrow sounded surprised and Koenig could guess why. He was repeating himself, acting as if demanding reassurance, as if he wished to be reminded of the orders he had given or, worse, as if he doubted the other man’s capability.

  Mistakes to be avoided—morale was a delicate thing, more now than ever, and minor irritations must be prevented from growing into major angers.

  He said, ‘Thank you, Paul. If you want me I’ll be with Professor Bergman.’ He chose to go through the recreation area, a section of the base which held a transparent roof, chairs, tables on which could be played games, a projector to show films and shows.