“No, commodore,” responded a voice. “Sector Nine doesn’t think there will be any, either. They’ve just been through saying he doesn’t answer their calls. They believe he’s now out of range. Last trace they got of him showed him to be running beyond effective communication limits.”
“All right.” He dumped the phone, gazed through the port. “Several hours we’ve waited. Nothing has come up to take a look at us. We can detect no signs of excitement down there. Therefore it’s a safe bet that they have no ships, perhaps not even rudimentary aircraft. Neither do they keep organized watch on the sky. They’re not advanced in our sense of the term.”
“But they may be in some other sense,” Pascoe observed.
“That is what I implied.” Leigh made an impatient gesture. “We’ve hung within telescopic view long enough. If they are capable of formidable reaction, we should be grimly aware of it by now. I don’t feel inclined to test the Waitabits at the expense of a few men in an unarmed lifeboat. We’ll take the Thunderer itself down and hope they’re sane enough not to go nuts.”
Hastening forward to the main control-cabin he issued the necessary orders.
The landing place was atop a treeless bluff nine miles south of a large town. It was as good a site as any that could have been chosen. The settling of great tonnage over a mile-long area damaged nobody’s property or crops, the ground was solid enough not to furrow under the ship’s weight, the slight elevation gave a strategic advantage to the Thunderer’s guns.
Despite its nearness the town was out of sight, being hidden by intervening hills. A narrow road ran through the valley but nothing moved thereon. Between the road and the base of the bluff lay double railroad tracks of about twenty-inch gauge with flat-topped rails of silvery metal.
The rails had no spikes or ties and appeared to be held firmly in position by being sunk into long, unbroken ridges of concrete or some similar rock-like substance.
The Thunderer reposed, a long, black, ominous shape with all locks closed and gun-turrets open, while Leigh stared speculatively at the railroad and waited for the usual call from the metering lab. It came within short time. The phone rang, he answered it, heard Shallom speaking: “The air is breathable, commodore.”
“We knew that in advance. A scout sniffed it without dropping dead.”
“Yes, commodore,” agreed Shallom, patiently. “But you asked for an analysis.”
“Of course. Because we don’t know how long Boydell was here. Perhaps a day, perhaps a week. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. He might have curled up his toes after a month or two. In his brief visit he’d have avoided any long-term accumulative effect. What we want to know is whether this atmosphere is safe for keeps.”
“Quite safe, commodore. It’s rather rich in ozone and argon but otherwise much like Earth’s.”
“Good. We’ll open up and let the men stretch their legs.”
“There’s something else of interest,” Shallom went on. “Preliminary observation time occupied seven hours and twenty-two minutes. Over that period the longitudinal shift of a selected equatorial point amounted to approximately three-tenths of a degree. That means this planet’s period of axial rotation is roughly equivalent to an Earth-year. Its days and nights are each about six months long.”
“Thanks, Shallom.” He cut off without surprise, switched the intercom, gave orders to Bentley in the main engine room to operate the power locks. Then he switched again to Lieutenant Harding, officer commanding ground forces, gave permission for one-quarter of his men to be let out for exercise providing they bore arms and did not stray beyond direct cover of the ship’s guns.
That done, he swivelled his pneumatic chair to face the port, put his feet up with heels resting on a wall-ridge and quietly contemplated the alien landscape. Walterson and Pascoe mooched around the room in the restless manner of men waiting for a possibly burning fuse to reach a hypothetical gunpowder barrel.
Shallom phoned again, recited gravitational and magnetic field readings, went off. A few minutes later he came through once more with details of atmospheric humidity, barometric variations and radioactivity.
Apparently he cared nothing for what might be brewing beyond the hills so long as it failed to register on his meters and screens. To his mind no real danger could exist without advertising itself through a needle-wagging or a fluorescent blip.
Outside, two hundred men scrambled noisily down the edge of the bluff, reached soft greensward that was not grass but something resembling short, heavily matted clover. There they kicked a ball around, wrestled, leap-frogged or were content to lie full-length on the turf, look at the sky, enjoy the sun. A small group strolled half a mile to the silent railroad, inspected it, trod precariously along its rails with extended arms jerking and swaying in imitation of tightrope walkers.
Four of Shallom’s staff went down, two of them carrying buckets and spades like kids making for the seashore. A third bore a bug-trap. The fourth had a scintilloscope. The first pair dug clover and dirt, hauled it up to the ship for analysis and bacteria-count. Bug-trap dumped his box, went to sleep beside it. Scintilloscope marched in a careful zigzag around the base of the bluff.
After two hours Harding’s whistle recalled the outside lotus-eaters who responded with reluctance. They slouched back into the gigantic bottle that already had contained them so long. Another two hundred went out, played all the same tricks including the tightrope act on the rails.
By the time that gang had enjoyed its ration of liberty the mess bells announced a main meal ready. The crew ate, after which Number One Watch took to its berths and the deepest sleep within memory. A third freedom party cavorted on the turf. The indefatigable Shallom passed along the news that nine varieties of flea-sized bugs were awaiting introduction to Garside, the entomologist, whenever that worthy gentleman deigned to crawl out of bed.
By the time the fourth and last section of the crew returned from its two-hour spree, Pascoe had had enough. He was baggy-eyed from lack of slumber, disappointed with having curiosity left unsatisfied.
“More than seven hours waiting in the sky,” he complained to Leigh, “and another eight down here. That’s over fifteen hours all told. Where has it got us?”
“It has given the men a badly-needed break,” Leigh reproved. “The first rule of captaincy is to consider the men before considering an exterior problem. There is no real solution to any predicament unless there is also the means to apply it. The men are the means and more so than is the ship or any part of it. Men can build ships but ships cannot manufacture men.”
“All right. They’ve had their outing. They are refreshed and their morale is boosted, all in accordance with the best psychological advice. What next?”
“If nothing turns up it will enable them to catch up on their sleep. The first watch is snoring its collective head off right now. The other two watches are entitled to their turn.”
“But that means sitting idle for another eighteen hours,” Pascoe protested.
“Not necessarily. The Waitabits may arrive at any time, in unguessable numbers, with unknown intentions and with unknown means of enforcing them. If so, everyone will have a rude awakening and you may get enough action to last you a lifetime,” Leigh jerked a thumb toward the door. “Meanwhile, take to bed while the going is good. If trouble starts, it’s likely to be days before you get another chance. Exhausted men are crippled men in a situation such as this.”
“What about you?”
“I intend to slump into sweet dreams myself as soon as Harding is ready to take over.”
Pascoe snorted with impatience, glanced at Walterson, gained no support from that quarter. Walterson was dozing on his feet at mere mention of bed. Pascoe snorted again, more loudly this time, departed with the other following.
They returned within ten hours, found Leigh freshly shaved and spruced. A look through the port revealed the same landscape as before.
Some two dozen of the crew were fooling around outside,
beneath a Sun that had not visibly changed position in the sky. The road still wound through the valley and over the hills without a soul upon it. The railroad track still reposed with all the impassive silence of a long abandoned spur.
Pascoe said, thoughtfully, “This is a good example of how one can deduce something from nothing.”
“Meaning what?” inquired Leigh, showing interest. “The town is nine miles away. We could walk there in about two hours. They’ve had several times that long in which to sound the alarm, summon the troops, launch an assault.” He gestured toward the peaceful scene. “Where are they?”
“You tell us,” Walterson prompted.
“Any life form capable of constructing roads and rails obviously must have eyes and brains. Therefore it is pretty certain that they’ve seen us either hanging above or coming down. I don’t believe that they remain unaware of our existence.” He studied his listeners, went on, “They haven’t shown up because they’re deliberately keeping away from us. That means they’re afraid of us. And that in turn means they consider themselves far weaker, either as result of what they’ve see of us so far or maybe as result of what they learned from contact with Boydell.”
“I don’t agree with that last bit,” opined Leigh.
“Why not?”
“If they saw us either up above or coming down, what did they actually see? A ship and nothing more. They observed nothing to indicate that we are of Boydell’s own kind though it would be reasonable to assume it. Factually, we’re still a bunch of unknowns to them.”
“That doesn’t make hay of my reasoning.”
“It spoils it on two counts,” Leigh insisted. “Firstly, not having weighed and measured us, how can they tell that they’re weaker? Secondly, Boydell himself called them unconquerable. That suggests strength. And strength of a redoubtable order.”
“Look,” said Pascoe, “it doesn’t really matter whether they’re stronger or weaker in their own estimation. In the long run they can’t buck the power of the human race. The cogent point right now is that of whether they are friendly or antagonistic.”
“Well?”
“If friendly, they’d have been around dickering with us hours ago. There’s no sign of them, not a spit or a button. Ergo, they don’t like us. They’ve crawled into a hole because they lack the muscle to do something effective. They’ve ducked under cover hoping we’ll go away and play some place else.”
“An alternative theory,” put in Walterson, “is that they’re tough and formidable just as Boydell implied. They have kept their distance because they’re wise enough to fight on ground of their own choosing and not on ours. If they refuse to come here, we’ve got to go there or accept stalemate. So they are making ready for us to walk into their parlour, after which” – he wiped a forefinger across his throat – “skzzt!”
“Bunk!” said Pascoe.
“We’ll soon learn where we stand one way or the other,” Leigh informed. “I’ve ordered Williams to get the helicopter out. The Waitabits can’t avoid seeing that thing whooshing around. We’ll learn plenty if they don’t shoot it down.”
“And if they do shoot it down?” inquired Pascoe.
“That question will be answered if and when it arises,” Leigh assured. “You know as well as I do the law that hostility must not be accepted until demonstrated.”
He went to the port, gazed across the scene to the tree-swathed hills beyond. After a while he reached for his binoculars, focused them upon the mid-distance.
“Holy smoke!” he said.
Pascoe ran to his side. “What’s the matter?”
“Something’s coming at last. And it’s a train, no less.” He handed over the glasses. “Take a look for yourself.”
A dozen crewmen were on the track industriously filing from a rail sufficient metallic powder to be analysed in the lab. They straightened up as the line conducted sounds of the newcomer’s approach. Shading their eyes, they stood like men paralysed while they gaped toward the east.
A couple of miles away the streamlined express came tearing around the base of a hill at nothing less than one and a half miles per hour. The men remained staring incredulously for ten minutes during which time the phenomenon covered a full quarter mile.
The Thunderer’s siren wailed a warning, the sample-takers recovered their wits and without undue exertion made more speed up the forty-degree bluff than the possible menace was doing on the flat. The last of them had sufficient presence of mind to bring with him an ounce of dust that Shallom later defined as titanium alloy.
Monstrous and imposing, the Thunderer sat waiting for first official contact. Every port held at least three expectant faces watching the track and the train. Every mind took it for granted that the oncoming machine would halt at the base of the bluff and things weird in shape emerge therefrom in readiness to parley. Nobody thought for a moment that it might pass on.
It did pass on.
The train consisted of four linked metal coaches and no locomotive, the source of power not being evident. The tiny cars, less than the height of a man, rolled by holding a score of crimson-faced, owl-eyed creatures some of whom were looking absently at the floor, some at each other, out the sides, anywhere but directly at the great invader atop the bluff.
From the time the train was first observed until realization dawned that it was not going to stop occupied precisely one hour and twenty-four minutes. That was its speed record from the eastward hill to the bluff.
Lowering his binoculars, Commodore Leigh said in baffled tones to Pascoe, “Did you get a clear, sharp view of them?”
“Yes. Red-faced with beak noses and blinkless eyes. One had his hand resting on a window ledge and I noticed it was five-fingered like ours but with digits more slender.”
“Far less than walking pace,” commented Leigh. “That’s what it’s doing. I can amble faster even with corns on both feet.” He had another puzzled look outside. The train had gained forty yards in the interval. “I wonder whether the power Boydell attributed to them is based on some obscure form of cunning.”
“How do you mean?”
“If they cannot cope with us while we hold the ship in force, they’ve got to entice us out of it.”
“Well, we aren’t out of it, are we?” Pascoe countered. “Nobody has developed a mad desire to catch that train. And, if anybody did, he’d overtake it so fast he’d get wherever it’s going before he had time to pull up. I don’t see how they can bait us into being foolhardy merely by crawling around.”
“The tactic would be according to their own logic, not ours,” Leigh pointed out. “Perhaps on this world to crawl is to invite attack. A wild-dog pack reacts that way: the animal that limps gets torn to pieces.” He thought it over, continued, “I’m suspicious of this episode. I don’t like the ostentatious way in which they all kept their eyes fixed on something else as they went past. It isn’t natural.”
“Hah!” said Pascoe, prepared to argue.
Leigh waved him down. “I know it’s a childish blunder to judge any species by the standards of our own, but I still say it isn’t natural to have eyes and not use them.”
“On Terra,” chipped in Walterson, seriously, “some folk have arms, legs, eyes and even brains that they don’t use. That’s because they have the misfortune to be incurably afflicted, as you know.” He went on, encouraged by the other’s silence. “What if this track is a connecting link between the town and a sanatorium or hospital? Maybe its sole purpose is to carry sick people.”
“We’ll soon find out.” Leigh resorted to the intercom. “Williams, is the ’copter ready yet?”
“Assembled and now being fuelled, commodore. It can take off in ten minutes’ time.”
“Who is duty pilot?”
“Ogilvy.”
“Tell him to fly ahead of that train and report what’s at the other end of the tracks. He’s to do that before taking a look at the town.” He turned to the others, added, “Shallom should have a panorama of the
whole area taken on the way down, but it won’t provide the details Ogilvy can get us.”
Pascoe, again standing at the port, asked, “How much slower is slower?”
“Eh?”
“When a thing is already creeping as though next year will do, how can you tell that it has decided to apply the brakes?” He elucidated further, “It may be my imagination but I fancy that train has reduced velocity by a few yards per hour. I hope none of its passengers suffered injury by being slung from one end to the other.”
Leigh had a look. The train had now gone something less than half a mile from his observation point. The tedious speed and slight foreshortening made it impossible to decide whether or not Pascoe was correct. He had to keep watch a full fifteen minutes before he too agreed that the train was slowing down.
During that time the helicopter took off with a superfast whoosh-whoosh from whirling vanes. Soaring over the track, it fled ahead of the train, shrank into the hills until its plastic-egg cabin resembled a dewdrop dangling from a spinning sycamore seed.
Contacting the signals room, Leigh said, “Put Ogilvy’s reports through the speaker here.” He returned to the port, continued watching the train.
All the crew not asleep or on duty were similarly watching.
“Village six miles along line,” blared the speaker. “A second four miles farther on. A third five miles beyond that. Eight thousand feet. Climbing.”
Five minutes later, “Six-coach train on tracks, headed eastward. Appears stalled from this height, but may be moving.”
“Coming the other way and at a similar crawl,” remarked Pascoe, glancing at Walterson. “Bang goes your sick people theory if that one also holds a bunch of zombies.”
“Altitude twelve thousand,” announced the loudspeaker. “Terminal city visible beyond hills. Distance from base twenty-seven miles. Will investigate unless recalled.”
The Time Traveller's Almanac Page 105