by E. C. Tubb
Child of Space
A Novel
By
E. C. Tubb
Edited by Philip Harbottle
© E. C. Tubb and Philip Harbottle 2015
E. C. Tubb and Philip Harbottle have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author and editor of this work respectively.
This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
DESTROYER OF WORLDS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 1
Regan heard the sound as soon as he stepped into the cavern and halted, eyes searching the dimly lit interior, finally locating the source among the cluster of men and women assembled at the centre of the open expanse. Boardman was among them and he turned, smiling, as Regan reached his side.
“A nice touch, don’t you think, Mark?” He gestured to the object of their attention. “Somehow it belongs.”
Regan looked at a fountain.
Someone with more than a touch of imagination had built a thing of beauty, setting it in a bowl of polished stone edged with concealed lights which threw a kaleidoscope of gentle luminescence on the arching fronds of transparent leaves. Entranced, he watched the interplay of colour, the water spouting high from the nozzles; an artificial rain which rose to curve to fall in musical cadences.
“Do you like it, Commander?” Lucy Cochran, the botanist in charge of Rural Area One, was justifiably proud of the installation. “Do you approve?”
Regan nodded and looked at the walls of the man-made cavern in which they stood. They rose to merge in a common point high above the floor of the chamber that had been gouged from the lunar rock. The floor was levelled, paths running between wide beds of loam; soil made of crushed stone with humus added, chemicals and minerals incorporated with other ingredients to fashion a familiar dirt.
In it, one day, would grow flowers, blooms serving no purpose other than to please the eye and nostrils. There would be grass on which lovers could stroll and games could be played. Bushes and even trees grown from precious seeds. A miniature forest set far beneath the Lunar surface, an oasis to which they could come to remind themselves of what they had left behind.
Earth itself, their home, left behind when they had volunteered to begin a five-year exile as one of the personnel manning this first International Moonbase.
“Mark?” Boardman was watching him. “Do you want to give the order?”
As the Commander of Moonbase One it was his right, but a Commander could have too many rights and it would be wise not to insist on those that held no real importance.
Others must be made to feel as if they shared authority as they certainly did responsibility.
“Mark?”
Boardman was impatient to see the culmination of his project, eager, perhaps, for praise—he was human enough for that.
Regan said, “A moment, Trevor. Lucy, who designed the fountain?”
“Carolyn Markson. Carrie?”
She was young, lovely, her smoothly rounded face holding an elfin beauty. An electro-technician attached to Cochran’s staff. Regan smiled at her as she came close to halt standing before him. Taking the communicator from his belt he activated it, spoke to the face that appeared on the small screen, then held the instrument out to the girl.
“Here, Carrie. You do it.”
“Commander?” Her eyes glanced upwards to the shadowed apex of the cavern. “You mean—”
“I want you to give the order, Carrie,” he said. “You’ve earned the right. The rest of us just dug out this place but you’ve beautified it with your fountain. So go ahead.”
For a moment she hesitated, a little smile quirking a corner of her mouth and then, quickly, she said, “Let there be light!”
Above a sun blazed into being.
Not a real sun, but something so near as to give that impression. A mass of lights radiating a carefully selected section of the electro-magnetic spectrum that closely matched that of Earth’s sun. Regan felt the warmth of it, knew that if he stayed long in its radiance he would acquire a tan.
To the communicator the girl said, “Complete cycle.”
The light faded a little, more, died to create a simulation of twilight, of dusk, of final night. Regan heard the inhalation of those watching as lights began to wink from the roof of the cavern, artificial stars set in a familiar pattern.
And then the dawn, a milky opalescence strengthening to a roseate glow, the brilliance of early sunrise.
“Wonderful!” A woman drew in her breath. “I never thought—Trevor, I thank you.”
“There should be bird-song,” said Carrie as she handed Regan back his communicator. “I could arrange it, light-triggered recordings and strategically placed speakers. Simulacra, too, artificial birds set in artificial trees. We could place one there, and another just there, and two over by the far opening.”
She was talking more to herself than to him and Regan knew it. Taking the communicator he watched as she moved away to halt at the side of a young man, her face animated, both laughing, both moving off with arms intertwined.
“Carrie has a point,” said Lucy. “And I’d like to do something with those walls. Some of the men suggested we fashion them into a likeness of the interior of a cathedral. One mentioned Chartres. Did you ever see it, Commander?”
“Once.”
“I never had the chance,” she said, regretfully. “I’ve seen slides, of course, and even a hologram, but nothing can convey the impression of antiquity and size, the dedication of those people who gave their labour for the love of God. Could we—?”
“Within limits, Lucy, yes.” Regan softened his warning with a smile. “But you can’t use essential materials, power or labour. Yet if people want to use their recreation time working to decorate this place I won’t object. However, don’t forget why we built it in the first place.”
Not for fun, nor for show, but as a place in which to grow food. An addition to the hydroponic tanks and yeast vats which, together with the algae tanks, provided the Base with sustenance. The cavern would serve a double purpose and later, with luck, could be turned into a park and garden.
“I won’t forget,” she promised. “And you won’t regret this, Commander. I—” She broke off as his communicator hummed.
Pierre Versin was on the screen. He said, without preamble, “Commander, you’d better come at once to the Control Room.”
*
Doctor Elna Mitchell picked up a card, looked at it for a moment, then placed it face down on the desk before her.
“Star.” The girl lying supine on the bed was thirty feet away across the ward in Medical Centre. There was no possible way she could have seen the design. “You want me to continue, Doctor?”
“Please, Liz, if you’re not feeling too tired.”
“Tired?” Liz Caffrey gave a chuckle. “How could I get tired just lying here?”
And yet there was strain as Elna had warned when, after her series of tests on the personnel had determined their extra-sensory perception potential, Liz had been asked to volunteer for further investigation. Now she was beginning to get a little bored.
“Star,” she said as Elna looked at more cards. “Circle, circle, square, cross, wavy line, star, wavy line, cross, cross, square, circle, star, star…”
&
nbsp; A complete run of a hundred, each of five cards studied twenty times in random order. Anyone, by naming only one design, could achieve a success-rate of twenty per cent. Liz had scored seventy-eight.
Elna pondered the figures as she made a notation on a sheet clipped to a board. One high score could be due to chance, two due to coincidence, more and there had to be a reason. On a score of tests Liz had gained results far in excess of the statistical average, a finding enhanced by other tests many made without her awareness.
“Once more, Liz, if you please.”
“Must we, Doctor?”
“Getting tired?”
“Bored, rather.” The girl stretched then, smiling, said, “Well, why not? Anything to help the cause.”
Elna picked up the cards, shuffled them and, holding them face down slipped the top card from the pack and laid it, still face down, on the desk.
“Liz?”
“Star,” said the girl after a moment’s hesitation.
Elna made a notation then placed another card face down on the first.
“Circle,” said the girl after a moment. She sounded unsure. “At least I think it is.”
“Please do your best to concentrate. And this?”
The girl’s voice gained firmness as the run progressed. At the end she said, “How did I make out?”
Badly, but Elna didn’t say so. Again she pondered her findings. The girl made high scores only when Elna looked at the cards, low when she did not. A fact which tended to eliminate clairvoyance and precognition; neither should be affected by the human intervention.
The girl smiled as Elna approached the bed then looked warily at the machine she pulled towards the head of the cot.
“More tests, Doctor?”
“A few simple ones if you have no objection. I want to take readings of your brainwave pattern on the encephalogram while you are under mild sedation. It is important to the success of the experiment that you be wholly relaxed. Have I your agreement?”
“Why not?” Liz shrugged. “Go ahead, Doctor, a good sleep never hurt anyone yet.”
Within moments it was done, the girl lying at rest, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Quickly Elna attached the adhesive electrodes to various points on the skull. As she reached towards the controls of the machine her communicator sounded the attention signal.
It was Regan. He said, “Elna, we’re on yellow alert. Have Medical stand by.”
“Mark!” She stared at the screen, at the face with its peak of dark hair, the eyes which had seen too much, the mouth that betrayed the inner sensitivity. “Is something wrong?”
“As yet we can’t be sure. I’m just warning you before the general alarm. Have you any emergencies?”
Elna glanced at the girl. Asleep she was no problem and it was better to leave her that way rather than to jar her metabolism with the shock of conflicting drugs. But there were others, some due for surgery, none, fortunately, in a critical situation.
“No, Mark. No emergencies.” And then she added, because she was both a woman and human and therefore curious, “What is it? What’s happening?”
“Probably nothing, but we can’t afford to take chances. There’s something in space heading our way. We don’t know what it is and, until we do, we stand ready for anything.”
“For how long?”
“Until it hits us, passes us, or we wipe it from the sky.”
“Mark! Do you—”
But he was gone, the connection broken, the tiny screen blank. And, as much as she wanted to be with him, her place was in the Centre, which she controlled.
*
From where she stood before her instruments Amanda Barnes said, “No response, Commander. As far as I can determine it is just a lifeless mass of rock. No answer has been received to the entire range of signals we have transmitted and there is no discernable radiation emitted from the located object.”
“Kanu?”
“Computer agrees, Commander. All findings to date are consistent with the mass being a scrap of stellar debris.”
Rock blasted from the world to which it had once belonged, to drift through space as the Asteroids drifted around the Sun between Mars and Jupiter. A lonely wanderer in the ocean of space.
Leaning back in his chair Regan looked at the direct vision ports. Beyond lay the empty immensity of the void, the stars which shone with a remote indifference distant suns with their own, orbiting worlds.
His eyes lowered to study the Lunar surface, the ground pocked with craters, seamed with fissures, the hollows thick with a dust as fine as powdered talc. Airless, waterless, those essential ingredients of life having to be reclaimed from the Lunar stone; liquids and gases torn from their chemical prisons to be used, recycled, used again and again.
A closed ecology in which only power was plentiful, the atomic generators breeding their own fuel.
“Commander?” Versin spoke without turning in the big chair facing the main console. “Your orders?”
Decisions, rather, always it was a matter of decision and, always, Regan was acutely aware of the danger that, at any time, he could make the wrong one. A slip, a miscalculation, and the life that maintained a precarious hold on the razor-edge of survival could be pushed that little too far. Strained beyond the capability of available resources or faced with a threat it could not handle Moonbase One would become the tomb of hundreds inhabiting a dead world.
Regan glanced at the main screens. As yet the object was too small for even the high magnification to resolve, its presence known by electronic sensors. The lack of response to signals told against it being an unexpected vessel from Earth, but that was not conclusive. It could be a potential enemy playing dead, or something so alien as not to use the same means of communication as humanity. Or, as Kanu had said, it could be nothing more than harmless rock.
Harmless—as long as it didn’t come too close.
A hope which Joshua Kanu negated as he checked the computer displays.
“Bad news, Commander. Computer plots the course as being on an intercept path with the Moon.” His dark face was sombre. “The estimated area of impact is within three miles.”
Regan said, sharply, “Potential damage?”
“A direct hit would totally destroy the base. Even if it hit at the edge of the predicted area the impact would produce internal stresses and the shockwave would result in extensive damage.”
Versin said, “Red alert, Commander?”
“Not yet.” They still had time. “I want to see what that thing looks like. Have Adam take a Pinnace and make a close scan.” He added, grimly, “An armed craft. Full destructive and defensive equipment. Passive observation unless the Pinnace is attacked or I order otherwise.”
As Versin leaned over his console Regan rose and stretched and glanced around the Control Room. Like a well-oiled machine it had met the emergency, each at their position, the base on full defensive standby. A good team, he thought, one trained by previous emergencies, knowing just what to do and how to do it. Crossing to a bank of screens he studied the portrayed interior of the base. The yellow alert was in full operation; certain areas had been sealed and were guarded by purple-sleeved security men and other precautions had been taken, but its purpose was to instil an awareness of potential danger rather than an immediate hazard.
The Moonbase had originally been established as a military base during a time of fraught international tension at the start of the 22nd century, and had a full defensive capability. Those tensions had since eased, as the Western and Eastern Federations had merged into a peaceful World Federation. Now it was used for pure scientific research, but Regan silently thanked the previous Commander who had ensured that its defensive weaponry had been maintained.
The touch of a button and he looked into Medical Centre. Elna, he noticed, was at her station and he watched the softly gleaming gold of her hair, the play of light and shadow over the strong contours of her face. A face with prominent cheekbones, wide-spaced eyes, a generous
mouth and a determined chin. One which, at times, could be a mask.
“Elna!” He saw her turn towards the communication post and said, quickly, “Just a routine check. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“At times, Mark, you are a master of understatement.”
“Not this time—that I promise.”
A lie and he wondered why he had said it, wondered too why he had felt it necessary to talk to the woman. It would have been enough simply to scan, but he had a reluctance to spy, to watch without her knowing she was under observation.
An invasion of privacy and yet in the confines of the base it was almost impossible to avoid it. And, when the common security was threatened, there could be no time for minor considerations.
Another button and he looked into the newly opened cavern. Boardman, he knew, had arranged a small party to celebrate the occasion; a matter of small cakes and weak wine, the spirit more important than the actual drinks and comestibles. He stood now in the centre of the throng, a glass in one hand, a cake in the other, his face flushed with pleasure.
An old face, seamed, the hair receding from the domed skull, the ears tight against the bone. His eyebrows were bushy and the figure beneath his uniform was not as it had been. Taut muscle had yielded to soft contours and the firm skin had become creped yet though his body had weakened there was nothing wrong with his mind. Professor Trevor Boardman, a genius who had chosen to live, study and work on the Moon. An honoured guest who had become involved with the rest. One who had proved his worth a hundred times in the precarious artificial environment.
One with a chronic heart condition.
At times he joked about it, resting his hand on his chest where surgeons had performed a life-saving operation. A miracle of medical science that had enabled him to live when earlier men would have died. To live an almost normal life—but only in the benign one-sixth gravity of the Moon. To return to Earth and its gravity would kill him. Nor did he seem bitter at his fate: the unique environment of the Moon had given him the opportunity to conduct scientific experiments impossible on Earth.