“Okay, okay, Granny,” Temple said. He grinned sheepishly. “I’ll be calm and collected and reasonable—for one more day. Then if I don’t hear anything—Bango!”
Mullane laughed. “Sure you don’t mean gr-r-rowr-r-r, Tiger? I remember my courting days. But I’ll buy it as is, and tomorrow I’ll stay clear of the blast area. Now let’s finish our backtracking on the trajectory of that swarm and see if we can establish what part of space they came from.” An hour later they threw down pencils almost simultaneously and stared at one another across the big worktable in Temple’s office. Temple said at last, “Are you absolutely sure, Mully?”
“Positive,” Mullane said flatly. “As far as I’m concerned the impossible is incontrovertible fact. Your meteorites could have come from only one place in the universe—the surface of the moon. You have more than enough verified observations to establish the point and altitude of entry into atmosphere, their velocity and angle of descent. Unless some force caused that swarm to change course and speed somewhere in space, they could not possibly have originated at any other point.”
“I agree,” Temple said, and reached for the telephone. “All bets are off, Mully. I’m calling Lee right now to warn her of what Van Arden only suspected…if it isn’t too late.”
His hand was closing on the instrument when it rang. He snatched it up. The voice of University President McCabe had a ragged note of near hysteria in it. “Temple, get over here as fast as you can. Your field team in Kansas—”
“What about the field team?” Temple shouted.
“You’d better be prepared to tell me,” McCabe cried. “I think they’ve gone mad, stark, raving mad. They have brought financial ruin to themselves and to Culwain University—utter financial ruin.”
* * * *
To Lee Mason the site of the meteorite fall resembled a circus she remembered from childhood, one that had arrived in the night and was half set up when she saw it at dawn.
The Culwain trucks had arrived earlier. A row of portable huts was going up, five as dormitories for team and work crew, one as kitchen and storeroom, the largest as joint laboratory and work space. The generator was running to supply power to cables of various sizes which snaked across the dusty ground.
She had not expected such a crowd. The line of impact pits was roped off and surrounded by a thin line of faintly self-conscious men wearing deputy’s badges. Around that were some uniformed State Police and, cautiously back from them, a number of strangers she eventually learned were FBI and CIA men. Outside this secondary ring were reporters, curiosity seekers, a TV news team and various strangers never identified.
A huge, blond man pushed up. “Meteoritics Team? What the hell kept you? Where the hell is this Temple character?” He suddenly discovered Lee and amended hastily, “I mean, where might I find Dr. Temple, the Meteoritics expert?”
Lee decided correctly that this was Van Arden. “I’m sorry but he was unable to accompany the team and sent me to take his place.” She explained about Temple’s recent injuries and introduced the members of the team. Van Arden shook hands, looking a little like a man who felt he was not getting his money’s worth.
“You’ve only got about four hours of daylight left and that may not be enough time to dig out all the meteorites, or whatever they are. Hadn’t you better set your work crew to rigging floodlights now so you won’t be interrupted later on?”
Lee looked at him sharply. “I’m afraid you don’t understand our work, Mr. Van Arden. It will be days before we’re set to bring out the meteorites themselves, or even expose them to view. Our first work will be to extract all possible information from the impact craters and the surrounding soil. Until that is done we can’t risk destroying vital clues by digging.”
Van Arden glared around the circle of faces, then turned and stamped off, muttering to himself. Jacobs, the chubby analytical chemist, broke the silence with a snort.
“Bureaucrats! What does he expect us to find down there anyhow, little green men?”
“Or Khrushchev’s fingerprints,” Lee said.
“Shucks,” Jacobs said. “I forgot to bring my Junior G-Man Kit.”
The Solles and Amie Cole, reassured that they would be paid for all meteoritic material, proved most co-operative. The men joined the Culwain work crew and Martha Solle took over the cooking. By the time Lee telephoned Temple the camp was set up and lighted and much of the equipment unpacked. Van Arden held a long talk and emerged looking a little sheepish.
When work began at sunup, he hovered close, keeping out of the way and speaking little but looking both intrigued and baffled. He trudged along, scowling, watching Lee and the prim little refugee physicist, Dr. Eno Rocossen, wheel a device like a futuristic mine detector along the north edge of the impact pits. Both wore earphones and kept an intent watch on a row of dials. At the end of the row of pits they snapped switches and removed the headphones.
“Stonies,” Rocossen said. “It is not of surprise, no?”
Lee nodded. “The gods still hate Kansas, it seems.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Van Arden blurted.
“Curt—Dr. Temple—coined a phrase long ago from one of the unsolved mysteries of Meteoritics,” Lee explained, smiling. “He says the gods must hate Kansas, since they throw so many stones at it. Broadly, meteorites fall into three types, according to their composition. Siderites are mainly iron, aerolites are stone, and siderolites are composed of both iron and stone. These appear to be all aerolites, or stones.”
“I get it. That gadget’s a kind of glorified mine detector that would show the presence of metal. But what’s this ‘gods hate Kansas’ business?”
“For a reason no scientist can explain, more stony meteorites strike little Kansas than any other place on Earth. One-third of all known North American aerolite falls, and one-sixth of those reported in the world, have been in Kansas. Despite a sparse population, more falls have been witnessed in Kansas than anywhere else on Earth. Kansas receives more stones than any other state, more than any two states west of the Mississippi. Now we have nine new ones to push the imbalance even further.”
Van Arden blinked dazedly and emitted a long whistle. “With puzzles like that to solve, I don’t wonder you couldn’t get too excited over a little thing like a V-formation flight.”
The work went on in orderly confusion. The funnel-shaped craters were meticulously sketched, photographed and their angles measured. Steel probes marked the location, extent and depth of the buried meteorites, which because of the angle of impact lay some distance beyond the pit openings.
Soil samples were taken at varying depths. Chemical analysis could determine the degree of heat generated at impact and the presence of any fragments of crust spalled off. Microbiology searched for traces of alien microorganisms. An intricate machine delivered measured blows on the plowed ground to determine its resistance and estimate thereby the probable velocity of the rocks at the moment of impact. The work crew scoured the Earth for fragments of the exploded aerolites. Each team member carried a portable tape recorder and there were frequent halts to sketch or photograph possibly significant findings.
By the third day Van Arden’s respect had grown and so had his impatience. He cornered Lee Mason during a brief coffee break.
“Have a heart, lady. I don’t want to make a pest of myself, but tell me if you’ve run across anything that’s different from ordinary meteorites.”
Lee studied him thoughtfully, then nodded. “We may have. It may not mean a thing because we still know so little about the field that no one can say what an ordinary meteorite is. But the Geiger counter and scintillometer show these aerolites to be more radioactive than any previously known.” She checked his outburst with a lifted hand. “It’s nowhere near the danger level. Other stonies have been only about a fourth as radioactive as common terrestrial granite, which isn’t much. In this case, the difference is very small, but there is a difference. We may learn more when they’re examined in the
lab.”
Van Arden mopped his forehead. “For Pete’s sake, hurry it up, will you? Only a handful of top brass in Washington knows what I’m looking for here, but that handful is getting jumpier by the hour.”
They hurried, but it was not until the afternoon of the fifth day that preliminary study was finished and the actual exhumation of the aerolites was begun.
It was dark by the time the digging was finished and the last stone exposed. The floods were turned on and by their light Gus Solle used the farm tractor to snake the nine great globular rocks from their pits to a wooden platform beside the laboratory building.
There was a concerted rush by the whole group to examine the stones more closely. Lee, on her knees beside the largest, frowned in bewilderment. Van Arden pushed through and knelt beside her. “So these things really are different from anything your experience led you to expect. Right?”
“Yes,” Lee said. She ran her fingertips over the dark surface. “This isn’t any normal fusion surface. It’s—it’s as if a round rock had been dipped in black pitch. Nothing like this has ever been reported before. And they’re all alike in appearance.”
“Like a protective coating,” Van Arden asked softly, “that had been artificially applied, maybe?”
Lee looked at him dazedly. “Yes. That’s exactly how they look.”
Bensil, the petrographer, crowded in between them with a geologist’s hammer. “There’s only one way to determine whether or not this is a coating. Give me room to swing and I’ll chip off a fragment. We’ll want to save the grinding and etching for daylight, anyhow.”
“Hold it,” Van Arden said sharply. “Somebody switch off the lights for a second.”
There was a click, then a gasp. In the darkness, the nine aerolites glowed with a soft, greenish radiance. A babble of excited comment burst from the group. The lights blazed on again.
“Thanks,” Van Arden said. “I thought I caught a glimpse of fluorescence when you leaned over and shaded it. I’m an administrator, not a scientist, but there’s something about these damn lumps that doesn’t look kosher to me—not kosher at all.”
Suddenly Lee Mason swayed and started to fall forward. Bensil dropped his hammer and caught her. “Lee, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
She straightened with an effort and gave him a wan smile. “I’m all right, Mark. For a moment I had the most frightening feeling that—that something would happen if we were to crack that shell. I’m all right now, though. It was just nerves, and too much excitement.”
“You know what’s the matter with you?” Bensil chuckled as he retrieved the hammer. “Guilty conscience, honey. You were so excited over these rocks that you forgot to phone Curt at the usual time tonight. Wait until I crack this shell and we may have a real story to bend his ear with.”
He swung the hammer. There was a sharp crack, and a chip of black flew off, revealing the familiar gray-brown of meteoric rock beneath.
For a moment Van Arden thought he saw a soundless flash of light from the impact. No one else seemed to have noticed it.
With deft swings, Bensil broke chips from the remaining aerolites. Lee followed, carefully putting each into a tight envelope bearing the same identifying number that had been painted onto the rock before it left its pit. They all followed her, crowding into the laboratory where the first rough preliminary chemical, microscopic and spectrographic analysis would be run.
Recovered from her momentary weakness, Lee stood holding the envelopes, smiling as she looked around the circle of tense, excited faces. “I won’t phone Curt just yet. This may be an epic night in the history of Meteoritics. We’ll start by—”
She staggered, caught hold of the corner of a laboratory bench and clung there, her face screwed into an expression of agony. The nine envelopes scattered on the floor at her feet. Van Arden swore thickly and started to push toward her. The others seemed to be rooted, too stunned to move.
Lee straightened suddenly and smiled. “It’s quite all right now. There is a brief moment of dizziness when the connection is first made, but it passes almost immediately. Control of musculature and vocal chords seems awkward but adequate. You may all choose your subjects and connect.”
“What the hell?” Van Arden roared. “What’s going on—?”
He stopped short, writhing, clawing at the back of his neck. Like a dash of ice water, something indescribably cold touched and clung there. He slapped at it but his hand found nothing.
His muscles refused to answer the command of his will. He staggered, feeling as if icicles were being driven deep into the back of his skull, into the very matter and substance of his brain. For a moment he was caught in a wave of unutterable agony. Through the waves of pain he heard the voice of Lee Mason, curiously without warmth or life, saying:
“I had been doubtful of my choice of vehicle, but it turns out to be excellent. The brain is all anyone could ask of these primitives. In addition, I learn from suppressed images that even the curious conformation of this one’s body has its unique influence over the actions of other bipeds who are not quite similarly formed. I believe I have made a most excellent choice.”
From some infinite depth of horror, Van Arden heard his own deep voice saying, “Connection complete and quite satisfactory. We can now proceed with the next step of the plan.”
CHAPTER 4
Meteor Madness
Curtis Temple glared at Culwain University’s President, Cyrus McCabe. His own fears and worries had driven him beyond the point of discretion. “Stop that idiot babbling and make sense. What do you mean, our Meteoritics Team has gone off its rocker? What’s happened to them? What have they done?”
Cyrus McCabe had been noted as the perfect picture of the politician-administrator who could both manage and finance a growing educational institution. Now, Temple thought in a flash of cynical realism, he looked like a Bowery bum. His mane of silvery hair was rumpled, his pink jowls slack and quivering, his eyes red-veined. His hand shook as he pushed a pile of papers across his desk.
“Look at these,” he croaked. “Just look at them.”
Temple snatched the sheaf, thumbed through it, and began to feel the way McCabe looked. Every one was an invoice, charged to Culwain University and signed by one or another of his team. Most were from cities in Kansas, for lumber, cement, steel, reinforcing bars, electrical equipment.
“Now, take it easy,” Temple said, trying to force himself to swallow the same advice. “Obviously, this is material needed for some emergency research. After all, NASA did agree to foot the bills, and Van Arden is there with them.”
“Research?” McCabe cried wildly. “Miles of interlocking steel-mesh fence with insulated posts? Enough heavy-duty electric cable to wire this whole campus? And look at this—”
Temple could only gape wordlessly at invoices for sawed-off shotguns, submachine guns, automatic pistols, tear gas grenades, every one signed with the unmistakable heart-wrenching signature of Lee Mason. He managed to mumble weakly, “Now, we must not jump to conclusions, sir. Obviously their investigation has led them to something unusual and valuable.”
“Oh, obviously,” McCabe cried. “A little while ago, Mrs. Eno Rocossen telephoned me. She was in tears. She had tried to cash a small check on their joint account and discovered Eno had closed out both their savings and checking accounts to the last penny. Ten minutes later Mrs. Jacobs called with the same complaint.”
“Why would they do that?” Temple mumbled blankly.
“You explain it,” McCabe shouted. “I checked and every man on your team has done the same. So has your precious Lee Mason. But that isn’t the worst of it.”
“Oh, no,” Temple said dazedly. “I’m afraid to ask what is.”
“Before they left I gave Dr. Rocossen a blank check on our operating account to cover emergencies that might arise. I had complete faith in his honesty and integrity. But what did he do? He drew out every cent of our operating funds—to the last penny. We can’t pay salarie
s, buy supplies, even meet our current bills. We’re—we’re bankrupt. He threw up his hands. “I tried to phone them and no one will talk to me.”
“They’ll talk to me,” Temple shouted, coming out of his trance. “By phone or in person, they’ll talk.”
He dialed the operator and placed a call to the number of the Solle farm, which Lee had sent him the first day. After an eternity of jingles, hums, clicks, the sharp, nasal voice of a woman answered.
“I’d like to talk to Miss Lee Mason on the Meteoritics Team, or any of the men if she isn’t immediately available.”
“Ain’t here,” the woman said.
Temple sensed that she was about to hang up and shouted. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, they’re not there? They’re camped right there in your yard. If they’re not there now, where are they? When will they be back?”
“Didn’t say,” the nasal voice snapped. There was a click and the line went dead.
Temple yelled into emptiness until a disembodied voice came on. “Your party has hung up. Were you disconnected?”
“Yes,” Temple shouted. “No—I mean, I wasn’t finished. Call that number back.”
A monotonous ringing went on and on until finally the metallic voice cut in. “Your number does not answer.” Temple slammed down the phone.
“I’m calling the police,” McCabe said heavily.
“No! Don’t do anything hasty yet. I’m going down there. I can get a plane to Wichita around ten and rent a car there. I’ll find out what this is all about and call you back.” He whirled and galloped out of the office.
While he packed he carefully figured out all the reasons for the fantastic purchases and the sudden desperate need for money on the part of the Meteoritics Team. Once it was carefully analyzed, it all fitted together quite neatly.
Van Arden had been right. Those meteorites, maintaining their precise formation, had been just what he suspected—controlled vehicles. Inside were emissaries from some far world in space, paying their first visit to Earth. Naturally, they were totally alien and no matter what their peaceful intent, they would frighten most of the population.
The Gods Hate Kansas Page 2