by Perry Rhodan
It had been more than 11 hours now since the BOB 21 had reported the appearance of the alien ship. Nike Quinto as well as Lofty Patterson had managed to sleep a few hours. In the imminence of events, Ron and Larry had not been able to rest. They had kept a vigil in the small conference room next to the small control Central while following the reports from the observation station.
By his nature Meech Hannigan didn't know such a thing as fatigue. He could only know weariness when one of his plastic-metal inner organs ceased functioning, which under normal demands might be in 5000 years. Aside from that he was the most perfect robot that anyone could wish for. That is, if you overlooked his slight speech impediment which made it difficult for him to pronounce his actual first name, which was Mitchell.
At 10:00, Nike Quinto and Lofty Patterson appeared on the scene again. Nike had tried to send Ron and Larry to their bunks but they had explained that all that would do for them was to give them nightmares. Quinto had ordered breakfast for five men and even Meech obediently consumed his portion. He had this special ability because cause only the smallest possible number of people were supposed to know he was actually a robot. However trustworthy the crew of the Joann might be, they were not included in that number.
Shortly before 18:00 in the "afternoon"—an almost meaningless term way out here in this timeless abyss, 5000 light years beyond the rim of the Milky Way—Nike Quinto hit upon the idea that the aliens might be robots. And 15 minutes after he had mentioned it to Ron the BOB 21 reported that shortly after it had fired a warning shot at the alien ship the latter's propulsion system had failed, and now a collision was imminent.
It took Ron Landry 5 seconds to comprehend exactly what had happened. He sprang to his feet with a dozen thoughts in his head all at once. But the primary thought was that they must get to the station immediately. He didn't concern himself about any order from Nike Quinto but Quinto concerned himself about him ... As the hatch door slid to one side, Ron heard the other's sharp tone of voice.
"Where are you going, Major?"
Ron turned swiftly to face him. "To the BOB 21!" he retorted tensely. "We can't leave them on their own—they have no manoeuvrability! We have to help them!"
Quinto signaled him to come back. "You will remain here, Major!" he said, and his voice rose in pitch. "That is an order!"
At that moment Ron almost hated the colonel. How could he forbid him to go to the aid of those 25 men out there 200 light years away who were facing death and unable to do anything about it? But he obeyed. His military training was deeply enough ingrained in him so that he knew disobeying a command was sheerly absurd. Quinto wasn't demanding anything immoral of him. He had only told him to stay put. He glanced at the chronometer.
Quinto noticed it and pointed to the time. "They only have about 10 SECONDS, Landry. How were you planning to get there before then?"
10 seconds, thought Ron as he clamped his jaws together. Nine... eight... seven...
• • •
It is remarkable how swiftly the subconscious mind can take over mental control in a moment of crisis. Almost instantly, Eric Furchtbar decided that he couldn't avert disaster by blasting the alien out of the ether. New trajectory calculations would take at least 20 to 30 seconds and even a direct hit would only convert the menace into a mass of wreckage which would still collide with the station. And at an impact velocity of 1500 km per second nobody would know the difference.
His fingers raced instinctively over the control keys—his only last hope. The station's navigation engines were small and almost negligible in such a situation but they were the only means of locomotion. Eric had no idea of the alien ship's true course. On the tracking screen he saw it coming at him from the right, so he fed in a nav correction that would shift the station to the left. In desperation he depressed buttons, flipped switches and turned adjustment knobs while glancing at the screen every second.
But the threatening bogie blip kept creeping toward the center of the scanner. He hadn't moved a millimeter out of its way. sweat dripped from his forehead. There was nothing more he could do now. The engines were putting out every ounce of thrust that was in them. The only thing left was hope.
Eric clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles were white. He stared at the screen as if to avert the danger by an act of will. If wishing could do it there could be nothing more to fear—because never in his life had he wished as hard as he did now in this moment of ultimate crisis.
Remotely the thought had occurred to him he might be able to send his men through hyperspace to the Joann by means of the transmitter that could connect the two vessels in an emergency but he rejected the idea as quickly as it came. Both transmitter stations were not operating at the moment and just warming up the power piles would take three times longer than the time they had left.
They were lost if the nav engines couldn't cut it. 10 seconds left!
Ed Hynes' wild shout reverberated in the large control room. "The viewscreen! There it is!"
Startled, Eric turned swiftly toward the receiver screen of the optical system. Out of the darkness emerged a dim point of light. It grew swiftly and more discernible. The alien ship!
For the first time they could see it directly before them. And for the last time!
Eric stared, spellbound, as the swift object changed from a little disc to a large ball, until in the final seconds it more than filled the screen. God!—he thought. It's coming head on!
Then came the impact.
In a blast of thunder the world seemed to dissolve. The last thing Eric was aware of was that his seat wasn't there anymore. Then something struck his skull like a piledriver and he lost consciousness.
• • •
Ron Landry pressed his hands to his face just before the second-counter on the chronometer reached the 10th second. He tried to think of the men on the BOB 21 but in spite of himself he envisioned the dimly lighted disc-shape of the observation station, the plunging sphere of the alien ship—had he mentally witnessed the moment when they crashed together and were obliterated in a blinding explosion.
Silence reigned in the small conference room. No one seemed to be breathing. Almost unconsciously, Ron counted the seconds after the catastrophe. One... two... three... four...
Somewhere to his left he heard a sudden scraping noise as a chair was shoved back. Ron knew it as Quinto. At first he heard him gasp aloud; then he heard him shout.
"They survived it! The instruments are still responding!"
That brought Ron back to himself. His widened eyes stared at the visiscreen of the hyper-telecom which had been maintaining contact between the Joann and the BOB 21. Although there was no picture just now, the raster showed the repeated sawtooth flash of the interval signal. There would be no such signal if the transmitter at the other end had ceased to exist.
That was it! At least the station's hyper-telecom was working, and since it was a complex and sensitive piece of equipment there must be other things that had also survived the collision with the alien ship.
Nike Quinto took the telecom mike and shouted into it. "BOB 21, come in! BOB 21, please answer! This is the Joann calling!"
He didn't take his eyes from the telecom screen. The sawtooth pattern was still there. At the other end there was no one to answer the call. Although the hyperbeam connection existed the BOB 21's receiver wasn't on.
"Probably they have a big mess on their hands just now." Quinto suggested. "The regular posts may not be manned."
Ron doubted it, and he knew that Nike himself didn't believe it. They both knew Eric Furchtbar. On board any vessel commanded by Eric the important stations would be manned—no matter how great the commotion.
Quinto continued his calls but after another 15 minutes without an answer he knew there could only be one other explanation. The hyper-telecom of the BOB 21 was still operatable but there didn't seem to be an able-bodied man left in the crew.
• • •
It must have been the sense
of responsibility anchored in his blood and bones that caused Eric Furchtbar to be the first one to open his eyes.
At first he didn't know where he was. Before his eyes was the blurred image of a room that seemed
terribly strange. He felt sick. He moved cautiously and strained to clear his vision. In some surprise he finally recognized the main control room of the BOB 21, and in that moment he remembered what had happened.
The alien ship! He had seen it rushing directly at the station. Where was it?
He pulled himself together with an effort. Fortunately, when he got to his feet it was next to a high console cabinet, because suddenly he needed a support. He had never felt so awful in his life. Maybe a brain concussion, he thought dully. It didn't matter to him. He'd stay in bed a few days when there was time for it. First he had to find out the status of his station.
He took in his surroundings again. On the other side of the room, two dark forms were stretched out flat on the desk. Lt. Hynes and the duty corporal. Eric dragged his feet over to them. For the moment he couldn't do anything but make sure they were still breathing. That was the most important. Partially reassured, he turned and went back to his chair.
The hyper-tracking system was still working. With benumbed hands he turned several dials to sharpen the focus, and it was more luck than skill that helped him. Within a minute he had the alien ship on the screen again. It was receding from the BOB 21 but at the moment Eric felt too miserable to even be elated. However, he tried to judge the stranger's present course by its movement on the screen. After some time he had an idea of it although it wasn't too accurate. It was quite evident that the unknown ship had picked up a sharply angular course after passing the position of the BOB 21.
In Eric's brain thoughts and pain danced in confusion but he gradually began to comprehend. The nav engines of the station hadn't moved it completely out of the path of the alien but they had prevented a head-on collision. The other ship had sideswiped their defense screen and the alien vessel and the station had both been more or less "bounced" away from each other. The screen had transferred the mechanical shock into the interior of the station, which had caused the shakeup. Eric breathed a sigh of relief. It could all have been much worse. He glanced at the panel clock. It was 14:35 ship time. He had been lying unconscious a good hour. He thought of the Joann . Quinto must have been going out of his mind wondering what their status was and even if they were alive.
He turned to the intercom and called through to each station on board, one after the other. Although the equipment was in order there was no reply from anybody. This filled him with new concern. The glancing collision had been violent enough to kill someone if they had been caught of balance somewhere at the precise moment of impact. He would have to find out but above all he had to get Doc Johannesson back on his feet so that he could look after the wounded. Because more or less everyone on board would have been wounded to some degree.
He made his way along the wall to the hatch door. He kept thinking of Johannesson and the need for getting him going. What came after that he didn't care. He didn't even feel responsible just now for advising the Joann . The danger was past. He was sure that he himself had actually averted a total disaster. Quinto would have to take that into consideration.
When the bulkhead door slid to one side he stepped out into the corridor. The interior of the station was alarmingly quiet. Nevertheless he sensed that somewhere close by someone was moving.
• • •
In the Com Room, Art Cavanaugh was just opening his eyes when Eric Furchtbar found him. Here the impact of the glancing collision had been stronger than in the main control room. Shattered glassite was lying around on the floor and some of the meters had been knocked about. But in a glance Eric could tell that the most important instruments and equipment were still in operating condition. Ken Lodge and Warren Lee were lying unconscious in front of the space telecom console. An open wound on Ken's forehead had bled profusely.
Warren didn't seem to have any visible injuries. He was breathing and that was the main thing. Art Cavanaugh was lying just about in the middle of the room. Eric figured he must have been thrown against the wall, knocked unconscious, and then fallen forward due to the impact. When Art came to, he oriented himself quite rapidly. He recognized Eric and raised his head but the sudden movement appeared to unsteady him. For a few seconds he closed his eyes and grimaced in pain. "Take it easy, lad," Eric admonished. "Give yourself time. We're not under pressure anymore."
Art got to his knees. "Thank you, sir—I'll be able to make it." He finally stood up and although he swayed slightly he could maintain his balance without assistance.
"How do you feel?" asked Eric. Art managed a weak smile.
"Lousy, sir, to be honest with you. What happened?"
Eric explained briefly. He only said that the nav engines had saved the day. He didn't mention who had managed to bring the jets to full power in two minutes, in addition to choosing the right direction. "Right now there are two things we have to take care of," he decided. "First we have to find the doctor so he can look after the men, and secondly we have to advise the Joann. You get in touch with the Joann and I'll go look for Johannesson."
"Will do, sir," said Art, and he turned to the hyper-telecom. Eric went toward the hatch door but before he was close enough for it to open automatically for him he heard Art call after him. "What did you say. sir?"
Eric turned in some surprise. "I said—we have two things to take care of now. First, to go and find Johannesson—second, to get in touch with—"
"Pardon me, sir," Art interrupted him against all regulations. "I didn't mean that. Didn't you just say something else?"
Eric shook his head in puzzlement. "No... not a word."
Art seemed to be at a loss to explain it. "I—I'm sorry, sir." He grinned in embarrassment and motioned toward his head. "Maybe I haven't got all my marbles in order."
Eric smiled back. "That's alright, sergeant. We're all pretty shaken up." He finally went through the hatchway.
When he stepped into the corridor he could have sworn that somebody touched his shoulder. He stopped and looked around him. There was nobody there. The passage was empty. He shook his head and continued onward, remembering what Cavanaugh had just said. In some wonderment he realized that his own "marbles" might not be in any better order than the sergeant's.
Unfortunately the collision had been especially rough on Dr. Johannesson. Since men on board the BOB stations were trained to do double duty, Johannesson's other assignment was to perform gunnery service. When Eric found him in gun position one, his face was so scratched and bloody that Eric hardly recognized him except for his service insignia.
He tried to bring him to but before he succeeded half of the other men had recovered on their own. Johannesson took a long while to even regain comprehension of what had actually happened. When he finally collected himself he voluntarily went to work although his own pains must have been worse than those of most of the other men. The impact jolt had thrown him against the ray cannon's breech-lock cap and the radiation meter sticking out of it had left its imprint in his face.
When Johannesson looked at himself in a mirror he calmly remarked: "That'll take plastic surgery later. There'll be some hefty scars from that one!" Then he reached for his instrument case and went to work again.
He was able to report that no one on board had suffered severe injuries, other than a compound leg fracture—but that was the worst case discovered. The crewmen could consider themselves lucky that they had a commander who had acted so quickly and accurately in their highest moment of crisis.
Meanwhile the Joann had been contacted. Art Cavanaugh reported that he had even heard Nike Quinto sigh with relief. Eric couldn't believe that Quinto was capable of such a human reaction but Ken Lodge and Warren Lee had since gotten back on their feet and they were witnesses to it.
"That can only mean two things," said Eric, still unmoved. "Either we've been reading h
im wrong all this time or the strain of suspense made him lose his mind."
Eric himself didn't feel as miserable now as he had felt during the first few minutes. When he returned to the main control room he came across Johannesson again, who was putting Lt. Hynes' arm in splints. Ed Hynes was sitting up in a chair and when he saw Eric he smiled in greeting.
"I guess at that last moment I lost control of my nerves," he said apologetically. "I hope you'll overlook it, sir."
Eric nodded good-naturedly. "It's forgotten already, Ed. We were all a little off our balance. You feel any pain?"
Hynes laughed cheerfully. "Nary a trace. Doc stuck hall a dozen hypos into me and one of them must have been 'spiked' because just now I feel like I'm on my 5th snifter."
Eric chuckled and went to his chair. As he did so, Hynes watched him, thinking of his German name, "Furchtbar," which meant terrible or formidable. He felt that the old boy wasn't all that formidable, after all.
Eric adjusted the hyper-scanner focus again. At the moment he was left to himself. On doctor's orders most of the men were in the process of resting up and tending to their wounds. The main observation posts were only covered by limited emergency crews. Eric had hesitated to give his permission for this but since at present there didn't seem to be the slightest hint of danger he had finally agreed. He fooled
with the adjustment knobs long enough to finally pick up the waning blip of the alien ship again.
At first he was startled when he saw the green light point wavering and jerking about on the screen but in a sense it came to him as a relief to realize now that the alien ship out there was definitely no longer a menace. It had evidently gotten completely out of control only the end velocity it had had when he gave it a warning shot was still giving it a favorable vector of motion—namely, away from the BOB 21. But the semi-collision had obviously slowed it down some or it would have been much farther away by now.