The Red Planet

by Charles Chilton

  He called Number Four and then switched over to ‘receive’. The speaker immediately produced a loud mushing noise which almost completely drowned Number Four’s reply.

  “You see what I mean?” said Lemmy. “How can I keep in contact with that row going on?”

  “Any idea what’s causing it?” asked Jet.

  “Yes--that meteor swarm or whatever it is. It must be chock full of static and the closer we get to it the worse it’s going to be.”

  Jet was thoughtful for a few moments. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it,” he said at last. “We can’t turn back now, that’s certain. We’re so close to that thing we haven’t the time. We can only hope that communication will be re-established once we’ve passed through. Meanwhile I’d better give the ships their orders while they can still hear me. Call them up, Lemmy. I’ll talk to each of them in turn.”

  In spite of the static and constant requests for repeats of what he had said, Jet managed to convey his orders to the Fleet. They were told that suits would be worn from now on so that, in the unlikely event of a ship being holed by a meteor, its crew would be safe until they could be transferred to another freighter. He added that if the Discovery were put out of action, command would be taken by Frank Rogers in Number Two.

  When he had finished talking to Number Eight, Jet turned to us and said: “Well, gentlemen, we’d better put on our suits. Then stay at your posts until further orders--and good luck.”

  Lemmy looked at Mitch and me, spread his hands in front of him and observed: “A nice cheerful prospect, isn’t it?”

  The ships were now sending in their radar reports every ten minutes or so. From the amount of static that arrived with them we knew that the meteor swarm was very close indeed; Jet estimated that it could not be more than twenty-five thousand miles away.

  Our own radar screen was now virtually useless. The televiewer was no better; the picture distorted, shimmering and covered with lines. Trying to make out anything on it was like looking through a blinding snowstorm. Nevertheless, Mitch stayed by it the whole time, hoping that it might clear and reward him with a glimpse of the Fleet still in good coasting order. It was estimated that the thick of the swarm was now less than forty-five minutes away. From my post at the radar I could hear Lemmy vainly calling Freighter Number Six.

  Finally, Jet went over to him. “Having more trouble, Lemmy?” he asked.

  “Yes, Jet. Number Six is five minutes late with his report. Ten times I’ve tried to raise him but I get no reply. Apart from that, everything in the garden’s lovely.”

  “Any of the other ships reply?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t called them for some time.”

  “Then do it now.”

  “Yes, Jet.” And Lemmy bent to the task of calling the ships in one by one.

  For a while nothing happened and then, very faintly through the mush, we heard a voice say: “Hullo, Flagship --hullo.”

  Lemmy put his ear to the speaker, trying to detect who it was.

  “Hullo, Flagship--hullo. Number Six calling Discovery. Need to hear from you urgently.”

  Now it was clear that the voice was that of Peterson, fading, surging and distorting. Lemmy replied to him but apparently Number Six didn’t hear because Peterson’s next call was: “Emergency! Come in, please!”

  Lemmy looked a little startled. “Emergency?” he repeated.

  Jet immediately took over the radio control. “Hullo, Number Six--Morgan here. Go ahead with your message. We can hear you.”

  But no message came. Only a great surge of static, louder than before.

  Again Jet called and then a third time. “It’s no good, mate,” said Lemmy. “With all that row going on, how can you expect to hear anything?”

  But, to everyone’s surprise, Number Six’s voice suddenly came through, quite loud and almost perfectly clear. “Hullo, Flagship, hullo. For heaven’s sake, answer me, do you hear? Answer me!” The last two words were shouted.

  “Blimey!” exclaimed Lemmy. “What’s happening to him?”

  Jet ignored the question and called the freighter again. “Hullo, Number Six. We can hear you. What’s the trouble? Over.”

  More static, but no further word from Peterson.

  “There” said Lemmy, “he’s gone again. He seemed pretty upset, too, didn’t he?”

  Jet tried once more. “Hullo, Number Six--Flagship calling. Come in please and send your message.”

  This time there was a reply. Very faint, very distorted, audible and recognisable. Only now it wasn’t Peterson’s voice. It was Whitaker’s.

  “Hullo, Whitaker,” said Jet. “What’s the trouble over here?”

  “Hullo, Captain Morgan,” said Whitaker, slowly and deliberately, “there is no trouble. Everything is normal.”

  “What do you mean, everything is normal? What was Peterson panicking about?”

  “And you’re ten minutes late with your radar report,” put in Lemmy, glad to get a dig at the man he disliked so much.

  “I have the radar report all ready,” said Whitaker flatly. “Are you prepared to take it?”

  “No, not yet I’m not,” said Jet. “I want to speak to Peterson. Put him on.”

  There was quite a long pause before Whitaker spoke again. “Radar report number nine,” he said. “Signals powerful and indicate object now less than twenty thousand miles distant.”

  “He’s reading it just the same,” said Lemmy. “He didn’t hear you.”

  Jet shouted this time. “I don’t want that report for the moment, do you hear? I want to speak to Peterson. Now put him on. At once.”

  If Whitaker had heard Jet he gave no indication of the fact. He carried on reading the report as though he had not been interrupted for, when Jet ceased speaking, we heard him say: “End of message. Will keep listening watch and call again in ten minutes as per routine.”

  “He couldn’t have heard you,” suggested Lemmy. “Otherwise he would--”

  “I’m not so sure he didn’t hear me,” said Jet. “Hullo, Whitaker. I want to talk to Peterson immediately.”

  Whitaker’s voice came back coldly. “He cannot talk to you. He is asleep.”

  “That’s exactly what he said about Rogers, Jet, remember?” said Lemmy.

  “Asleep?” asked Jet. “At a time like this?”

  “I cannot wake him,” said Whitaker. “He must remain asleep. Orders must be obeyed without question at times.”

  “Orders? What orders?” Jet demanded angrily. “I’ve given no orders about sleeping. Wake him up, do you hear?”

  We waited for a reply, but none came.

  “There’s something fishy going on over there, Jet,” said Lemmy. “Wherever that geyser is there’s trouble.”

  “Even if he was answering,” said the Captain, “we’d never hear him with all that row going on.”

  Any further attempt Jet might have made to get in touch with Whitaker was prevented by a cry from Mitch who asked him to go over to the televiewer immediately. Jet went over to the motor engineer and left it to Lemmy to try and re-establish contact with No 6.

  Mitch wanted to report that the televiewer was hopeless. It was absolutely impossible to see anything on it. “That meteor swarm or ionised gas,” said Mitch, “is now close enough to blanket out all our electronic equipment. I don’t see that there’s any point in trying to use it anymore.”

  “Yes,” said Jet wearily, “I think you’re right. It can only get worse now. It will be impossible when we get into the heart of that cloud.” He then addressed us all generally and said: “We’d better put our helmets on and keep them on until we’ve passed through that object.”

  A few minutes later we were enclosed in our space suits and our helmets fastened. Jet at once called for a radio check on the personal sets but static was as bad as on the main receiver; and reception hopeless.

  The only way we could communicate was by placing our helmets together. We could then, by means of the vibration of the air
within them, hear each other loudly enough to make ourselves understood. We must have looked rather odd, standing there in the middle of the cabin with our heads touching, but it was the only way we could receive Jet’s orders.

  “Now listen carefully,” he said. “For safety’s sake, we’ll have to keep our helmets on until we’ve passed through the swarm. Meanwhile, Doc and Mitch, you will go back to the adar and televiewer and keep watch, and, Lemmy, you will keep calling the Fleet every ten minutes. Is that clear?”

  We told him, in turn, that it was.

  “Then get back to your posts, all of you.”

  Chapter Six

  We must have entered the swarm half an hour later. By that time most electronic equipment had gone completely haywire. Very soon it wasn’t only the radio and television circuits that were affected. The oxygen, fuel tank, air conditioning, humidity, air pressure, speed and navigational indicators were all jumping about wildly. They went on that way for nearly seven hours.

  Of course, during this period, we could not contact Freighter Number Six any more than we could contact any other ship, and we were still no nearer finding the reason for Peterson’s panicky call nor for the almost rebellious tone of Whitaker’s replies to Jet. In fact, cut off completely as we were from all things outside the ship, we could not even be sure that the rest of the Fleet was still with us.

  Not only were we, in Discovery, a little world apart but each man was himself enclosed in his own small world, confined within the narrow limits of his tightly-fitting space suit. And then, quite suddenly, while I was sitting at the radar, gazing at the blank screen, I heard the static noise gradually returning in my ear-piece.

  Minutes later it was quite loud, and very faintly through the sound I could hear Lemmy’s voice calling the Fleet. I saw Jet sit up suddenly at the control table and heard him call: “Lemmy!” Lemmy wheeled round and looked at Jet.

  “Lemmy,” said Jet again, “I can hear you calling. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Jet, I can,” came the operator’s voice, very faintly.

  “Can you hear him, Mitch--and you, Doc? “

  We could.

  “Then we must have made it,” said Jet. “We must have passed through the swarm.”

  “Don’t speak too soon,” said Mitch. “There’s the rest of the Fleet to consider.”

  “Yes,” said Jet, “and, Lemmy, now that the personal radios are working, there’s a good chance of your b able to contact them. Have a try, will you?”

  “That’s exactly what I was doing when you heard me calling just now.”

  “Then keep at it. Can you call them without our hearing you? It will be chaotic if we’re all talking at once.”

  “I’ve already thought of that, mate,” said Lemmy. “I’ll feed my personal radio straight into the ship’s transmitter then you won’t hear a thing.”

  “Good,” said Jet. “Now, Mitch, how about the televiewer?”

  “Well, she’s not showing any picture yet, but she’s alive all right. I’ve got the snow storm back.”

  “Well, as soon as you can get a picture, check up on the Fleet.”

  “Too right I will,” said the engineer.

  I asked Jet whether he thought it would now be safe to remove our helmets, but he would not allow us to do so until everything in the ship was in good working order again.

  It was a considerable time before Lemmy made contact with Number One. The static was nothing like as strong now and the freighter came through quite clearly. Apparently everything in the ship was nearly back to normal although, of course, for some hours all their electronic equipment had been dead. Unfortunately, their radar and televiewer screen were, as yet, no better than ours.

  Shortly afterwards, however, our radar screen started coming back to normal. The flashes and wavy lines began to disappear. A shout from Mitch told us that the televiewer was also beginning to behave itself. He was already able to make out, albeit vaguely, the shapes of the ships that formed the Fleet.

  “Well,” said the Australian cheerfully, “that proves it. That thing is behind us. And we passed through it without a scratch.”

  “Yes,” said Jet, rather thoughtfully.

  “Do you think it was meteors?” asked Mitch.

  “I wouldn’t like to say for sure,” said Jet, “but I doubt it.”

  “So do I.” agreed Mitch. “No ordinary meteor swarm could have upset the equipment like that and the chances are that at least one of the ships would have been struck.”

  By now Lemmy had made contact with all freighters except Number Six, crews reporting that they were safe and that almost all their equipment was back to full working order. Lemmy reported the matter to Jet and added that none of the other ships could raise Number Six either.

  “Is your picture clear yet, Mitch?” asked Jet, turning to the engineer.

  “Coming up gradually. Clearing slowly.”

  “Well, let me know as soon as it is. Meanwhile you’d all better take your helmets off. I think it’s safe now.” To obey was a pleasure for, having been enclosed in our helmets for so long, things had begun to get very uncomfortable.

  The first normal voice I heard after emerging from my ‘fish-bowl’ was that of Mitch, who gave an excited cry and said: “There! The Fleet’s still in perfect formation. We must have stuck together the whole time. In fact, going through that swarm seems to have had no ill effects on us at all. It. . .” he broke off suddenly. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said, his voice rising in alarm.

  “What’s up? “ asked Jet.

  “Where’s Number Six?”

  “What?”

  Jet and I hurried over to the viewing screen. “It’s not there,” said Mitch as we approached.

  We both stared at the screen. “Good grief,” said Jet at last, “It’s gone.”

  Every ship was told to search the area all round us with their radar and televiewer apparatus and we settled down to do the same. For what seemed eternity I glued my eyes to the tiny radar screen, straining to see the slightest trace of a signal.

  And then, finally, Mitch said: “It’s no good, Jet; there’s no sign of her--either in front of us, either side of us, up or down.”

  “She must be lagging behind,” said Jet, more, I thought, in hope than with any real conviction. “Too far behind for the televiewer to pick up.”

  “Then I’d still be able to contact her by radio,” Lemmy pointed out. “But I’ve been calling her for two hours now.”

  “You don’t think the disappearance of Number Six has anything to do with Whitaker being aboard her, do you, Jet?” I asked.

  “It has been at the back of my mind,” he replied.

  “There would be nothing to stop his turning on the motor, leaving the formation behind and going on ahead,” suggested Mitch, “if he wanted to.”

  “But why should he want to?” I asked. “Where could he go?”

  “Lemmy, call up Control,” ordered Jet.

  The radio operator left us and moved over to the table. But in less than a minute he was back and saying: “There’s no point in my trying to call Control, mate. It’s a complete waste of time.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Jet. “The radio’s working, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get back to it at once and get Control.”

  “I’m sorry, Jet,” said Lemmy, “but I’m afraid you’re still talking through your helmet. That ionised gas or whatever it was we came through completely ruined any kind of ship-to-ship communication, didn’t it?”

  “That’s not exactly news.”

  “Well, that gas now lies between us and Earth,” went on Lemmy, “and if no radio wave can penetrate it, then Earth cannot receive us nor can we receive them.”

  “Of course we can’t,” said Mitch bitterly. “That cloud cuts us off from home completely. At least until the Earth has moved sufficiently in her orbit to be clear of it.”

  “And how long will that take?” I asked.


  “At a rough guess,” replied Mitch, “I’d say two months.”

  There was a pause. Finally the silence was broken by Jet. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, looking at each of us in turn, “this loss of contact with Base, while serious enough, need not be fatal. They won’t give up trying to contact us for weeks--months, in fact--and we shall be talking to them again long before we reach Mars. Meanwhile we’ll have to keep going. We’ll have a lot more work to do, of course, now we’re on our own, particularly in the navigational field--so we’d better get started. Lemmy, call up the Fleet. Have them take bearings on the sun, the Earth and Mars and report their findings as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, mate,” said Lemmy.

  “Meanwhile, Mitch, you and I had better get to work on the navigational tables. As soon as we’ve worked out our position and velocity we can eat.”

  “Then don’t take too long,” said Lemmy. “I’m famished.”

  When Jet and Mitch had completed their calculations they were able to say that our course was near enough correct and we could expect to arrive above the surface of the Red Planet at the appointed time, always supposing, of course, that no other mishap delayed us. We sat down to our meal that night in better spirits than our situation warranted.

  The next few days were uneventful.

  By now the sun was only four-fifths of the size it appeared from Earth but, because of the clear viewing conditions out in space, was a far more beautiful object; a great gleaming, blue-white disc which hung in the sky surrounded by a fiery corona. As for the Earth, it now appeared bluish in colour with reddish-green patches which were the land masses. The whole was covered with irregular white cloud formations and at both poles we could see the incredibly bright ice caps. To the naked eye, the Earth-Moon system looked like a huge double star which expanded and shrank as the satellite encircled its parent planet.

  But the most interesting and remarkable object in the whole heavens was Mars. As we observed it through the small navigational telescope, it already appeared much larger than we had ever before seen it. Deep pink in colour, the darker portions of its surface showed up sharply in olive green. Even at this distance we could detect a few cloud masses floating in its atmosphere and the dark, thin lines of the canali were certainly no optical illusion.