The Red Planet

by Charles Chilton

  And so we coasted on for another month. We had now covered nearly one hundred and nineteen million miles since taking off from the Moon.

  No contact with Earth had yet been made, nor could we hope to establish it for at least another two weeks. We had resigned ourselves to wait patiently when suddenly, one day, from the loudspeaker above the control panel came the familiar voice of home saying: “Hullo, Space Fleet-- Control calling.”

  Lemmy, who had been lying on his bunk trying to sleep, pushed off from the wall and went floating over towards the radio. He had hardly begun to drift when the voice came through again. “Control calling Flagship Discovery. Trying to contact you. Come in, please.”

  If Lemmy was quick off the mark, Jet was even quicker and he got to the table before the radio operator. Once there he lost no time and shouted into the microphone: “Hullo, Control--Morgan calling. Hearing you loud and clear. Repeat, loud and clear. Over.”

  Mitch, his face lit up with smiles, was the last to reach the radio. “Well,” he said excitedly, “there’s a turn-up for the book. I didn’t expect to hear that beautiful Australian accent for another two weeks at least.”

  “Beautiful, he calls it,” said Lemmy with a laugh.

  But before Mitch could reply, Control came through again. “Hullo, Discovery--Control calling. Have urgent message for you. When can you take it?”

  “Any time you like,” said Jet. “Switch on the recorder, Lemmy.” “Recorder on,” said the operator.

  There was a five-second pause, and then we heard: “Control to Discovery. Message will be transmitted in one minute. Stand by, please.”

  “Standing by,” said Jet.

  The smile disappeared suddenly from Lemmy’s face. “Here, wait a minute,” he said.

  “Huh?” said Jet, turning to Lemmy, surprised at the tone in his friend’s voice.

  “He answered you pretty smart, didn’t he?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Jet.

  “The last time we had a message from Earth was a month ago. The time-lag between calls then was ten seconds?”

  “So?” asked Mitch, imitating one of Lemmy’s pet gestures.

  “So by now the lag should be at least twenty seconds-- but that answer came back in five.”

  “I didn’t even bother to notice,” said Jet. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. The times I’ve spoken to Earth I reckon I should notice a thing like that, shouldn’t I?”

  “Well, we’ll soon see,” said Mitch. “Get them to call you again, Jet.”

  But before Jet could do so, Control were themselves talking to us. “Hullo, Flagship,” said the familiar voice of the Australian operator, “are you ready to take the message?”

  “Sorry, Control,” said Jet, “I didn’t hear you. Will you repeat that?”

  The moment Jet ceased to speak, all eyes went up to the clock above the table to watch the second hand as it jerked round the dial.

  “Control to Flagship,” came the voice. “Repeat, are you ready to take the message?”

  “Lemmy’s right,” said Mitch. “It was five seconds.”

  “Sorry, Control,” said Jet, “cannot take message at this moment. Will call you again in a few minutes.” He switched off the radio, turned to us and said: “What on earth is going on?”

  “The Fleet must have turned itself round while we were in that gas cloud. We’re going back home,” suggested Lemmy.

  “We’re heading for Mars,” said Mitch firmly. “Correct course, correct position, just as we should be.”

  “Then,” said Lemmy firmly, “that can’t be Control.”

  “Then who is it?” I asked.

  “Search me,” said the Cockney. “I’m no clairvoyant-- just a radio operator.”

  “It must be Control,” said Mitch decisively. “The short delay must be due to some freakish way the wave travels or something.”

  “Use your loaf, Mitch,” said Lemmy. “How could that be? Lots of things can block a radio wave but nothing can change its speed, not so’s you’d notice, anyway.”

  “Call them up, Jet. Let’s take the message at least,” I suggested.

  “Very well, Doc. We can argue about it afterwards. Switch her on, Lemmy.”

  “Transmitter on,” said Lemmy.

  “Hullo, Control,” said Jet. “Morgan calling. Now ready to receive your message. Go ahead, please.”

  Automatically we all looked at the clock again. Exactly five seconds had passed before we heard the words: “Control to Flagship. Here is your message. Urgent. Control to Flagship Discovery. By order of the Supreme Council, Flagship Discovery and accompanying freighters are to abandon all attempts to reach Mars and return to Moon base immediately. Repeat, return to Moon base immediately. End of message.”

  “Eh?” was all that Lemmy could say.

  “Turn back?” asked Mitch incredulously.

  “Hullo--hullo, Control,” said Jet. “Morgan speaking. Are you crazy? We’re nearly half way there. What are the reasons for turning back?”

  “There can’t possibly be any,” I said.

  The voice of Control gave none either--all it said was “Emergency operation, Plan B, to be put into effect immediately.”

  “Plan B!” exclaimed Jet angrily. “That means a complete turnaround. Return to Base immediately, regardless of what we think our chances are. Plan A would give us some choice in. the matter; if I thought it safe to go on, I’d go. But if Control orders Plan B I have no choice. Even if we were about to touch down on Mars we’d have to turn back.”

  “But they can’t expect us to abandon the whole project without giving some valid reason,” protested Mitch.

  “You know the golden rule on this trip. Carry out orders first, ask questions afterwards.”

  “In an emergency, yes,” replied the engineer indignantly; “but what emergency is there?”

  “This is where I intend to break the golden rule,” said Jet, “and ask them.” He turned back to the microphone. “Hullo, Control--Morgan calling. Have received your message but am at a loss to understand it. Expedition is going well. Can you give me your reasons for ordering Plan B?”

  “If the Controller gave that order,” said Lemmy, “He’ll be hopping mad at your questioning it.”

  “No madder than I am at his giving it,” said Jet.

  The voice of Control came back almost at once, loud and clear. “Your message received. Emergency Operation Plan B to be carried out at once.”

  “There,” said Lemmy, “what did I tell you?”

  “Orders must be obeyed without question at all times,” continued Control blandly.

  “Yes,” protested Jet, “but . . . hey, wait a minute. What did he say?” he asked, looking round at the three of us.

  “Orders must be obeyed without question at all times,” I repeated.

  “Control never used that expression before,” said Jet. “But it’s not the first time we’ve heard it,” Lemmy reminded us.

  “Whitaker!” I said.

  “Yes,” said Jet, “Whitaker.”

  “But that’s the voice of Control,” said Mitch. “I’d know it anywhere.”

  “It certainly sounded like Control,” I said.

  “Lemmy,” said Jet, “turn back the tape.”

  “How far?” asked Lemmy.

  “To the part where Control first called us.”

  “Right.”

  “What do you intend to do?” I asked, as Lemmy wound the tape back.

  “Listen to it all again,” replied the Captain.

  And listen to it we did. To every word, from the time when Jet first replied to Control’s calls until the statement about orders being carried out without question. When the playback had finished, Mitch said: “Control. No doubt about it. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “It sounds like them, all right,” admitted Lemmy, “but it still doesn’t explain why the time-lag between replies is so short--or why we hear them so loud and clear.”

  We p
layed the tape again and listened to it in silence. But this time Mitch suddenly gave a start as the recorded voice said: “By order of the Supreme Council, Flagship Discovery and accompanying freighters are to abandon all attempts to reach Mars and return to Moon Base immediately.”

  “That’s not the same voice,” the Australian said excitedly. “Almost, but not quite. Before the actual message, a new voice took over.”

  We played the tape a third time.

  “It is a different voice,” said Jet. “In the shock of being told to turn back we just didn’t notice it. Lemmy, could you get a bearing on that signal?”

  “Yes, if you keep him talking long enough I could.”

  “All right, get ready to do it. I’ll call him up.”

  Lemmy sat at the controls and switched in the directional aerial. Five minutes later, Jet said: “Well, what’s the bearing?”

  “One degree to starboard,” announced the radio operator. “Azimuth reading. Altitude nil, depth nil. That means he’s almost right slap in front of us, whoever he is.”

  Jet switched off the transmitter and turned to face us. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I think that about settles that. It’s not Control. It’s someone using the voice of Control in the hope of fooling us into turning back.”

  “But who?” asked Mitch.

  “Whitaker, of course,” said Lemmy. “Who else?”

  “Then he must have got ahead of us,” I said.

  “But what could he gain from that?” asked Jet.

  “He’s got one of our ships, hasn’t he?” said Lemmy.

  “But he can’t go anywhere in it. Even if he went on to Mars he couldn’t land her--she’s not built for it.”

  “And if he just keeps going,” said Mitch, “he’ll eventually cover a full orbit and in a couple of years he’ll be back where we all started from--on the Moon.”

  “And we’ll be there waiting for him,” concluded Jet. “There’d be no point in that, either.”

  “He must be raving mad,” said Lemmy decisively.

  “No, there must be some other reason behind it,” said Jet, “something much deeper and stranger than we can comprehend. Something to do with his being born in 1893, maybe.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Mitch.

  “I’m beginning to believe almost anything so far as Whitaker is concerned,” replied Jet. “The way he behaved the whole time he was with the expedition and the uncanny effect he had on the crew members of the ships he was in-- all of it must add up to something.”

  “What?” I asked him.

  “I wish I knew, Doc. If I did we might have some idea of what to expect next. Lemmy,” he said suddenly, “get me Frank Rogers of Number Two on the ship-to-ship system.”

  “Rogers, Jet?” I asked. “What for?”

  “He spent more time with Whitaker than anybody. Maybe he can throw some light on this business.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Rogers came through the airlock that led into the cabin of the Discovery, he seemed very pleased at being asked over, which was understandable as, like nearly all the freighter crews, he had not left his tiny little cabin since takeoff from the Moon.

  However, apart from complaining yet again of Whitaker’s strange manner and his persistent, almost sullen silence, Frank could tell us very little, although he did say that the construction engineer had seemed to take a quite remarkable interest in anything that came through on the radio, and added: “He was always asking if he could take my radio watch.” “Did you let him?”

  “No, of course not; it’s against regulations, except in an emergency. Besides, I thought it rather an odd request from a fellow who was always telling me that ‘orders must be obeyed without question at all times’.”

  “Seems to be his favourite phrase,” said Jet to the rest of us. “But when he did get to the radio,” he asked Frank, “was there anything odd about the way he carried on?”

  “Well, I remember one occasion--I came out of the cargo hatch after a routine check and found him tuned into Control and listening to the messages being passed between this ship and base.”

  “Oh? Had he been ordered to listen in on Control’s frequency?”

  “No. He was supposed to be on the ship-to-ship wavelength. And the other odd thing about it was that he’d recorded everything Control had said.”

  “Only Control’s transmissions, not ours?”

  “That’s right, Jet.”

  “You tackled him about it, of course?”

  “Yes, but he said you’d called him up and asked him to keep check watch on Control as reception wasn’t too good and you didn’t want to risk not hearing anything vital.”

  “Well, it is possible,” said Jet, “but we’ll check up. Can you let me have the actual date?”

  “When I get back to my ship I can.”

  “Good. Then that’s all, Rogers--and thank you very much. What you’ve just told me may well prove very useful.”

  Half an hour after he got back to his own ship, Frank came through and gave Jet the date he had requested. At once I checked back in the log and I must admit that what I found there was no surprise to me. I told Jet and a few moments later heard him say: “Hullo, Frank--can you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve looked up the log. Number Four was on check watch.”

  “I thought that might be the case, sir,” came back Frank’s voice; “and I took the matter a little farther.”

  “Oh. How?”

  “I checked back on the recorder to that date, too.”

  “Well?”

  “The recordings of Control’s messages during that transmission are missing.”

  “You mean that Whitaker didn’t record them after all?”

  “Oh yes, he did, sir, but the tape has been cut and that particular section removed.”

  “Has it? Well, that proves a lot. Nice work, Frank--and thanks.”

  “Thank you, sir.” There was a click as Rogers disconnected his transmitter.

  It was quite clear now what had happened. We had, indeed, heard Control--but not from Earth. What we had heard was the recorded voice of Control relayed to us by Whitaker from Freighter No 6. He had recorded Control’s voice while he was in Number Two and carried the tapes on him. Had Jet not transferred him to Number Six, it would no doubt be Freighter Number Two which was missing now.

  Had he known all along that the ionised gas lay ahead of us and that when we passed through it communication between the Fleet would be impossible, thus affording him the chance to abscond with No 6? Or had he merely taken an opportunist’s chance to make off with her? And, either way, who was Whitaker and what was he up to? Why was there so much mystery about his identity and why did he wish to prevent the Fleet reaching Mars which, we could only conclude, was his intention?

  We talked it over for a couple of hours but came no nearer reaching a solution. Every ship was put on a rota to keep watch on Control’s frequency---to report to the Discovery the moment anything was heard, whether the call was thought to be a spurious one from the missing Number Six or a genuine one from Control itself. But, in spite of the constant watches, no contact was made with anybody outside the Fleet.

  Another two weeks went by, two uneventful weeks during which we covered another ten million miles, bringing our total since takeoff to one hundred and twenty-nine million. We were rapidly approaching the half way mark.

  The Fleet still kept perfect formation, except for the gap between Freighters Five and Seven that should have been occupied by Number Six. We were travelling at something over thirty thousand miles an hour, but to all appearances the ships still hung motionless in the star-studded, velvet black sky.

  For nineteen days after the mysterious call from Whitaker nothing untoward was noted in the log and then Lemmy, who, for the sake of a change, had taken over radar watch from Mitch for a spell, had something to report.

  “There’s something out in front of us, Mitch,” s
aid the Cockney. “I’m getting a signal on the screen.”

  “What is it?”

  “How should I know? But it isn’t very large. Minute as sizes go out here.”

  When Jet was told of Lemmy’s find he ordered all ships to keep watch and make regular reports. Before long we were able to place the mysterious object at no more than four thousand miles ahead of us. Further calculations told us that we were overtaking it at roughly a thousand miles an hour which would put its speed at approximately twenty-nine thousand. However, we had no hope of making even a moderately accurate guess at the identity of the object until we got closer.

  When the gap had narrowed to around two thousand miles, Mitch declared that he thought he could detect the object through the telescope. He wasn’t sure, he said, because what he could see was not much larger than a pinpoint and, with all the stars in the background, what he was seeing could well be a star, too. But ten minutes later he was convinced that he had got it, for his ‘pin-point’ had grown slightly in size.

  Jet called over to me to ask if I’d picked up anything on the televiewer, but I had to admit that I hadn’t. By now Jet and Mitch were taking turns at the telescope. The object was getting steadily larger and just about an hour after

  Mitch had first picked up the image Jet declared that it was definitely globe-shaped.

  It was about then that I managed to detect the object on the televiewer. It was exactly as Jet had said; globe-shaped, and the sun was lighting it up on one side. It was like a tiny planet. Maybe that’s what it was--or an asteroid at least.

  Soon all the ships were reporting that the object was globular, although nobody cared to make any guess at its size as yet. I heard Lemmy, who had just received the reports in from the freighters, telling Frank Rogers not to let the diameter of the thing worry him; in another hour he would probably be able to put a tape measure round it.

  Quite suddenly there was an exclamation from Mitch over at the telescope. “Strewth!” he yelled, “I know what this is. It’s a ship--a space ship!”

  “Eh?” said Lemmy in surprise.