Silent Running

by Harlan Thompson

  The three men brushed Lowell aside and moved on.

  Barker had the squib case, and Wolf had the instructions.

  “Which one first?” Keenan asked.

  “Outboard cluster, so let’s hit six.” Barker led the way out of the kitchen and down the corridor leading to the deck below.

  They reached the cargo deck and walked on through the tunnel toward Dome Six.

  Keenan looked at the squibs that Barker carried.

  “Kinda small, aren’t they?”

  Barker nodded. “I guess, for nuclear squibs.”

  They all reached the forest and began searching for something.

  Barker held the silver case marked in bright red:

  DANGER

  CONTAINS AAK (4) ARMED SQUIBS

  Read instructions before use.

  Together with the other two, Barker thrashed through the bushes, tearing at the foliage.

  Lowell stood listening to the retreating footsteps of the three men headed for Dome Six. Through the kitchen window he could see Valley Forge drift through the starry night, its hull and girders glistening.

  Restlessly, he made his way to Dome One, and walked through the silent forest. But the thought of its beauty being destroyed drove him back to his room.

  He threw himself moodily onto his cot and lay there as though in a trance. An air of doom hung over the ship, almost like the throbbing repetitious beat of drums. It might have been a requiem for the domes that were marked for destruction.

  Back at Dome Six, the men continued to search for the tubes. Keenan kicked at a clump of gooseberry bushes. Wolf clambered wildly through clump after clump of ferns. Barker leaped over a rock to slip on the wet turf and land on his left arm.

  “Ow, my hand!” He raised his right hand dripping with blood.

  “Hey, you all right?” Wolf asked.

  “You better get Lowell to fix that for you,” Keenan advised.

  “Yeah . . . well . . . you and Wolf find the tubes and wait till I get back.”

  Barker set off down the ramp to the tunnel, then on toward the kitchen, expecting to find Lowell there.

  But Lowell still lay on his cot, and still stared straight ahead.

  Barker came to his door and stood holding his injured hand. Blood dripped on the corridor floor.

  “Will you help me . . . ?” he managed.

  “Oh, yeah . . .” Lowell did not turn his head.

  “What’re you doing?” Barker asked.

  A moment passed. “Nothing,” Lowell said flatly. Finally he rose to lead the way into surgery, motioning Barker to sit up on the table.

  Cleaning the wound in blank-faced silence, Lowell then said, “You did this on a hawthorn, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, if you say so. You know me and bushes.”

  Lowell applied a bandage.

  All at once an announcement came over the P.A. system:

  “ ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . SAFE DISTANCING MANEUVER IN FIVE MINUTES. ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . PLEASE STAND BY FOR 1000 HOURS SAFE DISTANCING MANEUVER IN FIVE MINUTES.”

  Barker turned to Lowell. “I’m going to need your help for that, Lowell.”

  “Oh . . .” Lowell said in a low voice, then added, “Okay . . . okay.” He finished up with Barker’s arm. “There you go . . .”

  Barker climbed off the table and led the way to the next room. Entering Main Control, he sat down in the center chair and began to punch controls.

  Glancing up, he motioned Lowell into a chair on his right. Lowell sat down. Barker said: “Set GYRO to double four . . . 0 . . . six.

  Lowell did not move.

  “Set GYRO to double four . . . 0 . . . six.” Barker’s voice said sharply.

  A sharp whirring noise penetrated Main Control.

  Again came the P.A. and the voice of Berkshire’s commander, Neal:

  “ ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ . . . THIS IS ‘BERKSHIRE.’ . . . YOU THERE, MARTY?”

  “Okay.”

  Neal’s voice continued:

  “WE’RE COUNTING NOW FOR YOUR DOUBLE FOUR . . . 0 . . . SIX DISTANCING ABOUT TWENTY SECONDS.”

  Barker repeated: “Set for distancing.”

  Lowell sat on in his right-hand console chair. Things seemed unreal around him. It seemed as if this was a mad dream.

  Suddenly Neal’s voice began counting:

  “OKAY . . . EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE . . . THAT’S A GO . . .”

  Neal’s voice ended on the upbeat, with an air of accomplishment, while a low booming explosion reverberated through the deathly stillness.

  Barker said, “Our ship will pull away.”

  Lowell did not reply.

  They sat watching console and main status display. Suddenly a series of interconnected display lights glowed brightly and they heard a distant engine sound. It lasted only about three seconds, then cut off and the display lights winked out.

  Neal’s voice came again:

  “THANKS, MARTY . . . WE’RE CLEAR, STAND BY FOR UPDATES.”

  Barker punched a switch and got up. Ignoring Lowell, he walked out of the room. Within Lowell the slow dirgelike sound pulsed on.

  Back in the forest, Wolf had pushed tall grass and ferns back with his boot, exposing a short, eight-inch round, hydrantlike insertion tube protruding from the ground.

  Barker came over with the silvery metal case and opened it. Inside, bedded in black packing, lay four gleaming, explosive squibs. Wolf gave a low whistle.

  Barker removed one of the squibs, armed it with a twist of the wrist, opened the breech lock on the insertion tube and dropped in the squib.

  There followed a long, drawn out sigh of air, then a sharp metallic click as the squib locked in. Wolf grinned as Barker closed the breech lock and twisted the cap to the “arm” position. “Loaded and ready to go,” he said airily.

  From the distance came another explosion. “Aaah . . . there’s another nuke tube!” A series of shots followed.

  A startled rabbit ran from the bushes to sit up, with head high, listening. It suddenly bolted.

  Birds took flight. A squirrel ran madly up a tree trunk, chattering, scolding. All about, animals took cover.

  Wolf, Barker, and Keenan threshed their way through the forest, headed for the cargo hold. Once there, they walked into a little room adjoining the cargo space.

  In the background a drone worked at stacking modules.

  Barker began reading on the radio: “Reading nine, nine nine . . . 0 . . . nine. Plus four nine . . . 0 . . . four. Plus eight.

  Neal corroborated from Berkshire:

  “NINE, NINE NINE . . . 0 . . . NINE. PLUS FOUR NINE . . . 0 . . . FOUR. PLUS EIGHT.”

  Barker: “Right.”

  Neal came back heartily, buoyantly:

  “OKAY, LOOKS TO ME LIKE THAT’S A GO . . .”

  “Right.”

  Neal went on:

  “WE’RE READY FOR SOME REAL FIREWORKS HERE . . . TWENTY FIVE SECONDS . . .”

  “We’re looking forward to it too, Neal.”

  “STEADY HAND, BUDDY, DON’T WANT ANY OF YOU BOYS TO GET HURT.”

  “Right. Will do.” Barker paused a moment, then queried, “Where’s Lowell now?” Keenan laughed, derisively. “I think I saw him down near One with some empty flower pots.” They all laughed.

  Suddenly there was a dull thud, then another, and another. They all paused, listening.

  “Oooh. That must be Berkshire,” Wolf grinned.

  “Yeah,” Keenan nodded.

  Barker said, “C’mon, let’s load up five, ready to blow.”

  He pulled another silver case from a compartment and they all started off.

  More thuds sounded: they were louder.

  Again the three paused, drawing up together in the cavernous gloom.

  “That’s Sequoia,” Wolf said. “Blowing her domes.”

  They all moved toward Dome Five to repeat what they’d done in Dome Six.

  At length they al
l walked back to the cargo hold and the little anteroom with the detonator control panels.

  Keenan placed two squib containers on the table and opened them. The squibs were gone and Keenan pulled out the manual detonator from each box.

  “Barker, do we need these?” he asked.

  “No, let’s use the panel for now . . . ah . . . watch those lights there, John.”

  Wolf looked at the blank panel. “I don’t see anything.”

  Barker punched the switch. “Okay, ready on Six.”

  Wolf saw a light blink. “Right . . . on Six.”

  “Set,” Barker snapped.

  “Set Six,” Wolf said.

  “Ready on Five,” Barker went on.

  “On Five,” Wolf replied.

  “Set?” Barker snapped.

  “Set Five,” Wolf added.

  Barker paused a moment, thinking, irritated.

  “You think Lowell is still down in One?”

  “Well,” Keenan said, “he sure isn’t in Five or Six . . . Come on, let’s blow ’em.”

  Barker flipped a switch on Six and the safety cover flipped up.

  Keenan continued, “Hit it, Andy.”

  Andy’s finger hit the button.

  Immediately, there was a distant crack, shaking the hull.

  In Dome One, Lowell was kneeling by a plant, listening to the sound, watching as the earth in front of him shuddered.

  An opaque, white vapor wreathed the farthest nodal structure beneath Dome Six. The gap widened slowly and fragments of black insulation drifted and turned in space.

  Suddenly, on the severed unit, a cluster of vernier nozzles went off with a flash.

  Slowly, trailing a veil of blue-white borealic gas, the dome began to move away.

  Lowell sprang to his feet, waiting. His hand clutched the trowel so hard that his knuckles whitened. Suddenly there was a soundless, blinding, white flash. Lowell’s face contorted as though in pain.

  “Aah—!” burst from his lips. He flinched as the dull thud of the shock wave hit the ship.

  Down in Detonator Control, Barker, Keenan, and Wolf hovered over the panel.

  “Let’s go on Five,” Barker ordered.

  “Hit Five,” Wolf echoed.

  The connecting node on Five burst into action. The primacord fires sheared the node. The dome began to drift. As the vapor cleared, there was another soundless, blinding, white flash. The light died and now, on the separated dome, the verniers fired. Slowly, trailing a veil of blue-white gas, the dome began to move away.

  In the forest of Dome One Lowell still waited.

  There was another detonation.

  Lowell’s face contorted with anguish. Sweat stood out on his brow. His eyes filled with tears.

  The verniers cut out. There was a pause, then a flash of terrible light that consumed the dome, bleaching out the sky, turning it to orange, to yellow, to a stark, unbearable white.

  For an instant where the dome had been he saw a huge expanding bubble of hydrogen vapor. Then there was nothing, not even a fragment—nothing but empty space.

  Lowell, looking stricken, stared out across the forest to the incredible sight beyond. Behind him, some distance away, a drone went about trimming a plant, oblivious to any disturbance.

  All at once he saw another dome rise in the foreground. It was just outside the latticework of the geodesic structure. The dome rose, and slowly moved up and away. Then abruptly its verniers cut out . . .

  Again came that blinding flash as the dome exploded.

  Lowell began to tremble.

  Almost as though hypnotized he again watched the same process, then another blinding flash.

  A squirrel ran on a log, stopped and listened. It trembled, its fur ruffling.

  Lowell did not see it. He was looking at the empty sky that had so shortly before held one of his precious forests. Suddenly, rage seized him.

  He stood, transfixed, before vacant sky; his eyes narrowed.

  Abruptly he threw down his tools, and in deadly silence he waited.

  Back in the cargo hold, Wolf pulled out the squib case for Number Two and handed it to Keenan. He took Number One for himself.

  “Hey,” Wolf said, pleased with himself, “how about you guys loading Two: I’ll take One, myself. We’ll blow ’em together.”

  “Fantastic,” Barker said. “Let’s go, Marty.”

  Near the tunnel entrance of Dome One, Lowell waited.

  Finally from the tunnel came the low whine of a car. The whine increased to a shrill screech as it drew closer.

  Lowell’s face grew stony and expressionless, as he listened. Suddenly he reached to one side and slowly pulled a shovel from the tool cart.

  The car drew up and Wolf got out, carrying his squib case.

  FOUR

  Wolf tried to brush past Lowell. Lowell blocked him with his shaking body.

  “What’re you doing, Lowell?” Wolf demanded, advancing again.

  Lowell gave ground. “You’re not comin’ in here.” His voice, barely audible, was charged, intense.

  Wolf shoved forward. “Look, Lowell, I know how you feel.”

  “You don’t know how I feel.” Lowell pointed to the squib case. “If you knew how I felt, you wouldn’t be in here with that.”

  “Listen.” Wolf closed the gap between them. “I’m on a tight schedule and I don’t want to have to fight with you.”

  “I don’t care about your schedule. You are not using those things in my forest.”

  “Look.” Wolf dived to pass him. “I don’t have time to argue.”

  Angered now, Lowell swung back with his shovel and brought it down on Wolf. Wolf parried the blow with his steel case. The shovel clattered to the ground. A drone appeared from the tunnel and stopped, its way blocked by the fight.

  Wolf, crouching now, grabbed the shovel and swung it upwards into Lowell’s thigh. Lowell groaned in anguish as the shovel tore into his flesh, immediately bringing blood. He fell back and Wolf, not uttering a word, moved past him, picked up his case and continued on.

  The drone watched, registering nothing.

  With great effort, Lowell raised himself and moved forward enough to grab Wolf around the neck in a viselike grip. His hands, driven by his fury, locked on Wolf’s throat with deadly purpose.

  The two fell to the dirt. Grunts escaped them. Lowell’s grip did not loosen. Wolf gasped and clutched at Lowell, but slowly with their struggle, lost strength.

  Lowell was on top of Wolf, his face contorted, his teeth gritted. His hands tightened around the dying man’s neck.

  After a long hold, Lowell clambered to his feet, with tears streaming down his face. In disbelief he gaped at the dead Wolf. Panting, fighting for breath, he finally blurted out, “You can’t blow up this forest! My forest!”

  For the first time, he spied the drone, just looking in his direction. After a moment, Lowell turned and limped with agonizing effort into the tunnel.

  In forest Number Two, Barker hunched over an insertion tube as Keenan stood holding the empty squib container. Barker closed the breech lock, turned the handle and rose.

  “That’s set, Marty,” Barker said, all smiles. “Set for manual detonation in cargo hull. Let’s go.”

  They started to leave, then Keenan stopped, and reached down to pull out a bunch of flowers.

  “For Lowell . . . good old Lowe . . .”

  Back in the tunnel, Lowell fought his way to the cargo hull, then over to the detonator panel. It was as though he could see into Dome Two where Barker and Keenan stood with his bouquet.

  For a moment, sick with pain, he stared down through the tunnel leading to Number Two Dome, then looked back to the detonator panel.

  The green “ready” light flashed on Number Two.

  “Ready . . . ?” Lowell questioned. “Am I ready to follow Barker and Keenan into oblivion?”

  For a moment his hand paused on the switch. Then the empty skies that had held his four other beloved domes came to him. “Would this
be five . . . ? The last chance. The last chance for Earth.”

  Lowell’s face, contorted with anguish, set with purpose.

  “Ready!” he answered the green “ready” light. His hand reached forward, flipped up the safety, then pushed the detonator, hard . . . !

  Back in Dome Two Keenan’s voice died away on the word “Lowe . . .” as the shock hit him.

  Suddenly, he and Barker ran crazily for the tunnel exit, but it sealed with dooming finality before they reached it.

  At the connecting node, the metal sheared into twisting shards of shrapnel as the node split and pulled apart from its connection to the spaceship.

  There followed long fateful moments—moments in which Keenan and Barker beat at the steel tunnel door that trapped them in Dome Two—moments that sent them cursing and running wildly through the woods, then coming back to again beat at the implacably silent barrier. They were doomed along with the forest.

  Finally nothing but the ship and the stars remained. Nothing moved. Where, seconds before there had been Dome Two, now nothing remained but the ship, Dome One, and the stars. Nothing moved.

  By an effort of sheer will, Lowell drew himself along the cargo hull. His face was bathed in sweat, his eyes red-rimmed. His tongue constantly explored his dry lips. Reaching the stairway, he dragged his leg forward and up.

  Radio voices surrounded him, indistinct at first, then with more clarity. Fleet Communications were congratulating each other.

  Lowell’s face was a mirror of conflicting emotions. Anguish, disdain, and a wild wonder as to the future succeeded each other in rapid succession. “What shall I do now?” he cried out.

  Gasping with pain, he fought on up the stairs to the corridor, then into Main Control. Lowell hopped to a desk and pulled a piece of electrical wiring from a drawer and fashioned a tourniquet.

  Suddenly Neal’s voice came over the radio:

  “ ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ COME IN, ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ READING FOUR . . . 0 . . . FOUR . . . 0 ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ COME IN, ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ ”

  Lowell swallowed, and stirred, then with a superhuman effort took a step forward, then another. Reaching the console, he stopped. Sweat streamed down his face. Finally he managed to pick up the microphone, hesitated, then opened the line: “Valley Forge to Berkshire. You still there, Neal?” he asked.