by John Gardner
‘We shall see. Walk.’
Mostyn had no choice. He walked, cursing Boysie with some violence.
*
It was not so much fear that coursed through Boysie’s mind and body as he settled into the pilot’s seat of Sext. It was more on the lines of stark terror.
Inside the helmet it seemed stifling. He glanced across at Sonya. She gave him another timid smile and put out her silver gloved hand. He felt it on his knee and placed his hand over hers, giving it what was meant to be a reassuring pat.
A technician was bending over the cockpit, making sure that the safety harness was tight and that the heat and oxygen supply lines were plugged in.
The technician gave Boysie a final tap on the shoulder and departed.
Boysie looked down at the clip board with the neatly typed pre-launch orders. He pressed the canopy button and the reinforced perspex dome whined into place over their heads.
‘Fifty minutes, ten seconds and counting,’ said the controller’s voice in their earphones. Less than an hour to go.
*
They arrived at the Launch Complex, Mostyn sweating despite the cold. One of the guards stayed with him, while the other disappeared into the Control Building.
They stood there waiting and looking at the massive gantry and its child, out on the launch pad, the long high pointing phallic symbol waiting to break the maidenhead of gravity.
The first guard returned.
‘In,’ he said, motioning to the Launch Control door. The Swedish guard prodded again with his rifle.
Inside the building there was a nervous sense of tension. Passing through the small entrance hall, Mostyn was pushed forward into a large, low ceilinged room.
Dominating the scene was a long opaque projection of the world. Lights glowed red across the whole face of the map, criss-crossed with heavy white lines which seemed to emanate from a point in Southern Africa.
Directly in front of the illuminated map five men sat at a large console, in the centre a large television monitor gleamed blue. On the screen was a picture of the scene out on the launch pad.
The picture was repeated on several other smaller monitors throughout the room which was peopled by about thirty men all bent on contributing their own specialized skills and knowledge to the launch.
The Cockney guard slipped away from Mostyn, weaving between the monitors and electronics panels, towards the main control point in front of the map. He bent and whispered to one of the five controllers who stood up and followed him to the entrance where Mostyn waited at gun point. The man had got only half-way across the room before Mostyn recognized Sir Bruce Gravestone.
Sir Bruce’s face was a vivid scarlet, the colour of rage tinged with the blue of blood pressure.
‘Where the hell’s Solomon?’ he asked the Cockney guard as they came up to Mostyn. ‘Where the hell is the man? He should be dealing with this.’ Then, turning to Mostyn, ‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?’
Mostyn decided to play it innocent and vaguely outraged. ‘I’ve been bird watching, what the devil are you doing? I shall most certainly make a complaint …’
‘Cut the ornithologist twaddle. Ornithologists don’t come in uniforms carrying weapons.’
For the first time, Mostyn realized that the Swede was carrying the haversack which he had carefully hidden under snow-bound rocks six feet or so from his observation point. The haversack contained his weapons and the other equipment, including the radio transceiver.
There was a pause. A good half-minute during which Mostyn decided on his next course of action.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You’d better know. I’m a Colonel of British Intelligence attached to AFNORTH. We’ve been interested in your little playground for some weeks. I might as well …’
‘You might as well what?’ Sir Bruce had bad breath and his face was close to Mostyn. ‘You might as well tell me that the game is up? Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Something like that.’
‘No chance. No chance at all.’ There was a nasty glint in the baronet’s eyes. ‘Nothing can stop the count-down, now, and once it’s started we have three men. One in Moscow, one in London and one in Washington. They’ll be making telephone calls. Your people will be interested in what we are doing. So interested that they’ll call off any attempt to stop us by force.’
Mostyn opened his mouth. He was about to spill the beans on Boysie. Changing his mind he clamped his teeth together and shrugged.
The launch controller’s voice echoed through the loudspeaker system. ‘Ten minutes, five seconds and counting.’
Boysie would be hearing the same voice. For a moment, Mostyn spared a thought for his colleague’s shattered nervous system.
The door opened and another guard came in making straight for Sir Bruce.
‘Well?’ asked the baronet, raising his eyebrows.
‘Solomon,’ said the newly arrived guard.
‘What about Solomon?’ Sir Bruce curt.
‘Looks as though Sonya’s partner injured him. They just found him in the Apprentice’s room. Suspected fracture of the skull.’
‘Well done, Oaksie,’ breathed Mostyn.
Sir Bruce swore violently. Then turned to Mostyn. ‘I suppose this is your doing?’
‘Could be,’ Mostyn replied happily.
The launch controller spoke again. ‘Eight minutes and counting.’
‘I think we’ll keep you under observation here,’ said Sir Bruce. ‘Keep your eye on him,’ he looked at the Cockney guard, ‘and bring him over to the controller’s console.’
The guard began prodding again. Mostyn obediently followed Sir Bruce to the launch controller’s table. The controller and his assistant were nameless faces, but the other two men at the control console were recognizable as von Humperdinck and Schneider.
Sir Bruce pointed to an empty swivel chair next to his own. ‘Sit there. Keep still. Keep quiet.’
Mostyn could do nothing more than obey, and hope for the arrival of the NATO strike forces.
The sonorous voice of the controller still told off the minutes and seconds as they clicked away on the digital computer on the panel in front of them. Mostyn found it hard to believe that Boysie was at the receiving end of the count-down.
‘Two minutes and ten seconds … and counting … one minute and thirty seconds …’ The tension became unbearable, Mostyn’s palms damp with sweat. ‘One minute … thirty seconds … Fifteen seconds … Ten … Nine … Eight … Seven … Six … Five … Four … Three … Two … One … Ignition … Lift off.’
On the screen in front of them the great rocket splayed out a massive low mushroom of smoke. It trembled against the gantry. The umbilical cable dropped free and the huge metal finger began to rise, straight and true. Mostyn could not take his eyes from the screen. The rocket, still trembling, accelerated, then began to whistle away, riding on a spear of flame.
‘All systems go,’ said the controller, his eyes flicking along the console which registered reports from the other computers and consoles in the building. ‘He’s on track. Sky-Child One do you read? Do you read?’
*
Boysie had heard the controller count off the seconds. He could also hear his own heart. It seemed to have risen from its natural place to settle in his throat. His whole body heaved with apprehension. Then came the terrifying judder as though he was balanced on a dozen pneumatic drills. The turbulence built up with terrifying speed. Boysie could feel his teeth chattering. He glanced at Sonya who was staring straight ahead, yet she seemed to be shivering. The whole cockpit vibrated. Boysie’s breathing was rapid inside the helmet. There was a sense of disintegration. Then, as suddenly as it had built up, the juddering stopped and they sat quiet with no sense of movement and no sign of power except a whine, like a large vacuum cleaner.
‘All systems are go.’ The voice of the controller came loud within Boysie’s helmet.
‘Stage two rocket … On.’
/> There was another bout of shaking. Not so long this time as the second stage rocket blew them high and into orbit over the Indian Ocean.
Then the magic words of the controller. ‘Okay to leave Sext. You are clear to leave Sext.’
Boysie looked over at Sonya who nodded. Hands down to the canopy release. The canopy slid back. Sonya twisted her harness release and punched the circular retaining ring in front of her. The harness dropped away. Boysie followed suit and they both began their climb on to the aluminium ladders which ran from the capsule’s neck down into the capsule itself.
It took time to negotiate the ladders. Boysie moved slowly, one foot following the other in a careful precision, in order to remain balanced. He could feel the magnetic weights clamping against metal as he reached the bottom of the ladder, yet the whole feeling was as though he were attempting to walk under water. The surrounding atmosphere seemed to be constantly lifting him so that only the boots remained anchored. His body wavered like a water weed floating back and forth with a changeable eddy.
Boysie stood like this for a moment at the foot of the ladder. Trying to remember the sequence of events through which he now had to move. Hand up to the bulkhead closing lever. Pull down. Noiselessly the heavy metal panels closed off the capsule’s neck. Above him the sign flashed on. PRESSURE SUITS AND HELMETS CAN BE REMOVED. BEWARE WEIGHTLESS CONDITION.
Carefully, Boysie clanked his way towards the big leather couch. Sonya was already there removing her helmet. Boysie followed suit, sitting on the edge of the couch. Above them the control panel was lit up. Next to a sign reading ORBIT NUMBER was the figure one.
‘You all right?’ asked Boysie amazed that his voice sounded so steady.
‘I’m fine. Easier than we thought.’ Sonya was tossing, and fluffing her hair which had a tendency to move upwards. She put out her silver gloved hand. ‘Did they give you any pills?’
‘Pills? Yes.’ said Boysie vaguely embarrassed, remembering Solomon’s explanation for the pills.
‘Me, too,’ smiled Sonya. ‘They work don’t they?’
Boysie was silent for a moment, considering. He did not really feel any different. He was his usual randy self, and danger and fear, he knew from past experience, always made him worse. As though the danger could be obscured by an attempt to return into the warm anonymity of the womb.
Well, he thought, if he had to go there was no better way. At least they would be founder members of a new society.
‘Better get started then.’ His voice held no trace of lechery. It was as though he was treating the whole business as a clinical exercise.
Sonya nodded and pulled down the zip on her silver pressure suit. Then she removed her gloves. Under the suit she was naked to the waist, her breasts ripe and wonderful. Boysie’s eyes travelled down. She wore a thin pair of bikini briefs, jet black and trimmed with a quarter inch of lace. The picture was utterly feminine, and Boysie felt the hard natural surge of desire.
He pulled off his gloves and ripped down on the zip. Sonya reacted well to the sight of Boysie naked except for the blue briefs.
Boysie was now fumbling with his boots. First one came off, then, with a wrench, he pulled himself free of the other. Immediately he began to rise. He clutched out at the couch, missed and floated up to the roof.
‘Help me, for crying out loud,’ he yelled.
But Sonya was engrossed in removing her boots while still keeping a tight hold on the couch. At last her boots were off and she was clinging to the leather to stop rising.
Boysie turned his body, manoeuvring himself into a position where he could place his feet on the metal sides. Once there he settled himself into a frog-like stance and pushed off hard with his feet. Boysie’s body arched down towards the couch. He lashed out with his arms trying to grab at anything solid.
His right hand made contact with Sonya’s coverall, from which she was attempting to free herself. The coverall came away in his hand and he was floating upwards once more, this time carrying the pressure suit and leaving Sonya, hanging on to the couch, dressed only in her briefs and with legs rising out of control.
‘This is ridiculous,’ mouthed Boysie.
‘Hang on. I’ll try and get hold of the retaining locks for my hands and feet.’ Sonya kicked, pulled and struggled her way along the side of the couch while Boysie resumed the frog position once more.
This time he made it to the couch, hanging on to one of the clamps which had been strategically placed in order to anchor Sonya in a spreadeagled position.
He pulled down and began to control his body, swinging round, opening the locker at the head of the couch and stuffing Sonya’s pressure suit into the compartment provided for it. On his side of the locker was the thick pouched belt of body weights. Boysie pulled at them. The weight kept him down and after five minutes struggle he had the pressure suit off and stowed in the locker while the body weights were firmly belted round his waist.
Boysie remained still, breathing heavily after the incredible exertion. Sonya, after several attempts, was now firmly affixed to the couch.
Boysie swallowed. ‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ he said.
‘What doesn’t seem fair?’
‘This.’ Boysie felt definitely guilty, poised above the outstretched girl. She looked incredibly desirable.
‘Why doesn’t it seem fair?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s like raping you or something. After all you’re a kind of captive audience aren’t you?’
‘Captive, but ready to enjoy.’ Her voice had taken on that smouldering quality which he had noticed during the briefing. ‘I can promise you that I won’t think of it as rape. We’re making history.’
‘A funny way. I wonder what they’ll title the chapter. Space Sex?’
‘Shouldn’t be surprised. Come on though, Boysie. Let’s do it.’
Boysie pulled down on the weighted net which hung above the couch locker. It dropped square over Sonya. And Boysie spent the next ten minutes attempting to squeeze under it. The whole business seemed unreal and strange but at last he was under the weighted net, beside her on the couch.
‘There must be an easier way to make money,’ he said, realizing that neither of them was yet naked. Boysie turned and noted that the ORBIT NUMBER sign had now moved to two.
*
‘Coming into second orbit.’ The controller’s voice rasped round the Launch Control block house.
Mostyn gazed, impressed, at the illuminated map which was tracing the capsule’s course.
‘How can you track it?’ He sounded almost friendly asking Sir Bruce.
‘Ah. You see what you’re up against now do you? We have eighteen tracking stations set along the orbit. South America, Africa, India, Malaysia, New Guinea. It is all calculated to the fraction.’
A telephone shrilled near Sir Bruce’s elbow. He picked it up. ‘Yes? Good. All three. Good.’ Replacing the receiver, Sir Bruce turned to Mostyn. ‘Our operatives in Moscow, America and Britain have reported. The capsule and its contents is now under auction. In the Kremlin, the Pentagon and the Ministry of Defence they’ll be digging out their pockets.’ He laughed.
‘I don’t think they’ll dig too deeply.’ Mostyn sounded flat, as though he did not believe what he was saying.
A second later and the situation was suddenly reversed, and he knew the end was in sight.
The telephone rang out again. Gravestone lifted it and Mostyn could hear agitated noises coming from the receiver.
‘Damn.’ Sir Bruce looked up sharply at Mostyn, then he turned to von Humperdinck and Schneider. ‘The northern look-out reports a force of three C-119Fs and three C-47s heading low towards us. Can we re-position the capsule?’
Schneider’s face went white. ‘They can’t. No one can stop this now. No one. I will not allow it.’
‘It’s not for us to allow.’ Ellerman von Humperdinck whirled his chair around. For a second, Mostyn could not believe what he saw, a neat silver Browning cupped in von Humperdinck’s han
d. He stepped back, moving into a corner. The whole room had gone silent but for the whisper of heaters.
The guard behind Mostyn moved, Mostyn sensing that he was taking a quick aim on Humperdinck, threw himself back, his head catching the man’s stomach. There was the whump of two explosions in the confined space. The guard’s bullet went wild but Humperdinck’s hit its mark. The guard was lifted backwards to drop into an untidy heap behind the main console.
‘His rifle, Colonel Mostyn,’ rapped von Humperdinck. Mostyn grabbed the rifle and turned, backing towards Humperdinck.
‘All of you,’ said Mostyn. ‘All of you get your hands in the air.’
‘One moment,’ von Humperdinck chimed in. ‘All of you except the launch controller. We need him to get the capsule and Sext down in one piece.’
But the controller was a jump ahead. His hands snaked out to the controls on the console. A high-pitched whine began to rise into a crescendo and the instruments on the console appeared to be going wild. At the same moment there was an explosion from outside the blockhouse.
‘Sounds like the 5th Cavalry have arrived in the nick of time,’ muttered Mostyn.
‘Too late for our friends in the capsule,’ Humperdinck was shouting. ‘Stand still everybody.’
Schneider, taking the opportunity afforded by the controller’s sudden movement leaped forward towards Mostyn. Mostyn’s bullet caught Schneider in the throat, his gurgle lasting as a reflex for a good half-minute after life had left him.
‘Now don’t let anyone else try it,’ said Mostyn. ‘A NATO force will have landed by now. They are under orders to take as many prisoners as possible. And you,’ he nodded towards Sir Bruce, ‘are all mine, baby.’
Sir Bruce gave a snort of defeat.
‘What about the capsule?’ Mostyn asked Humperdinck out of the corner of his mouth.
‘It depends. By now they will have received a signal telling them that ground control has been abandoned. If they are sensible enough they can set the re-entry system manually, but where they’ll land is anybody’s guess.’
‘And what of you?’ asked Mostyn. ‘How come you changed sides?’
‘I will accept the jail sentence which will undoubtedly come my way. I ceased to be in sympathy with these people when Miss Challis died.’