Fade Out

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘Okay, we’ll get going on that.’

  ‘Our tyre tracks’ll show you the route,’ said Max.

  Haskill nodded and larruped his horse into a canter from a standing start.

  ‘Hey, cowboy!’ yelled Max.

  The horse’s back legs almost slid from under him as Haskill pulled up short.

  ‘Give me a good ten feet on either side!’

  ‘Wilco!’ yelled Haskill. He rode off across the plateau like a Junior Rough Rider.

  Max gave Wedderkind a friendly thump on the shoulder. ‘Okay, Einstein. You wanna show me where you want this hole?’

  Wedderkind rolled his eyes at Connors, then walked off with Max. Brecetti and Wetherby followed.

  Connors turned to Larsen. ‘If anybody wants me I’ll be over on the south side. I’ve got some paperwork to do.’

  ‘Very good, sir. You’ll find one of the tents has your name posted outside.’ Larsen signed off with a snappy salute.

  By the time Max Nilsson’s first truck had been unloaded, news of its safe arrival had been sent down to the base camp with instructions for more big diesels to load up and head for Crow Ridge.

  The crew of roughnecks got the drilling platform levelled up in the centre of the crater and rapidly assembled the prefabricated sections of the rig. The first thirty-foot length of drill was locked into the rotary table just after six o’clock. Steam hissed out of the valves of the engine and it thumped away smoothly as Max, with a show of ceremony, threw the lever to connect the drive. The rock drill began to bite into the loosely-packed topping of gravel.

  Max patted the vibrating engine housing and grinned broadly at Connors. ‘Hear that sweet sound? Who’d think this little lady’s more’n eighty years old?’

  ‘Where did you dig it up?’

  ‘Borrowed it from a private museum. Belongs to an oil millionaire down in Texas who owes me a favour. He’s got all kinds of junk there, and it all works. Does most of the repairs himself.’

  Two more heavy trucks ground their way up through the trees. Ever since the late afternoon there had been a constant background roar from their heavy engines as the drivers obeyed Max’s injunction not to cut the motors.

  The trucks were bringing more accommodation units. Some were already in position on their jacks, and with the arrival of the fifty Air Force technicians from Kirtland AFB, and the rest of Wedderkind’s people, Crow Ridge suddenly seemed to come to life:

  Wedderkind came over to the rim of the crater where Connors now stood watching the drilling. ‘I’ve just heard there’s now a phone down by the red stakes. It’s hooked up to the base camp. Allbright’s going to get us wired into the SAC landline system to give us a direct link with Washington. How’s it going here?’

  ‘They’re down to about eighty feet. Max had to pull one of his guys off the platform. Same trouble as Wetherby.’

  ‘Nausea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about the others?’ asked Wedderkind.

  ‘Varying degrees of dizziness. They’re taking turns manning the rig.’

  ‘How do you feel yourself?’

  ‘Me? I feel fine. Although for all I know this field could be quietly dissolving my brain away. Maybe I’m about to discover that I’m only running on two microvolts instead of fifty. It could be embarrassing.’

  ‘Well, I think you should back off for a while,’ said Wedderkind. ‘My guess is that it’s harmless, but that’s all it is – a guess. Like almost everything up to now.’

  ‘Did the medical team from NASA get here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wedderkind smiled. ‘They’re rolling bandages now. I’ve told them I want regular checks on everybody working on the site starting tomorrow morning. That includes you.’

  ‘That’s fine, as long as I’m first in line,’ said Connors. ‘I’ve got an early plane to catch.’

  ‘I’m sure we can fix that. Oh, there is one piece of bad news.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No pretty nurses.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Connors. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad there aren’t any women around.’ He broke into a laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I was just thinking – have you ever noticed how, in all the old science fiction movies, there’s always a girlfriend, wife, daughter, or a niece on holiday, who stumbles across the monster and starts screaming her head off. And when it’s time to run, they’re always wearing high-heeled shoes, and they always fall down and twist their ankle.’

  Wedderkind gave him a look of mild reproof. ‘I fear you’re in the process of becoming what is called a male chauvinist pig.’

  ‘From way back,’ said Connors.

  The seven o’clock meeting was held in one of the empty, forty-foot-long prefabricated units that had been brought up during the afternoon. All fourteen members of the research group were there along with the leaders of the Air Force specialists from Kirtland AFB and the cadet squad commanders. Allbright had had a folding table rigged at one end of the room with three chairs and a briefing board on an easel. Connors was invited to take the middle chair, with Allbright on his left and Wedderkind on the other side. Everybody else sat on the floor or leaned against the walls.

  Even though they were all, nominally, civilians, and although Allbright wore no badges of rank, he was still a commanding figure. When he stood up, everybody went quiet. He welcomed them all to Crow Ridge, introduced Connors as head of the project, and Wedderkind as head of the research group, and then asked Connors to say his piece.

  Connors kept it brief and to the point. ‘Gentlemen, you all know why you are here. Each of you has been briefed on the reasons why we need to keep this project secret and secure. I hope you will all accept the restrictions on your personal liberty that are required to make our security measures effective. We will try to make your temporary imprisonment as comfortable as we can. We have an opportunity to participate in an historic event. Something which may never happen again during the total life span of Mankind and of Earth. It’s almost impossible to overestimate its importance to us and future generations. At the same time, we should not underestimate the dangers. They may be complex – and considerable.’ He smiled. ‘In case I don’t get another opportunity, I’d like to thank you on behalf of the President, for volunteering for this assignment, and he asked me to say, and I quote, “In serving this nation you serve all nations, and may God bless you and enable you to bring this enterprise to a successful conclusion.” Thank you.’

  Connors sat down. Allbright got up to explain the organization and layout of the site, the duties of the various groups of Air Force personnel, the backup they would provide for the scientists, and the services that were planned to be available. A lot would depend on how Crusoe behaved. He was still the big question mark that hung over everything.

  After he’d finished, there was a brief session of questions and answers to clear up some points of procedure, then the session broke up into informal groups so that everyone could get to know each other and find out the really important things like which were the most comfortable trailers, how to get an extra blanket, where to get cigarettes and booze, and the chances of getting laid.

  On outside work details, the Air Force cadets wore blue hard hats. Each group on the project had been given a different identification colour. The Air Force technicians were green, the research group yellow, and the CIA ‘front-office’ employees down at the Highway 22 base camp, orange.

  ‘Have you decided whether you will stay here tonight?’ asked Allbright.

  ‘Yes, I’ve told Larsen,’ said Connors. ‘He’s organizing something for me.’

  ‘It may be a little rougher than you’re used to.’

  ‘I’m not too worried,’ said Connors. ‘As long as there’s somewhere to sleep and a chance of some action, I prefer to hang on here and fly back to Washington tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to be able to give the President some hard information. Up to now we’ve been neck-deep in scient
ific theories and hypotheses, possibilities and probabilities. It will be a relief to know that something – anything – is actually down there, and that this whole thing isn’t just some electronic mirage.’

  ‘The interference on our radar and communications networks is real enough.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Connors. He was struck by Allbright’s eyes. They didn’t flicker about nervously, they fastened on to a face or object with the predatory stare of a falcon. ‘How do you feel about all this?’

  Allbright frowned. ‘Do you mean my reactions to this particular mission?’

  ‘To the whole situation.’

  ‘I’m just a serving officer, Mr Connors. The whole of my service life has been directed towards the defence of this country and its institutions. I regard my involvement here as an extension of that commitment.’

  ‘That’s not really an answer to my question, General. We’re all obeying orders.’

  Allbright smiled and his eyes lost their hard edge. ‘I’m not unaware of the philosophical implications generated by this encounter, and I am not unconcerned. Nevertheless I regard such abstractions as being outside the bounds of my professional competence. My primary function here is to provide and maintain total security on this project – from without and within.’

  ‘I know what the job profile is,’ said Connors. ‘I helped write it. But apart from that – no curiosity? Surprise? Dismay?’

  ‘Curiosity?’ said Allbright. ‘Yes, naturally. Surprise? Only that it’s taken so long to obtain the first example of what I suppose people will call a flying saucer. When you think that the Air Force compiled literally thousands of sighting reports during Project Blue Book – ’

  ‘But failed to come up with one indisputable piece of photographic evidence,’ said Connors. ‘There were rumours that the Condon report was a whitewash. Did the Air Force suppress any of the evidence?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Most of the sightings could be accounted for, but, if you dismiss the lunatic fringe and their little green men, there still remains a small hard core of detailed observations by trained aircrews that defy rational explanation.’

  ‘Did you ever see a flying saucer?’

  ‘Not once in the nine thousand seven hundred and eighty-three hours I’ve spent in the air.’

  Faced with a tally like that, Connors saw little purpose in mentioning his own modest log of five hundred and thirty-two hours. Allbright had probably spent more time taxiing to dispersal.

  ‘How about dismay?’ he asked.

  ‘Dismay?’ The pale blue eyes fastened on him again as Allbright considered the question. ‘Not really. Let me put it this way. This encounter, like any significant event, can either have a benign influence on our lives or an evil one. If we are to believe the computer forecasts, we are already heading towards food, energy, and pollution crises, any one of which could trigger a global catastrophe. But even if we survive those, that’s not the end of our problems. It’s only a matter of time.’ Allbright smiled again. ‘I don’t know how familiar you are with the Bible, Mr Connors, but if we are to believe St John the Divine, most of us don’t do too well on Judgement Day.’

  Max came into the hut, edged his way through the groups of people, culled a drink off a passing tray, and tapped Wedderkind on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got some core samples. Wanna take a look?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Wedderkind. ‘Hang on.’ He introduced Max to the group he was with and went over to Connors and Allbright.

  ‘Excuse me, am I interrupting anything?’

  ‘Only contemplation of the Apocalypse,’ said Connors.

  ‘That’s what comes of reading the New Testament. We’ve got some core samples. Can you spare a minute?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ Connors shook hands cordially with Allbright and left the others to finish the K-ration sandwiches.

  The core samples were laid out in neat rows on a folding table, and labelled to show drilling depth and composition.

  Max tapped the cores from eighty feet. ‘We’re well into the solid rock that underpins this whole area. I brought a sample along with me.’ Max picked up a fist-sized chunk of rock and showed it to Connors. ‘That’s what it should look like. See the difference? The rock in this core sample has been liquefied and then fused together, like volcanic lava.’

  ‘Could it be a natural feature of this area?’ asked Connors.

  ‘No,’ said Max. ‘I checked with the Duchess.’

  The Duchess, it turned out, was Max’s instant nickname for Alan Wetherby, the English geographer.

  ‘What do you think, Arnold? Could Crusoe have melted his way through this rock?’

  ‘It’s feasible. That’s assuming he made this hole in the first place.’

  ‘But to melt that rock, wouldn’t he have to become practically incandescent himself?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It could cook the rock like you cook steak in a microwave oven.’

  There was a shout for Max from one of the roughnecks on the platform as the needle on the drill loading gauge whipped around past the danger point. The crew on the rig whacked the rotary table out of gear and raised the string of drill pipes ten feet clear of the hidden obstacle.

  Max ran down the slope of the crater and went into a huddle with his men. Connors and Wedderkind waited on the rim of the crater till he returned.

  ‘Trouble?’ asked Connors.

  ‘Maybe, but it looks like paydirt. We’ve got something really solid at just over one hundred and thirty feet. The pressure on the drill head was pretty fantastic – if we hadn’t lifted it clear, it would have twisted the shaft into a corkscrew.’

  ‘Has the drill burned out?’

  ‘Could be. We’re pulling it up to have a look,’ said Max.

  Behind him, the relief crew was already scrambling on to the platform to help raise the five lengths of drill pipe.

  When the drill bit came up, they found that the complex array of tungsten-tipped teeth had been burned smooth. Max supervised the fitting of a diamond-tipped drill and the two crews started to sink the string back down the borehole on the double.

  Allbright and one of his aides rode over to join Connors and Wedderkind as the fifth section of pipe was locked into the spinning rotary table. The drill sank down to – and past – the previous point of contact.

  Max cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, ‘Let it ride all the way down to one hundred and fifty!’

  As he spoke, there was a deep rumbling roar. The drilling crew leaped off the platform as a tall plume of brown steam burst out of the borehole and enveloped the rig.

  ‘Goddammit, you son of a bitch!’ yelled Max. He yanked off his helmet and threw it down so hard it bounced twice.

  The steam boiled out for a couple of minutes, then the pressure faded away. The crew clambered back on to the platform and started to pull up the drill once more.

  ‘What was it that boiled up?’ asked Connors.

  ‘It’s what we call “mud,”’ said Max. ‘It’s a mixture of clay, water, and chemicals that lubricate the drilling bit. Did you see how we went right through that point we stuck at before? That bastard must have moved sideways and left us to boil in a bath of molten rock. Lucky we didn’t get any of that in our faces!’

  Max retrieved his helmet, rammed it back on his head and ran down to join his men on the rig.

  Wednesday/August 22

  CROW RIDGE/MONTANA

  It was after midnight when a sweat-stained Max and Wedderkind joined Connors and Allbright in the same prefab unit.

  ‘We drilled down past that first contact point at one hundred and thirty feet,’ said Max. ‘The bedrock was still white hot when we brought up the core. We’ve drilled clear through the heated area. Down at two hundred and fifty feet the rock sample is normal. It’s a little warm, but it hasn’t been melted.’

  Connors looked at Wedderkind. ‘This all sounds like bad news to me.’

  Wedderkind held up a calming hand. ‘If he was able to bury himse
lf, it’s obvious he must be able to move around underground – if only to stay out of trouble. At least we know how he does it – he melts the rock and floats through it. It then cools and solidifies behind him.’

  ‘Great. Which way has he gone – up, down, or sideways?’

  ‘From what Max has said, it must be sideways.’

  ‘North, south, east, or west?’

  Wedderkind shook his head. ‘We may need to drill several boreholes to check that, but if he stays near the surface, we can pick up his location by more aerial infrared pictures. If he decides to go deeper, the pattern given off by the heat will be too diffuse. And if he cools down, then we’ve got problems. This cutoff zone that is wrapped around him is also zapping the radio-wave detection equipment one would normally use for geological surveys.’

  Connors tried again. ‘Isn’t there some kind of instrument that works off shock waves – in the way they trace earthquakes?’

  ‘Yes – using seismographic techniques. We set up two units this afternoon on either side of the ridge. The waves are supposed to bounce back the way radar does. The readings are completely cluttered up with random echoes. Crusoe is beaming out varying-strength shock waves that are bouncing back and forth off every chunk of rock inside the ridge. We know he’s in there, but that’s about all.’

  ‘So he’s still ahead.’

  ‘For the moment,’ said Wedderkind. ‘But at least we now know Crusoe is programmed to avoid unwelcome contacts.’

  Connors glanced around the table. ‘I would have thought the whole point of his arrival was to make contact.’

  ‘We’re proceeding on that assumption,’ said Wedderkind. ‘But that depends on what Crusoe is. If he’s an automated package of instruments, he may be capable of nothing more than “on-off”, “yes-no” responses that would enable him to survive in a hostile environment. His reactions up to now could fit into a framework of low-level instinctual responses – in this case, to avoid any contact which might threaten his functional integrity. If he is a very sophisticated package of machinery, we could expect a more complex range of responses to external stimuli. There is also the more remote possibility that Crusoe could contain some kind of alien life-form. I’m inclined to discount this idea myself.’