Space 1999 - Earthfall

by E. C. Tubb

  “Victor!”

  Bergman stared from the screen. “John? What is it, you look—”

  “Join me immediately. Bring all the data you have on Meta; recordings, sequences, stuff like that. Hurry.” As Bergman’s face left the screen Koenig stabbed at another button. “Doctor Russell?”

  A brown face answered, “No, Commander. This is Doctor Mathias.”

  “Get me—never mind, you’ll do. I want a careful check made of the brain of Warren and that of Sparkman too if he has died. Doctor Russell mentioned that the brains previously examined were, to use her own words, riddled, burned and distorted. Taking that as a literal possibility is it possible to check?”

  “The paths of missiles, sir?” Mathias frowned. “None were found or noted previously.”

  “They would be very small, almost on the atomic level if not actually on it, but there would be a wider path of disintegration. Is it possible to determine if such damage was actually caused? I realize that Doctor Russell may have been speaking metaphorically, but forget that. I want to be certain. Well?”

  Mathias paused, thinking, without knowing it holding his future in his hands. If he demurred or admitted to being baffled than there would no longer be a place for him on the moon. Koenig had too much at stake to tolerate other than the best.

  Then, as Mathias saw his face, the glint of impatience in his eyes, he said, “My apologies, Commander, but I was considering how best it could be done. I think if we remove the brain, freeze it, section it into very thin films and, with the use of dyes and selective tissue-stains prepare those films for projection we should be able to both spot and plot the path of any minute missile. But I must warn you that success is doubtful. The brain is not a solid mass of homogeneous tissue.”

  “There could be scarring,” said Koenig. “There could even be residual radioactivity probably of a low order. And there could even be impact points on the skull itself. I’ll leave it with you, Doctor. Report as soon as you have reached a conclusion.”

  Bergman entered as Koenig broke the connection. He was frowning, his arms heaped with files, a folder tucked beneath one arm. Before he could speak Koenig said, “Did you pass the signal-information through the computer, Victor?”

  “In search of a related pattern? Of course. But, John, don’t make the common error of thinking that, when we talk of “signals”, we mean actual decipherable messages as would be sent from one man or nation to another. What we are receiving could be a natural emission caused by inherent decay. Radium, for example, radiates until it decays into lead and—” Seeing Koenig smile Bergman broke off and smiled in turn. “Sorry, John, I really must resist the tendency to lecture everyone on every subject. Especially when they know as much about it as I do.”

  “But if the signals were due to natural decay there would surely be a stabilization of intensity, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is there?”

  “No,” admitted Bergman. “Which is why the temptation to imagine they are being sent by an intelligent creature is so strong. But if so they would constitute a message and so would contain a repetitive pattern.”

  “Which the computer didn’t find.” Koenig switched on the speaker and listened again to the fuzz of background noise, the sharper series of pinging sounds. “No pattern at all,” he murmured. “Yet the signals come sharp and strong. Which means that radiation is being emitted in concentrated blasts, sometimes more than one together, sometimes only at wide-spaced intervals. Yet the time-differential is relatively small. You know what it reminds me of, Victor? Brownian Movement. If the particles suspended in a liquid of vapor, knocked into differing paths by the impact of molecules, could emit a burst of radiation each time when touched, wouldn’t it sound something like Meta?”

  “And?”

  “Space,” mused Koenig. “We know it isn’t empty. It contains drifting atoms of hydrogen, maybe only one to a cubic metre, but matter just the same. And there is dust, microscopic fragments barely a few atoms in size. But enough, Victor. Enough to swirl and eddy and be drawn to a common point. To make impact and broadcast those signals. Listen, Victor, and imagine what I’ve said to be true. What conclusion do you draw?”

  “Destruction,” whispered Bergman, “Atoms disintegrating in tiny gouts of released energy. The supposition would fit the observed data but so would many others. There could be an actual radio-emitting source out there. A planetoid carrying sentient creatures trying to make contact. Or it could be a mass of debris of varying composition creating the signal by sheer accident. Or it could be a mass of—”

  “Antimatter,” snapped Koenig. “The old seetee. Contraterrene they used to call it, but it’s still the same. Matter with reversed electrical potential; neutrons with magnetic charges of reversed polarity. Theoretically it could exist and now I think we have proof that it does. Meta has come from interstellar space. It is radiating strong signals in a totally random pattern. Space, close to a planet or a sun, is far more heavily loaded with matter than the gulfs between the stars. That is why we only heard it when it had come relatively close. Those sounds we hear are the destruction of matter—the dirge of dying atoms. It fits, Victor. The theory fits.”

  “Too well, John,” Bergman looked suddenly far older than his years. “But there’s something you haven’t been told yet. The computer confirmed it only minutes ago. Meta is on an impact collision path with Earth. And, if it is composed of antimatter—then God help the world!”

  C H A P T E R

  Three

  There would be nothing left. The air would burn in a flaming holocaust of destruction. The land would follow, the seas, every atom of matter either living or dead. Explosions beyond imagining, more terrible by far than the hydrogen bombs which men had made in their madness to emulate the gods of destruction. Nothing could survive because each and every atom, once it had touched antimatter, would join with its alien counterpart to vent its total energy in the absolute conversion of matter. The fragments of Earth which remained untouched by the alien substance would be pulverized into dust and left to drift as yet another cloud in the lonely immensity of space. Humanity would vanish together with all other forms of life. It would be annihilation. The old prophecies would be fulfilled with one minor alteration. When it happened no one would be spared. The sinner and the righteous would dissolve in flame together.

  “Are you certain?” On the screen Simmonds stared in stunned disbelief. “Do you understand what you are saying? The end of the world! John, it’s incredible!”

  “So is death until it happens,” said Koenig. “Always we believe that it couldn’t happen to us. Other planets have been destroyed in the past—the Asteroids are proof of that—well, now it’s our turn. I’m giving you warning so as you’ll have the maximum time to save what you can.”

  “Save? How? Where?”

  “Send Eagles into space loaded with seeds, tools, equipment, selected technicians. They might manage to make a fresh start on Mars, maybe, or even on the wreckage of Earth. Or,” added Koenig, slowly, “there could be another way. A chance, but I think a good one. But in order to take it I must have full authority. My decisions must be freed of Council interference. I must have total and absolute command in fact as well as in name.” Then, as still Simmonds hesitated, he snapped, “Damn it, man, what have you to lose? If I fail we’ll all be dead.”

  And, if they lived, he would have to face the anger of a powerful enemy but, already, he had drawn the Commissioner’s venom. Marcia would have been proud of him, thought Koenig, dully. She would have appreciated his taking advantage of the situation to enhance his own power, not understanding that he had demanded full authority only to ensure that he received implicit obedience from the personnel of the base. Not everyone had been glad to see Gorski leave. Not everyone would be willing to follow his orders without question. Orders which might send them to their death.

  “Commander?” Doctor Mathias was on the screen. “The report you have been waiting for.
As far as can be determined those men died because of particle-penetration of the brain. The cellular damage was minor but the implanted radiation was sufficient to destroy the nodular areas and lead to a dichotomy between the cerebal and physical function. The cause is unknown.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Please let me have your official report.” Koenig’s commlock buzzed as he switched off the screen, Helena Russell’s face staring at him from the instrument. She entered the office as he opened the smaller door and stood before him, a woman barely able to control her anger.

  “Commander, I wish to lodge an official protest as to your overriding of my authority. Doctor Mathias is a member of my staff and all orders as to his conduct should be passed through me.”

  “Why?”

  The question shook her and for a moment she stared at him, too angry to reply, too stunned to realize the significance of what he had said.

  Koenig repeated it, “Why should I have passed my orders through you, Doctor? Are you the commander of this base or am I? And by what right do you come into my office and accuse me of diminishing your authority?”

  “You command the base,” she said, coldly, “but I command Medical. As such I am entitled to respect.”

  “You have that.” Koenig rose. “And you have my admiration for your achievements as well as my regard for you as a woman. But, in the final essence, I have authority over your department.” He wondered why he was pressing the matter, why it seemed so important for him to beat her down, to make a point of her recognizing his position. Then she moved and he caught the glint of her hair and recognized the probable reason for his antagonism. Again, as he had before, he was using her as a substitute for Marcia and, as before, he realized both the stupidity and the unfairness of his attitude.

  “Doctor Russell,” he said, “I ask your forgiveness. I have been curt and rude and overbearing. I have no excuse to offer but that of the present emergency. Time is of importance and I thought to save a few minutes. Obviously I did not think deeply enough; had you chosen to be uncooperative you could have delayed the investigation.” He held out his hands in mute appeal. “Need we be other than friends?”

  For a moment she remained stiff and unyielding then, with a fleeting smile, lifted her own hands and touched his fingers with her own.

  “We work for the same ends, Commander, and I realize the strain of your position. Weren’t you to have been married today?”

  Bergman, of course, he would have known and told her or the news could have been relayed by the link with Earth or whispered by the stewardess which whom he had travelled. The proposed marriage had been no secret, Marcia had seen to that, and it was only natural for people to talk. But had it been arranged for today? Had time passed so quickly?

  “The investigation, Commander.” The woman dropped her hands. “What did it prove? Aside from the manner of death, naturally.”

  “The cause, I hope.”

  “Which is?”

  “Something I’m almost afraid to think about. All the men affected were either in or over Disposal Area Two. Natural enough, Area One is full and can hold no extra cans, but if what I suspect is true any man working there would also have fallen victim to the sickness.”

  Koenig glanced at a chronometer, Kano, at the computer, would have had time to run his checks by now. “Let’s see if I’m right Doctor—and let’s pray that I’m not.”

  Buried deep beneath the surface, shielded, sealed against external interference, the laboratory was a shrine to the cold disciplines of science and, in it, Victor Bergman was the High Priest. Alone he sat at a wide bench cluttered with apparatus, a control panel at his side, the surface studded with dials, lights and digital readouts. The lighting was soft, a pearly glow which was caught and enhanced by the sheen of crystal and metal, of ceramics and artificial substances formed and fashioned by the ingenuity of Man. The only sound was a slight sussuration from the fans wafting air into the compartment, the soft inhalations of his own breathing, the slight rustle of his clothing as he made adjustments to the panel.

  A moment of strain and anticipation paid for by the aerospace industries of Earth; the consortium which had won permission to establish the laboratory on the Moon and to place Bergman in charge. A gamble which, if won, could provide new and economical means of interstellar transport with the fantastic profits which would result from their use. And such a small thing could solve the problem; the discovery of an anti-gravity field, a means to eliminate inertia, a way to utilize and divert kinetic energy—a variety of tantalizing fields in which to delve and search and test and probe with, always as yet, success seeming to lie but a step away.

  A step he had been taking for years now, each time mastering his disappointment, knowing that progress was a matter of inching along rather than taking a mammoth leap. Yet, perhaps, this time? This time?

  Deliberately Bergman forced himself to relax. The experiment had been set, the apparatus assembled and the programme devised. Already the panel had been set and for him, now, there was nothing to do but wait and observe. An idle moment of relative inactivity during which old memories stirred and old scars opened to renew their torment. Before him the glimmering apparatus took on a new shape, a new meaning, winks of brightness turning into the glow of lights, the rain which had blurred his vision, the reflections from the road, other cars.

  A moment in which, for him, a world had ended.

  He had been blameless—how often had they assured him of that! A careless driver jumping a stop light, moving too fast to halt, his reactions too slow for him to avoid the crushing, tearing impact which had speared his torso on the steering column. Both vehicles had been wrecked. Bergman had been knocked unconscious to hang with a shattered rib cage in his supportive belts. The woman at his side, his wife . . . dear God, did she have to die?

  It had been instantaneous, they had told him. A snapped vertebrae which had turned a warm, living and loving woman, a creature of smiles and radiant happiness into a thing of cold flesh and sightless eyes. Years ago now yet never had he forgotten. And never had he allowed himself since then to feel as close to anyone as he had to her. To become so involved. To risk ever again knowing such hurt and emotional pain.

  A lamp winked on the panel and he blinked, returning to the present, his whole intellect now concentrated on the experiment now taking place. Outside the base, sheltered by a reflective dome so as to avoid the heat of the sun, massed coils rested in baths of frozen helium. Within the superconductors spun torrents of electrical power, trapped energy which rotated around the coils without resistance or loss. An energy source of controllable intensity, pure of any aberration, measurable to an incredible degree of accuracy.

  Power which flowed to activate carefully placed crystals, to resonate them, to build a harmonic which impinged on a torus of laminated metals, to enhance and amplify the residual eddy-currents, to . . .

  Bergman drew in his breath as needles kicked. A flood of magnetism of intense magnitude, another of reversed polarity, pulses which co-joined, opposed, heterodyned and fused to leave—something new.

  A wide plate, suspended above the bench, lifted a trifle, the supporting wires slackening into loops. A series of dials flashed winks of light as needles reached maximum, falling, to surge again. A metal support turned red and slumped into fused ruin. The torus glowed with a brilliant wash of rainbows which bathed the room with swathes of red and yellow, green and blue, violet and indigo, darts and flashes of brilliance leaping in sparkles over the bench and the apparatus it contained.

  A moment of intense strain during which Bergman felt the sparse hair on his head lift to the impact of invisible energies and his skin prickle to the thrust of strange forces.

  Then it was over, the dancing, drifting flashes of light ending, the rainbows growing dark, the hum and surge of power yielding to the soft sussuration of the air-conditioner and yet something remained. The memory of the rising plate, the impact of energies, the sense of the unknown. The subtle combination of
observed data which told him that, somehow, progress had been made.

  The monitors would confirm it. Later he would check the data they had recorded, comparing it against the expected and isolating the new; weighing erg against erg of used power and searching for any discrepancy. But already he was sure that progress has been made. If not a step then, at least, a millimetre, yet add enough millimetres together and the universe could be traversed.

  The way of science. The slow, painstaking way from the mud of ignorance to the pure light of reason. The building of one fact on another, of testing each new theory, of discarding old beliefs when evidence made them absolute, of always being ready to question and of never making the mistake of being absolutely certain.

  Bergman narrowed his eyes as he studied the board. The results had been not exactly as he had expected, some odd manifestation of energies had introduced an unknown factor into the null-G field he had been trying to establish. Gravity and magnetism had much in common, certainly one could have an effect on the other and, by heterodyning opposed wave-pattern of directed energy he had hoped to negate them both. The lifting of the plate confirmed he was working in the right areas. The plethora of colors and the fusing of the metal strut must be due either to unanticipated side-effects or the introduction of a new element. If the latter it must be both strong and external to the laboratory. That, at least, could be checked immediately.

  “David?” Bergman smiled as Kano’s face appeared on the screen of his commlock. “If you are busy I apologize but—”

  “I am busy, Professor.”

  “Later then? I want a check on any source of intense activity in or close to the base. One which occurred within the past few minutes.” He saw the technician’s eyes move and heard the rumble of a voice from someone obviously standing to one side. “David?”