Space 1999 - Earthfall

by E. C. Tubb

  “Well within schedule, Commander.” Morrow grunted as light lashed from the panels before him. “Probe loaded and ready to go.”

  “To capacity?”

  “Yes. Alan signalling all checked and primed.”

  “Check on Meta and relay accurate position. Test shuttle for remote operation. Go when ready.”

  Frowning Simmonds said, “What the hell’s going on, John. What are you going to do? That Stellar Probe cost billions, are you going to wreck it?”

  “No, use it.”

  “How?”

  As the first line of the defence to save a planet. As the first part of a plan which, unless it worked, would leave Earth helpless against the death-storm of matter nearing it from alien space. Painstakingly Koenig explained.

  “We are certain now that Meta is composed of antimatter and that it is on a collision course with Earth. Unless stopped it will hit within twelve hours. When it does the world will cease to exist. The air will burn, the crust split and the inner magma spill into the seas. There will be earthquakes, tidal waves, devastation beyond anything previously imagined. The entire planet could shatter and become a second Asteroid Belt. I warned you about this.”

  “And I checked, John. The Everest Observatory didn’t back your statements. They said Meta was a mass of debris, the signals caused by the impact of colliding particles, and even if it came close it could do no harm. The only result would be a heavy meteor shower with spectacular results. Jodrell Bank said about the same. Pasadena backed them both.”

  “All are wrong.”

  “You can’t blame them, John. You weren’t too sure yourself.”

  “That was days ago—but still you decided to play it safe, Commissioner.”

  “I came—well, never mind.” There would be time for revenge later, but Simmonds let nothing of his anger show on his face. He had walked into an unsuspected trap, one day he would find out who had sent the warning, for now he must appear to be content with the situation, to watch and wait and win what allies he could. And, while waiting, he could learn. “I came, John,” he said, mildly. “To be frank. I was concerned as to your emotional stability. Marcia, your attitude—I was anxious and am willing to admit it. But the Stellar Probe? How can that help?”

  “A gamble,” said Koenig. He stepped away from the main console to stand before a wide screen depicting the area of space containing the mysterious invader. “Meta is composed of antimatter but its continual radiation emission makes it difficult for us to determine its exact size and composition. It could be a mass of fragments with a relatively wide dispersion or a solid mass of high density. I’m hoping it will prove to be the latter.”

  “Why?”

  “A more compact target. If it’s a collection of fragments some will escape and even a small mass will create chaos on Earth should it hit. The probe will tell us exactly and may even diminish if not totally eliminate the threat. Paul?”

  “Leaving in eight, Commander.” Morrow threw a switch and a sharp, hard clicking rose above the sussuration of noise. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . zero!”

  A long, slender shape appeared on the screen, man-made, carefully designed, the swell of atomic engines housed in external bubbles, the nipped communications tunnel reminiscent of the thorax of an insect, the needle tipped prow a thrusting mandible, the flare of the hydrogen-sweep the fragile vanes of gossamer-like wings, the stern alive now with the thrust and brilliance of the jets which, like a livid sting, seared the void with blue-white fire.

  The Stellar Probe making its first and final journey.

  It was packed tight with Lunar dust, each compartment, each corridor, every cubic centimetre loaded with a powder as fine as talc. The structure itself had been fitted with shaped explosive charges arranged to detonate in a sequence which would cause the vessel to open into a grotesque flower of metal and plastic, sections unfolding to cover the widest possible area, the whole arranged around the scintillant heart of the engines which would shine like a star amidst a spreading cloud of shielding dust.

  Dust which would flare into lambent fury as it met any drifting atom of antimatter. Solid metal which would drift towards the heart of the main mass the engine itself adding atomic fury to the raging destruction, burning, negating the threat in a blast of mutual annihilation.

  A shield to absorb the horror threatening Earth. One guided by a man.

  Kano watched as the vessel shrank into distance, the fingers of his left hand touching the carved amulet which his grandfather had given him, oiled wood shaped into the likeness of a legendary god. Mbolmuta who rewarded the brave with long life and many strong sons, with fine cattle and faithful wives. A superstition and only respect for the old man had prevented him from refusing the gift when it was offered during his final farewell. But what had kept him from throwing it aside when, later, every gram of personal possessions had gained importance when conveyed to the Moon?

  Now he touched it and prayed that Alan would keep his head and remember that a space filled with alien energies would be unfamiliar, that instruments could be affected, that systems be less obedient and that even the human sensory mechanisms could become less than reliable. Wanting the man to leave and return so that again they could sit and talk of the mysteries to be found among the stars.

  As Morrow prayed in his own fashion, one hand clenched and pounding at his knee, his lips barely moving with subvocalized words.

  “Keep your head, you crazy bastard! Get out while you can. Remember to watch the dials and don’t act the hero. Fix the ship and get out of there. Get out, you dummy! Get out!”

  As Sandra Benes prayed with more gentle words learned at a school which she had attended in her early youth where the air had been hushed and graced with the perfume of incense and the solemn tones of sonorous bells had taught her of a world beyond the one she knew.

  As, in the Medical Section, nurse Paula Yancy felt the nails dig into her palms and the teeth bite into her lower lip as, listening, she waited and tried not to remember the transient joy of the touch of his hands and the soft pressure of his lips, the feel of his hard, young body against the yielding softness of her own as, so short a while ago now, they had made love.

  All of them waiting as the hands of the chronometer counted the passing time, as the screen showed space limned with stars, the curtain of luminescence, the blur of distant nebulae and, among them, a brilliant point which moved.

  “Time, Paul?”

  “Twenty minutes to the point of no return, Commander.” A pause then, Morrow added, “Shall I order him to abandon the Probe?”

  “No.”

  “It will take time for him to reach the shuttle and blast clear. More time for him to hit an avoiding vector, kill momentum and avoid the blast.”

  “He knows what to do.”

  And knew, also, that there could be no second attempt. If he misjudged, failed to align the Probe correctly, panicked and ran too soon—the first defence would have failed and who could be sure if the other would work?

  “Fifteen minutes, Commander.”

  “I know, Paul.”

  Koenig kept his eyes on the screen, fighting the temptation to order the return of the pilot, to make sure that at least one life would be saved. A weakness which he resisted.

  “Ten minutes, Commander.”

  “We have time, Paul, and so does Alan. Check all external areas and see they are clear. No workers to be exposed. Solar flare procedure.” Orders to avoid the main issue, but necessary just the same. Others would be waiting, watching, careless of their own safety. Meta was, as yet, hours distant but closer than the sun. Any blast of radiation could have ugly results. “Priority, Paul!”

  “Sir!” Morrow attended his instruments, his own voice as harsh as Koenig’s own as he made his final report. “All areas clear. All personnel under cover and solar flare precautions in full operation.”

  “Time?”

  Morrow didn’t hesitate. “Three minutes.”
/>   “Get him out of that ship! Out!”

  Three minutes at the speed the vessel would now be travelling would convert to a fantastic mileage but equally so any variation made now would have little effect. And there was a time to bend the rules and to take a calculated risk. Three minutes, allowing for transmission time, response, question, throwing of remotes, release of seat-restraints, moving to the escape hatch, to the air-lock, to the shuttle . . .

  And, if a door should stick or a relay jamb—God help Alan Carter!

  Koenig could see his face against the stars, the deep-set eyes, the hair, the mouth with its quirk at the corners. An Australian, his Strine twang barely noticeable, a romantic and a favourite among the girls. A man with a sense of humor and a love of living all secondary to the one great spur of his life. His need to fly, to be among the stars, to rise like Icarius above the ground and to master an alien element and to make it his own.

  A man who had willingly agreed to spend years locked in a metal coffin so that he could have been among the first to see an alien sun and, perhaps, an alien world. A man willing to spend long, solitary years so as to be the first captain ever to traverse interstellar space.

  A hero in an era which scorned heroics.

  A scrap of living tissue which would be burned to ash in the blast as an ant in the flame of a blowtorch if he didn’t move and soon.

  Move, Alan! Move, damn you! Move!

  “Shuttle detached,” said Morrow, and released his breath in a sigh of relief. “Return procedure being followed.”

  “Good,” said Koenig. “Kano?”

  “Impact within ten minutes. Commander. No observable alteration in course of Meta.”

  “Activity increasing,” said Sandra Benes from her station. “Radiation showing a sharp upward climb.”

  A climb accompanied by the rattle of signal-noises from the speakers, the eerie, ghostly sounds which imagination could turn into the sound of a baby crying, a woman pleading, the unborn demanding their chance at life and happiness.

  The impact of disturbed atoms as Koenig knew. The thin, almost non-existent winds of space, a vacuum when compared to normal breezes but even so a wind in its own right. Debris moved and caught by the pressure built up before the speeding vessel. Atoms thrown like minute bullets against the alien mass. Particles which, even now, were dying in flashes of radiant glory.

  “Alan,” said Morrow. “Report on condition? All in the green? Good. Continue as instructed.” He glanced at Koenig where he stood before the screen. A hard man, he thought, cold, impassive, scarcely human—what had he cared about the pilot? Then he saw the strain around the eyes, the tenseness of the jaw, little ridges of muscle trembling with fatigue maintained too long, and knew he was jumping to an erroneous conclusion. Not lack of concern for one, but a constant anxiety for all forced Koenig to wear his mask. To turn himself into apparent iron and to present an appearance of unfeeling resolve. Would he himself have the self-discipline to be as firm?

  “Paul?” Alan Carter’s voice came from the speakers, his face appearing on the screen. “Are you there, Paul?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Wake up, man. You looked lost in a dream. If you want to save your eyes you’d better get filters up on the scanners and shield the ports. A sun’s due to be born, remember?”

  “Check. Take care, Alan.” Morrow punched buttons then, to Koenig, reported. “Base sealed against flare, Commander.”

  If Koenig had heard the exchange between the Controller and the pilot he gave no sign.

  “Thank you, Paul, Commissioner, if you’d rather wait in my office?”

  “I’ll wait here,” snapped Simmonds. He could learn nothing while in isolation. “What happens now?”

  “We wait.”

  “And?”

  “Pray,” said Koenig. “Or, if you aren’t religious, then keep your fingers crossed.”

  “For a miracle, John?”

  Koenig caught the sneer, the implication and felt a sudden rage. It flowered and was controlled almost at once but, when he turned to face the other, his mouth was thin with a cruel resolve which matched the bleakness of his eyes.

  Then, before he could speak, Kano said, “Fifty seconds, Commander. A countdown?”

  “No. Sound red alert.”

  Unnecessary, but a good excuse for a drill and a precaution, which might be of value. And the activity as the base went to full emergency standby eased the tedium and strain of waiting. Alarms echoed as doors sealed sections into individual, self-sufficient compartments. Power was dampened, the air-conditioners thrown to dual-system control, Security men, fully suited and armed took up their positions and, like a sensitive animal crouched and waiting unknown danger, the base rested in strained awareness.

  “Three seconds,” said Kano. “Two . . . one . . . zero!”

  For a long, dragging moment the screens remained blank, lit only by the glimmer of stars, the normal splendor of the universe, then minute flecks of light darted like a host of fireflies over the observed area, glimmers of brilliance which died as soon as born to be replaced with others and yet others, stronger, lasting longer, stabs of raw energy which grew to join and blaze in a ravening fury of absolute destruction.

  “Radiation rising in geometrical progression,” said Sandra, tensely. “Level one twentieth solar . . . one tenth . . . one fifth . . .”

  Space erupted with a sudden, savagely bright blaze of incandescent disruption.

  The dust hit and was consumed. The metal stanchions burned like twigs in a furnace and, burning, destroyed. The bulk of the engine expanded, heavy elements vaporizing, reaching, tearing at the very fabric of the continuum itself as matter destroyed matter with the fury of released demons of ancient legend.

  Koenig cried out and clapped his hands to his eyes as, beside him, Simmonds yelled his terror. For a moment everyone in Main Mission was dazzled, blinded by the magnesium-bright incandescence then, as the after-images danced in retinal blues and greens and drifting ambers, Koenig said, “Sandra, report!”

  “Radiation no longer mounting. Residual activity only.”

  “Paul?”

  “Base secure. No damage. Flare precautions effective.”

  “Stand down from red alert. Kano?”

  Koenig waited as the technician fed data to the computer and checked the results. He frowned and checked his findings finally looking up, the readout in his hand.

  “Failure, Commander. The Stellar Probe did not totally eliminate Meta. However it does appear to have both diminished and split the main body. One segment is on a diverse path which will miss Earth. The other—” He broke off and glanced at the paper in his hand. “The other is on a collision course with the Moon!”

  C H A P T E R

  Five

  Paula Yancy dipped long fingers into a bowl half-filled with a clear blue fluid, picked up the pads it contained, squeezed them partly dry and turned to where Alan Carter sat in a dental chair.

  “Close your eyes,” she commanded then, as he did so, applied a pad to each pair of lids. The skin was reddened, burned but, thank God, the eyes themselves were unharmed. “You were a fool,” she said.

  “I was lucky.”

  “An idiot. You looked at the fireworks in the sky.”

  “I got the reflected blast from the foreshield of the Eagle,” he corrected. “I was on observation-watch, remember? When the Probe hit I was swinging into position. When it really caught I was checking the instruments. The blast came up at me from the shield. It was like staring into a maintained camera flash. If it hadn’t been for the filters—”

  “You’d be getting used to a white cane by now. Oh, Alan, you fool! Alan!”

  He felt her against him and closed his arms around her holding her tight, sensing the warmth from her body beneath the uniform, the soft curves which he knew could radiate such passion, respond so quickly to his touch, his need. Blinded by the pads he could see her face in his mind’s eye, the full lips, the curve of the cheek, the lau
ghter lines at the corners of the eyes. His fingers rose to touch her hair.

  “Paula!”

  “I love you,” she whispered. “Alan, I love you. Standing here, listening, waiting, I realized that. I think I’ve known it from the first but you were married to the Probe and, well, what chance could a girl have against a thing like that? But it’s gone now and you’re here and I love you, my darling. I love you!”

  A reward for inefficiency, he thought, bitterly. The soft and lovely body of a girl in his arms as compensation for having been near-blinded and having to land when he had been ordered to maintain observation. Not that it mattered, there had been nothing to see, the big spectacle was yet to come.

  “Alan!” She caught at his hands as he pulled the pads from his eyes. “Alan, don’t!”

  “Why not?” He threw aside the pads. “Do I need them? Really need them, I mean? No? Good, then give me some aspirin and let me go.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I must.” He rose from the chair. “There’s work to be done and I can’t help sitting here. And, lovely as you are, Paula, other things come first. Like making sure we survive, for example. Like seeing to it that we have a chance at a future.” Leaning forward he kissed her full on the lips, “Goodbye for now, Paula. Keep it warm until I get back.”

  “Alan!”

  But he was gone and only the pads remained, two soggy masses of tissue which lay on the floor and left damp patches when she picked them up. As she straightened she looked into the eyes of Helena Russell who, she realized, must have heard every word from where she had sat in her office.

  “Doctor Russell!”

  “How are his eyes?” Helena smiled as the girl blushed. “No burning of the cornea? No injury to the ball itself? Superficial singeing of eyelids and surrounding tissue only. I see.” She looked up from the clipboard which bore the results of the examination. “And Doctor Riden ordered soothing lotions, correct?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”