Space 1999 - Earthfall

by E. C. Tubb

  “No, John, but—”

  “We’ve no time for fancies, Victor, and no time for the luxury of futile guilt. You are no more to blame than any of us. Oh, I know what you’re thinking of. You blame that field you established, right?”

  “It didn’t behave as I’d anticipated,” said Bergman. “There was an unknown factor involved. I remember seeing the instruments react in a way inconceivable had the field remained stable. And there were odd phenomena.” The greenish glow, the strange sensation of weightlessness, the apparent impossibility of what was before his eyes. The very fact that he was still alive while so many other, healthier men, were dead. “The field,” he whispered. “It had to be the field.”

  “Victor!” Helena was at his side, a glass in her hand, the container half-filled with a pungent fluid. As he drank it she rested her fingertips on his throat. “Thank you, Helena.” He handed back the glass.

  “We’re not finished yet.” Calmly she fired her hypodermic at the point where her fingers had rested. “I’m giving you another fifteen minutes then you’re going to bed. If it wasn’t that you need to clear this guilt-syndrome out of your system I’d put you there now.”

  “You, Helena?”

  She said flatly, “Do you think I’d need extra help?”

  “No.” Trained, she could handle patients twice his size and half his age. “No, I don’t think you would.”

  Carter said, impatiently, “You were talking of the field, Professor.”

  “An unexpected side-effect of the protection I tried to establish around the radioactive wastes. The installation was based on superconductors and, when the plasma was formed, there had to be a combination of opposed and contra-mutual energies. Somehow the field was dissipated and yet contained. It permeated the substance of the Moon and rode in visible light on the surface. And it did something incredible.” Pausing he ended, quietly, “It negated the inertia of the Moon.”

  “Proof?” Koenig pushed aside the recorder with its tape. “You have proof, Victor?”

  “Only empirical. Why it happened or how I’ve no idea, that it did is a matter of observation. I am alive, the base was not destroyed, the Moon was moved from its orbit—how else to explain the impossible? For a while the exploding energies had no opposition to their thrust. The Moon, like a bubble in a high wind, yielded to those incredible impacts. Instant acceleration, a sudden shift—Alan saw it all.”

  “So we moved,” said Carter. “The Moon got kicked out of orbit and sent to wander in space. It happened because of a freakish combination of circumstances. All right, accepting that—where is the Earth now? Where is the sun? And, Professor, where the hell are we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that an answer?”

  “It’s the only one I can give. Anything else would be a guess. Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is to go home!”

  For a moment anger sparkled between them, a rage born of frustration and fear and a longing for the known and familiar, then it passed as Carter shrugged and made his apology.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly. “I guess my nerves are on edge. That and all the rest of it. Paula dying, the Earth in turmoil, us lost—well, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right, Alan.”

  “No, it isn’t all right and you know it,” Carter looked at his hands, they were trembling. “A pilot should never blow his cool. But if only we knew what had happened. If we knew where we are.”

  The screens hadn’t helped. Around them shone the cold light of a multitude of stars, bright and colorful points like a host of curious eyes. They threw a soft, even illumination which gentled the harsh edges of craters and fissures, turning the Lunar dust into a silvery coating of magical sand. The Earth was not to be seen, the sun had vanished. Alone they moved or hovered in space, already the sensors were trying to determine which, and the only fact was that they were in a region utterly strange.

  “Another dimension, perhaps,” Bergman was thoughtful. “The Moon was thrown from its orbit but it is inconceivable that it could have moved so fast as to have left the solar system so quickly. In any case, even if it had, the constellations would still be recognizable. They aren’t and so we are left with the conclusion that we have either been transported an incredible distance at almost instantaneous velocity or we have, somehow, been forced from our own, space-time continuum into another. I think the latter is the most probable answer.”

  A possibility and Koenig considered it, his eyes shadowed with thought. They had moved as an insect might over from one page of a book to another, not by crawling to the edge and then down the other side, but by actual penetration of the paper itself. A journey a fraction as long as the other and one taking relatively no time at all. And, if each page were to be considered as an alternative dimension of existence . . . ?

  He said, “The field you established, Victor, would be a containing medium. If the plasma had reinforced it on a sub-atomic level then it would have strengthened the barrier in direct ratio to its own energy-emission. Yet, at the same time, those energies would be straining to find release.”

  “A conflict,” agreed Bergman. “Tremendous forces held in a parlous stasis, struggling to escape—something had to give. I suspect what yielded was the fabric of our own continuum. In a sense a hole was torn and we were forced through.”

  “Into another universe,” said Carter. “Some crazy dimension. Will we ever get back?”

  “Perhaps. Given time and equipment it might be possible to determine the exact nature of the forces involved and to isolate the relevant equations. However, even then the possibility of finding Earth is remote. I would be deceiving you if I said otherwise.”

  “Lost,” said Carter. “Flung into God alone knows where for God knows how long. Is that the truth of it, Professor?”

  “Yes,” said Bergman. “I’m afraid that it is.”

  Helena said nothing, staring through the open doors of the office at the calm and ordered activity of Main Mission. How long would it last, she wondered. How long would the personnel maintain their show of outward normality? The immediate need to ensure the safety of the environment had narrowed their concentration, but with time would come knowledge and a realization of their position. What then?

  “We work,” said Koenig softly as if he had read her mind. “We have a habitable environment and four hundred and twenty-seven men and women. We have science and technology. We are human and have both the will and the ability to survive. One way or another we’ll meet this challenge and beat it. Moonbase Alpha will become our new world. Our new home.”

  Their home, Helena thought grimly, or their grave. A place in which to live or one in which they would die. They had no other choice.

  C H A P T E R

  Seven

  From the first the base had been designed to be a self-maintaining ecology as far as could be humanly achieved. Water was produced from hydrogen won from stone, oxygen gained from oxides, the two burned to provide the essential fluid. Food came from vats of chorella, the primitive life-form living on minerals and artificial sunlight. Harvested, dried, spiced with assorted flavours it provided basic nourishment. More came from synthetic sugars and fats produced from basic elements torn apart by torrents of available power. Fused rock and silicone-rich dust provided basic building materials and glass. Bores driven deep into the Lunar crust searched for and found veins of rare metals and essential minerals together with a plethora of basic compounds which could be used to feed the synthetic plants.

  Towards the end Earth had provided little more than a stream of luxuries; spices, flavours, natural sugars, fruits, confections, recordings, wines, savoury tidbits, cans of oysters, prawns, peaches steeped in brandy. Highly expensive things which the highly-paid staff enjoyed. Perfumes and fine fabrics, ornaments, costly chemicals, delicate fabrications and, of greater importance, the medicines, drugs, medical equipment and tools for use in the hospital. The micrometers, skeins of fine wire, brazing r
ods, welding sticks, washers, nuts, shims, nipples, electronic components for the workshops. Films for the cinema. Replacement parts for the laboratories. New strings for guitars and violins. Sewing thread for those who liked to make their own clothes, wool for knitting, paints, paper, pens—the list seemed endless.

  The list of things they now had to make or go without.

  Koenig leaned back in his chair and palmed his aching eyes. He had the impression of a man buried in sand which poured in to replace that he so painstakingly scooped away so that he was engaged on an endless task of monotonous futility. A moment, then he recognized the self-pity for what it was and, lowering his hands, stared again at the litter on his desk.

  Already he was adapting and making economics.

  The calculator shone with green figures but power was plentiful from the breeder-reactors and batteries could be recharged. Paper could not be regrown though, later, he would see if it could be reclaimed and a substitute found. Now he had stepped back to a more primitive age when the legions of Rome had marched across the known world. A thin board of plastic had been coated with a film of heavy grease. A scrap of wood drew lines and words, figures and calculations. Once used the board could be smoothed for use again. Soft, the grease would not wear the stylus. Yielding it did not run to waste.

  An anachronism, but he did not smile. At times he thought he had lost the ability to smile. As, at times he feared he had lost the ability to sleep.

  “Commander?” A face looked at him from the screen of his commlock as he answered the attention signal. Ivan Majolin, a good man and now a worried one. “We’re getting seepage from water storage tank five. My guess is there’s a crack running from the drain-junction back for, maybe, a metre.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Sure, with a couple of men in suits, some welding apparatus and a supply of rods and flux. It’ll take no more than a couple of hours.”

  “So why call me?”

  “How else to get the stuff?” Majolin’s lips thinned with anger. “It’s got so the stores won’t release a thing without a mile of red tape. Damn it, I was good enough to run my own sector before the bust and now those gooks treat me like a damned office boy. You want to lose water, that’s OK, by me. But let’s not have any guff about having to conserve every gram of everything in sight, eh?”

  “Hold it,” snapped Koenig. “Stand by.” He triggered the commlock and snapped to the operator, “Get me the stores. Hezekiah? What’s all this about you not releasing repair-material to Majolin?”

  The face in the screen was dark, the eyebrows thick, the eyes themselves pools of liquid jet. Hezekiah had originated in the Middle East and claimed ancient kings among his ancestors.

  “Your own orders, Commander. All material to be restricted for essential use only.”

  “Water-loss is essential.”

  “True, if the loss is as high as claimed. As yet I have only Majolin’s word there is a loss at all.”

  “Majolin isn’t a liar.”

  “Not if you say so, Commander.”

  A brick wall and Koenig recognized it, recognized too the danger of the situation. A demand rejected, the demand reinforced with brusque impatience, the heating of tempers, the sudden introduction of an ugly element. “Gooks” Majolin had said; a term implying anger and contempt. Once the enemy of his nation had been called that and he was old enough to have remembered stories related by his father who could have fought in the Asian war. Had a reactive prejudice surfaced under the impact of strain?

  “Hezekiah,” said Koenig, “we have a problem. I can’t blame you for being zealous in the conserving of stores yet caution can be carried too far. There are examples in history, I think. Didn’t the Persian Empire fall apart because of internal dissention caused by a retention of small zones of power?”

  “Not exactly that, Commander. It was rife with bureaucracy and each official was so jealous of his position that he refused to cooperate with anyone else outside of normal procedure, Government became encysted with endless protocol and an exaggerated attention to minor detail.”

  “So when the invaders came they couldn’t organize an effective defence quickly enough, right?”

  “I get your point, Commander.”

  “Good. Now about the items Majolin needs. We both know that he wouldn’t ask for them if they weren’t essential. Let him have them when he calls.” Koenig hardened his voice. “That is my order. But, Hezekiah, I don’t want to have to keep giving orders. I want men I can trust to use their discretion. Understood?”

  He triggered the commlock as the man nodded and, when Majolin returned to the screen, waited until he spoke.

  “Commander?”

  “Get the stuff and get on with the job. And, Ivan, just a word. Call Hezekiah a gook again and you’ll answer for it to me.”

  “He told you that? He’s a liar.”

  “You told me that, forgotten?”

  “You, maybe, but not him.”

  “Good. Maybe he’s upset over something else. He’s human too, you know.” Then, as Majolin shrugged, Koenig added, “Maybe you didn’t know he left a wife and three children back on Earth? He was due to take the shuttle down in a couple of weeks when his contract expired. He was worried about one of the girls and intended to quit. She had a bone-disease and he wanted to be with her in case she didn’t make it. It could be on his mind.”

  “I see.” Majolin scowled. “I didn’t know, hell, how could I? And maybe I was a little short. Sorry, Commander.”

  “Don’t apologize to me, Ivan. But next time try and remember that we’re all in this together.”

  A thing some of them had still to learn.

  Max Kufstein drew in his breath and expelled it in an angry gust against the sweat dewing his face and running down to his eyes and neck. The gust of air helped no more than the air conditioner of his suit which was supposed to cool his face and prevent the perspiration from running into his eyes. A failure of design or, no, rather a lack of correct maintenance. The absorption filters should have been checked and the blowers tested. The air-vent should have been re-aligned and the whole damned suit made safe and secure for a man to wear.

  “Max!” The voice came over the radio in his helmet. “Better bring that hammer over here now.”

  Anoux, as fussy as ever, standing, as usual, well back from the field of operations. Kufstein stared at him where he stood limned by the portable lights, suited as was the other man, Carl Jansen who worked the other electronic hammer as Anoux worked the drill.

  “Max, you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Then why don’t you come over here?”

  “Because I haven’t finished here yet.” Kufstein lifted the hammer and rested the toe against the wall before him. It was heavy but he made light of the weight; a big man he was proud of his strength. The instrument placed he hit the trigger and held it as pistons jerked within to slam their mass against the toe in a series of rapid blows. Beneath the metal the wall crumbled to rain down in a shower of fragments mixed with dust; debris easy and simple to remove by the suction pipes snaking back from the working face.

  “Max!”

  “Knock it off!” With sudden anger Kufstein yelled into his radio. “I’m working, ain’t I? What more do you want? Maybe if you used less mouth and more drill we’d get on a damned sight faster.”

  “Take it easy. Max,” said Carl. “If we don’t work as a team we can’t get the best result for the effort we put in. Raoul has drilled that wall and it’s ready for the hammer. It’ll shatter three times as fast as that rock you’re fighting.”

  Common sense, but Kufstein didn’t want to hear it. Again he sent the toe of his instrument against the workface, feeling the jar of it against his shoulder and chest, seeing the reluctant yielding of the Lunar rock. Drilled there would be weaknesses; fissures quickly made and fragments readily broken. As it was it was like hitting a wall with his clenched fist.

  “Max!”

 
“Leave him to it, Carl,” said Anoux. “If he wants to prove something then let him. Every man should be allowed to act the fool if he wants.”

  Lowering the hammer Kufstein said, “Are you calling me a fool?”

  “I’m saying we’re all getting a little tired.” Anoux lifted a hand in a gesture of peace. “Now relax, Max, and hold your temper. It’s time we moved the pipes, anyway. We don’t want to clog the area.”

  More sense but this time Kufstein was willing to be persuaded. His head ached in sympathy with his chest and the sweat running over his face was smarting his eyes. Beneath the suit his body felt slimy; the undergarment worn to prevent chafing now sopping with moisture.

  “I know,” said Carl when he mentioned it. “I’m the same.”

  “It’s to be expected,” said Anoux. “We’re wearing the suits longer than they were designed to tolerate. Not only that but we’re working at full effort for hours at a time.”

  “So what?” Max grunted as he stretched. “Work doesn’t hurt a man.”

  “Did I say it did? But we should at least have decent conditions. All right, I know the rock has to be mined for minerals and basic gases. I know also that we need to open up new compartments well below the surface—but I also know that work isn’t being shared evenly.”

  “We all know that,” said Jansen. “But women can’t be expected to dig into rock.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the women.” Anoux fell silent for a moment then said, “I was a laboratory technician working over in the disposal areas. Routine checks to make sure there was no radiation hazard. What did you do, Max?”

  “Maintenance engineer on the chorella vats.”

  “Carl?”

  “I was with electronics.” Jensen hesitated. “What are you getting at, Raoul?”

  “Nothing. I’m simply mentioning facts. How comes it that we are all here instead of following our own trades? I should be setting scanners out on the plains and surely we need workers at the vats?”