Space 1999 - Earthfall

by E. C. Tubb

  Now, leaning back in his chair, he said, thoughtfully, “It would be unwise to jump to conclusions on the basis of so little evidence but I must admit that the actions of the aliens do seem to follow a recognizable pattern. There is no doubt as to the organic nature of the thing you captured? No?” He shrugged at Bergman’s frown. “You are a scientist. Professor, and know too well that it is never advisable to take things for granted. What looks like organic fibre could easily be a polyester or natural threads such as asbestos. You appreciate my concern.”

  Koenig said, quickly, conscious of Bergman’s irritation, “Full tests have been made on the specimen, Amil. The substance is organic. What I want to know is what to expect if our suspicions are correct.”

  “You mention bees.” Yagnik delved among the books scattered on his desk, checked a title, discarded it for another. “They are a communal insect, of course, but far from unique. There are wasps, ants, termites, hornets, all community-living insects which build hives. And, among the bees themselves there are widely different species, the Bumble bee, for example, the Mason, the Carpenter.”

  “So?”

  “Each group has their own life-pattern. I assume you want my advice on how to deal with the menace?”

  “Naturally.”

  “In that case it is essential to determine exactly which type of creature they are. Treatment which would work against one would not necessarily work against another. The Bumble bee, for example, builds its nest below ground and lives on the nectar gathered from clover. It has a specialized tongue. The Mason—” He broke off as he saw Koenig’s expression. “You see my point?”

  “The things are alien,” said Koenig. “They cannot, by definition, be familiar to you. Therefore any discussion on known species can only be academic.”

  “But helpful,” said Bergman. He could sympathize with Yagnik, he too had a penchant for giving lectures at inopportune moments. “Amil, from what we’ve learned, can you draw an analogy with any known species? I know it can only be a guess but, from you, at least it will be an educated one.”

  Mollified the man delved again among his papers, an action born of habit, saving him the necessity of meeting hostile eyes and giving him time to assemble his thoughts. The eyes facing him now were not hostile and both men knew the value of patience, but old habits died hard.

  “This certainly seems to resemble the bulk of a Queen bee,” said Yagnik, finally, studying the photograph Sandra had taken. “The attendant shapes would, in that case, be her protectors. But a Queen normally takes off alone after the nuptial flight to find a suitable place to make a nest, biting off her wings and settling down to lay a stream of eggs. A similar pattern is followed by ants and, of course, termites are strongly related to the ant species though much older and more highly specialized. What intrigues me is the matter of food. How can any species hope to gain nourishment from rock and dust?”

  “Bacteria can,” said Bergman. “And we are in an alien continuum, remember. Nourishment must be obtained by crushing and processing the rock—we can pick up the vibrations of what could be either grinding or digging and is probably both. Radiation also must provide a source of energy. We were attacked because of our electrical emissions. To those creatures the forces they picked up must have represented a potential danger. Their reaction was to destroy the source and so to ‘kill’ the potential enemy. To them intensity must equate with size and so they tolerate a low-strength emission.” He added, grimly, “too low for us to function as a viable environment for much longer.”

  And if they should breed? Koenig had a mental image of swollen, grotesque shapes taking up positions in other, further craters, their attendants rising to fill space with glitters of light, the very stone crumbling as it was plundered of its minerals and basic elements. How long would it be before the Moon became dominated by the aliens? What chance would the vulnerable bodies of those in the base have against creatures perfectly adapted to their environment?

  “I can see why you are influenced as to the analogy of bees,” said the entomologist. He had been listening to the sound-recording. “The background drone is highly reminiscent of their murmur but the association is false—here we are dealing with radio reception and not atmospheric vibration. The blips are undoubtedly a form of communication and must be similar to the touching of antenna common among ants and termites.”

  “Please, Amil, we’ve had enough of lectures.”

  “As you say, Professor.” Yagnik picked up a book. “This is by Fabre, possibly the greatest authority on the termite ever to have lived. He touched on the possibility that a commune—and he was speaking of termites—could have a form of gestalt intelligence. It was nothing more than a speculative theory and he mentioned it merely to prove an explanation for certain, unanticipated reactions he discerned during his investigations. I mention it because the aliens could have something of a similar nature.”

  “So?”

  “It means time is against us, Commander. To me these things are more analogous to termites than to bees. They will have a higher social order of greater complexity and be able to breed a wider variety of specialized types. Already there must be those harvesting the rock, delving beneath the surface, building stores and citadels.”

  “Ants?”

  “Termites, Commander. They do all those things and more.”

  “Why when they have the torpedoes?”

  “They are creatures adapted for space-mobility. A form of shock-troops needed to give both protection during transit and to clear the landing site of any enemies. But once the subsurface types are in action they will be much more difficult to handle. Vibration could attract them and the heat of our bodies and machines. And, of course, when the creature spawns the threat will be multiplied.” He added, bleakly, “If you propose action, Commander, I would not advise delay. It could already be too late.

  C H A P T E R

  Sixteen

  Max Kufstein looked at the bulk of the reactor and shuddered, thinking of Brian, the madness in which he had shared. Teal was dead now and Anoux and too many others and he could have been one of them if his luck hadn’t changed. At least he owed the aliens that but Volochek hadn’t forgotten.

  Which was why he was wearing a heavy anti-radiation suit, covered with sweat, his veins filled with a protective compound and his guts turning to water as he watched the leader of the squad twist the dragon’s tail.

  That was what they had called it way back when atomics were new; taking a couple of pieces of uranium 253 both under critical mass, touching them, making them active, jerking them apart before true fission could take place. Small pieces which could not have detonated but which could, and did, release a killing flood of radiation if the operator was careless. A game which had ended when too many had died or lost their hands.

  “Max, you ready?” Biebuyck, his voice a rasp of gravel. A big man who held no malice, his irritation was as much a part of his face and neck. An accident which had taught him caution; a healthy respect for the devil residing in the heart of the reactor. A thing atomic engineers learned or ceased being engineers of any kind. “Max?”

  “Ready when you are.” Kufstein hoped his voice didn’t betray him. All right, so he was a coward when it came to things he couldn’t see. A human enemy was one thing, he could hold his own in a brawl and had, but the invisible sleet which could have already penetrated his body to poison his blood, the marrow of his bones, killing him with sores and leukaemia—he’d known a woman once whose child had died that way.

  “Stand by,” ordered Biebuyck to the squad. “Routine procedure but make it fast. You volunteers just do as you were told to do. If I give an order obey it without argument. If anything happens don’t panic.”

  Sure, thought Kufstein, bitterly, don’t panic. Just stand and obey and take your dosage like a hero. How many Rontgens to curtains? He glanced at the other “volunteer” wondering if Volochek had given him the same choice. Co-operate or else. Gain redemption or take your knock
s later. And those knocks wouldn’t be gentle. They could even be fatal; an accident, a sabotaged suit, a faked argument and a broken neck—it had been better to play along.

  “Ready?” Biebuyck sucked in his breath, the sound loud over the speakers. “Gustav! Muhl! Go to it!”

  Suited men threw back the safety locks on the reactor, gloved hands darting with practised skill, heads turning to check monitors, the dials of instruments. The sound of impacting metal made a dull chiming then followed clanks as the links were engaged, the slither of polished metal, the rapid, concise movements of men engaged in a dance with death.

  Basically the procedure was simple. Plutonium, bred in the reactor, was withdrawn, placed in specially constructed boxes where it was shaped by careful pressure, the boxes dropped into other containers, the containers fed into a flexible tube in which was a moving belt which carried them through a haze of anti-radiation foam and a series of checking geiger counters. Kufstein’s job was to feed the boxes into the tube, using tongs to grip and hold. Fear made him clumsy. Turning he swung his load too wide, the box striking the thigh of the other volunteer, the tongs slipping to allow the container to drop to the floor. As it hit it split, the inner box rolling free to come to rest against the body of the reactor itself. As it rolled it met the foot of a man handling a rod, throwing him off balance, causing him to stagger, to drop his load.

  “God! No!”

  Kufstein inwardly cringed, seeing the two come close, anticipating the explosion, the sudden blast of flame and searing radiation which would turn the interior of the chamber and everything it held into a cloud of incandescent, radioactive vapor. An exaggeration, there would be no explosion, the masses were wrongly shaped and joined too slowly, but there would be radiation which, aside from the pyrotechnics, would end exactly the same. No one present could hope to survive.

  Then Biebuyck was moving, hurling his bulk forward, his body hitting the rod, throwing it to one side, the load it held falling well clear of the contents of the broken box but, falling, spread his body over the wreckage.

  “Christ!” He heard Gustav’s voice as he climbed to his feet “You—”

  “Move!” His voice rasped over the other, drowning it. “Get this mess cleared up! Hurry, damn you! Hurry!”

  “But, Chief—”

  “Shut up, Gustav! You too, Muhl!” Biebuyck had taken a heavy dose and knew it but there was no need for the fact to be advertised. The volunteers could run scared and even the rest of the squad could be spooked. “Quit talking and get working. Move!”

  From where he sat before the computer David Kano said, “We now have all the Eagles’ missiles equipped with nuclear warheads aside from those using chemical explosives and incendiary compounds. The last of the material for use in the prophylactic blast has been removed from the reactors. The calculations, Professor, match the prediction as I think you will agree.”

  Bergman took the slip Kano handed to him, moving slowly as he regained his seat at the desk. The incisions made in his torso were still a little sore and it was as well to remember the stitches within, but he had discarded the wheelchair and Helena hadn’t argued.

  “Just be careful, Victor,” she’d insisted. “You’ve had major surgery and—”

  “I’m not as young as I was?”

  “With that heart you could live for ever. I just don’t want to see it wasted nor all the work I put into installing it. If you let me down I’ll keep you in harness for six months. That’s a promise.”

  And a warning he didn’t intend to ignore. At times Helena Russell could be a martinet and he sensed that she had meant exactly what she’d said. Now, studying the figures, he tapped his fingers on the keys of his calculator, not checking, there was no point in that, but extrapolating from a given premise.

  “We have no safety factor, David. All available material is being utilized.”

  “That is correct Professor.”

  “If we should need to fashion new missiles it will take—” He broke off, recognizing the stupidity of what he was saying. Unless the plan succeeded there would be no need for further missiles. “Chemical stores?”

  “Depleted, Professor.” Kano’s face betrayed no emotion. “You want the figures?”

  “No.”

  The computer could tell him to a gram exactly what materials of all kinds were available in the base and even, if he was curious, to what purpose they had been put, but it would be idle to ask the answers to questions which he already knew. And the one really important question, the only important one was one the computer couldn’t answer with any real accuracy.

  When?

  When would the things grinding into the Lunar crust decide they had penetrated deep enough? When would they head towards the area of the base, attracted by the waste heat of the installation and even the seepage of reactor-radiation? How long did they have before it was too late?

  Bergman picked up a photograph, another taken by a new robot which had lasted just long enough to reach the rim of the crater. The bulk within was, somehow, different. As bright, as huge, but a little oddly placed, a shape more distorted. Impatiently Bergman reached for the original picture, held it beside the other, compared them with quick movements of his eyes. The difference? What was the difference?

  “It’s lower, Victor. Check the relative heights of the crater wall and you’ll see by how much.”

  Koenig had entered Main Mission and approached without Bergman being aware of his presence. Power, shunted about the base, had created the illusion of cacophony; ears, no longer accustomed to the steady pulse of the environment, tended to be deafened by the small sounds of active instruments so that the normal soft pad of footsteps passed unnoticed. Bergman glanced up at him then back at the photographs.

  “Digging in, John?”

  “I think so. The seismograph on the lowest level shows an increase in vibration consistent with that assumption. Something is grinding away out there and it can only be our visitor.”

  Another intelligence, perhaps, a sharp and keen brain which, even though alien, might be willing to communicate if the right approach could be found. A dream and Bergman knew it. Any attempt to signal on its rapid frequency would result in an immediate attack. Yet, he felt that, no matter what the cost, the attempt should be made.

  “The external positions have been built and are ready to be manned,” said Koenig, as if guessing his thoughts. “The Eagles are armed and ready and Carter is fuming with impatience. All dispositions have been made and you know what has to be done.”

  “Relax, John.”

  “Do you know, Victor?”

  “I know, but must we be in so much of a hurry? Given time I’m certain I could find some development of the flight-field utilized by the torpedoes. It is only a matter of observation and experiment. If I could get another specimen—”

  “Four men died to get the last one,” reminded Koenig.

  Four men with hopes and aspirations, dreams and ambitions. Four universes erased as their minds had dissolved into the eternal darkness. Yet the price of knowledge was always high. Bergman stared at the photographs, not seeing them, using them as a cover for thoughts and memories; Elgman whom he had known when young, dying unhonored, unsung, using his own body as a testing ground for a radical treatment against rabies. Tekoa who had wired his brain in an effort to locate the soul and who had bequeathed a fragment of precious information to the general pool, Phasel, Zabrinczski, Hiam Maltoa, Lenz—the list was endless.

  “Victor?”

  “I was thinking,” said Bergman. “Amil could be wrong.”

  As a priest could be wrong about the god he professed to serve—who could be an authority on the unknown?

  “He could be,” admitted Koenig. “Do you want to take the chance he is?”

  The offer of responsibility and the attendant penalty of knowing he had caused destruction should his judgement be at fault.

  “No,” said Bergman. “When?”

  “In three hours.”
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  Max Kufstein paused at the door and stared into a realm lit with tiny flames and filled with shadows. The vigil lights set about the ward conserved fat and oxygen but gave the place an eerie atmosphere of mystery and hidden menace as had a cellar he had once looked into when a boy before running, not accepting the dare to go inside, unknowingly saving himself the terror of being locked in the webbed darkness.

  “Yes?” A man stared at him from a bed. “You want something?”

  Kufstein ignored him, passing on to where brighter lights threw spears of brilliance in reflections from polished surfaces, to where a dim, overall glow showed the figure on the bed, the apparatus assembled around, the winking monitors and glowing dials.

  “Biebuyck? Is that you, Chief?”

  The figure didn’t answer but the woman who turned from where she examined a bank of instruments filled the silence.

  The same questions fired by the man in the bed but, this time, they could not be ignored.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m Kufstein, Max Kufstein. I was working with him when it happened?”

  “Have you been checked? Cleared?”

  “Yes, Doctor Russell, both.” He had recognized her as she stepped towards him, a touch of ruby light turning the gold of her hair to a russet sunset. “I was the last. Doctor Mathias checked me out. I was wondering if I could do anything to help.”

  “Kufstein,” she said, thoughtfully. “The friend of Anoux’s?”

  “Once.” He met her eyes. “So I made a mistake—do I have to keep paying for it?”