Space 1999 - Earthfall

by E. C. Tubb

  “Paul? Was that Alan who just returned? It was? Good. Anything to report?”

  From the screen Morrow said, “Nothing unusual, Commander. He aligned and dispatched the probe. Remotes test out in the green. Monitors the same. All we can do now is to wait.”

  Koenig looked up as the image died. High against the transparent dome a blotch marred the overall pattern of the stars. An ebon patch which moved to occlude the brilliant points.

  Quietly Helena said, “How long, John?”

  “Not long now.”

  Days or weeks, perhaps, but the thing had been visible for years. A point which drifted to settle to move again. A smear which had grown until it dominated its portion of the sky. A black hole which sucked in all light and radiation. One which could swallow a world.

  C H A P T E R

  Twenty-Three

  When he was young Michael had thought Bergman’s laboratory as being a place of magical enchantment the professor himself a master of esoteric mysteries. As he grew older the place seemed to change in size, to become smaller as the entrancing glitters resolved themselves into ranked apparatus; an illusion caused by the relative size-change, but one thing was no illusion. Bergman had grown old.

  He sat at a wide bench, the wall behind him covered with panels heavy with chalked equations, apparatus assembled with painstaking care. A book rested close to hand, one with pages made of a washable, synthetic vellum, and he made a notation. Sighing he set down the stylo.

  “Well, Michael, we try again.”

  “A repeat, Victor, or something new?”

  “A variation of experiment HX 3214, I’m utilizing a waveform induction incorporating three variables and a synchronized harmonic. But that is mechanical. What I need to determine is whether or not your interest can affect the result.”

  Michael said, thoughtfully, “The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.”

  “A part of it,” admitted Bergman. “We have long known that the mere fact of observing an experiment can affect the components involved and thus the anticipated results. The entire field of paraphysical research has been hampered by this fact since investigations first began. Time after time demonstrations of such phenomena as levitation and telekinesis failed because it was not realized that doubt alone could act as a nullifying agent. Even when accepting the fact little progress could be made—how can you measure doubt? How to shield against it? You see the problem?”

  “Of course, but are you sure it applies to xetal?”

  The unknown metal found in the abandoned lair of the alien Queen.

  Bergman shrugged, “I don’t know, Michael. I’m guessing and, perhaps, hoping. Anything we discover could help. We know so little about it at present; it is as malleable as gold, appears to be chemically inert, has a high melting point. We know its density and refractive index and the lines it makes under spectroscopic examination. It acts as a superconductor at all temperatures and produces some unusual effects when subjected to certain stimuli. Almost twenty years of testing, more than three hundred experiments, and that’s all we know.”

  His voice was bitter, that of a man who considers himself to have failed, and was yet another demonstration of his advancing years. As was the hair, now little more than a white ruff, the hollowed cheeks, the eyes meshed and sunken beneath bushy brows. Yet the skin was clear and the lips had retained their shape and color. His movements were precise and his hands, though blotched and veined, did not tremble.

  An old man and one who would have to die, despite his artificial heart. A waste, thought Michael, a throwing away of all the hard-won knowledge, the scientific genius which he represented. But why couldn’t it be saved? If a heart could be manufactured to extend existence then why not other parts of the body? Why must death be inevitable?

  The brain was the most important organ of all—why not take it from the skull and house it in a vat filled with sterile solutions? Blood, oxygenated and cleansed by a machine, could be pumped through it to maintain life and awareness. Aural and visual nerves could be fitted with electronic senses and some form of larynx devised, Or, perhaps, the entire head could be amputated from the body and provided with an artificial surrogate?

  “Brains in boxes,” said Bergman, when asked his opinion as to which would be the better method. “Not a new concept, Michael, but one not mentioned before in Alpha. And not even Doctor Olurus has suggested that I might find advantage in a metal and plastic body.”

  “Victor! I—”

  “Was just speculating, boy, I know. Using your brain and, perhaps, worried about an old man dying too soon. Right?” Bergman smiled as Michael nodded. He had always had a special regard for the boy and liked to think it was shared. “Well, I don’t intend dying for a while yet. At least not until I’ve discovered more about xetal. An alien product and still it defies analysis. And we need to manufacture it. We must!”

  “For the Eagles?”

  “Yes,” said Bergman. “Yes, for the Eagles, of course. With it we can increase the drive by five hundred per cent and establish and maintain a protective field against missiles and energy weapons. But the supply is limited. If we could only crack its secret and duplicate it—” He shook his head. “Tomorrow, perhaps—or in a hundred years. Who can tell?”

  Michael said, “The experiment, Victor?”

  “Of course! You’re in a hurry to get away. How does it feel to be given full authority? On the eastward drift, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, heading down and out towards the Yancy Crater. The shaft is at the five hundred metre level on a slope of ten degrees. Zavaroni is in overall charge of the operation.”

  “A good man,” said Bergman. “I’ve known Keith a long time. He used to work in the South African gold mines before he was sent to the Moon. A fine geologist. You could learn a lot from him.”

  “I am.”

  He and the others, all eager to learn before it was too late, before those who could teach had died. The result of the twenty-six year gap between the youngest of the old and the oldest of the young. A space greater than a normal generation and a mental and physical void which would take time to fill.

  And, for Bergman, that gap was almost sixty years.

  No wonder the boy had thought of how to save his brain!

  Not his life, but his brain and the precious knowledge it contained.

  Where on Alpha could any hope to gain the varied skills, the painfully won experience which had been so common on Earth? A hundred thousand scientists, a million, ten million, scattered, supported, working to solve problem after problem, a host of technicians and artisans waiting to turn their discoveries into commercial fact.

  How much in terms of diverted production and directed effort had it cost to win space? To establish the base on the Moon? To conquer tuberculosis? To discover anaesthetics? To produce antibiotics?

  How many hours, how much pain, how many wasted generations to discover antisepsis?

  Could Alpha, ever, afford to pay such a price.

  Keith Zavaroni lifted a gloved hand as Michael appeared and dropped his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “You take over in five minutes,” he said over the wire he had plugged into the shoulder-socket. “Time enough for me to fill you in. You’ve got a good crew but a couple need watching. Kazvin doesn’t take to working under a kid—his words. Maybe if he’d had one of his own he’d feel different, but there it is. He’ll push so don’t let him push too hard. Haggai’s another. He likes to work at his own speed—try to hurry him up and he’ll drag both feet, but get him on your side and he’ll bust a gut moving rock. I’ve had them on sixty-fifteen. An hour hard digging is about as much as you’ll get at a stretch and fifteen minutes for rest isn’t too much while wearing a suit. You could change the shifts if you want.”

  He paused, waiting for Michael’s reply, but he took his time giving it. An hour, to a man coming fresh to the diggings, wasn’t much and fifteen minutes break seemed too long, but Zavaroni had had long experience at such work
and he hadn’t. To go against the other’s advice just to show he was the boss would be stupid.

  “I’ll wait and see how things go,” he decided. “Is all going straight?”

  “We hit a seam a few metres back which slowed us down.” Zavaroni gestured back down the tunnel where a broad band of darker color stood out against the greyish stone. “An exhudation from the inner magma, I guess. One squeezed up by some old convulsion. Come and take a look at it.” He led the way and switched on the light in his helmet. “Know what it is?”

  Michael touched it, trying to gain a tactile impression through his glove.

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re honest, neither do I. In fact I’ve never seen anything like it before. My guess is that it’s a freak; a combination of rocks fused under tremendous pressure, squirted up from the magma during an eruption and caught in a fissure. I’ve had samples sent to the laboratory for examination but I’ll take bets the color is the product of cobalt and tin with, maybe, a trace of iron.”

  “Any trace of radioactivity?”

  “Only the usual background level. Check it for yourself.”

  Michael was already doing so. Through his receivers he could hear the muted clicks from the geiger counter he ran over the odd seam. As Zavaroni had said the noise was of the same level as that emitted by the other stone.

  “Well? Ready to take over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then good luck. Any trouble let me know.” Zavaroni unplugged the wire. “It’s all yours, Michael.”

  The last came over the suit radio, the words blurred with the received noises of harsh breathing, the dull vibration of transmitted shocks, the whine of drills and the pulse of hammers. Quickly he lowered the gain, appreciating the use of the wire, the privacy of communication it gave.

  Before him a figure turned from a drill, stretching, casually leaning against a wall. Kazvin—his name was lettered on his suit.

  Approaching him Michael said, “Something wrong with the drill?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You aren’t sure?” Michael tested it, then leaned his weight against it, driving the bit deep and creating a shower of ground stone. “Seems all right to me. I guess you must be a little tired.”

  “What! Now you see here, kid! I—” Kazvin broke off then said, “Yeah. I guess that must be it. I’m a little tired.”

  “Then maybe you’d better take over my job. The direction has to be checked and sonar soundings taken but you must know how to do that. Then the roof has to be checked for potential falls and the suction-pipes need to be hitched up to new extensions. I guess the others won’t mind if you skip watching out for their backs and—”

  “Now wait a minute!” A man turned and lowered his pick. “That creep couldn’t supervise a sand-pit let alone a digging.”

  Haggai, now glaring through the faceplate of his helmet. His jaw was stubborn, his olive skin crêped around the eyes, eyebrows grizzled and lips a gash.

  Kazvin rumbled, “Shut your mouth!”

  “You wanna shut it for me?” Haggai lifted the electronic pick, light catching the hardened point and turning it into a spear of threatening brilliance. “I’m not having a no-nothing ruin this operation. The kid’s young but he’s been trained and you haven’t. You’d miss a flaw and get us all buried. Or aim us wrong. Or let the pipes get tangled. Or put us too close so that someone gets a rip in his suit. You still wanna shut my mouth?”

  “You think I couldn’t?”

  The anger was too abrupt, the attitudes too theatrical for the incident to be genuine. It was a hazing, an initiation akin to the one which had made him an adult, but how to handle it? Zavaroni would have been abrupt and simple—heads would have been knocked together or a few teeth loosened, but this wasn’t Earth and there had to be another solution. Or, perhaps, the overseer himself had arranged the episode as a means of testing his ability to handle men. A possibility Michael considered as he judged the situation.

  A third of the crew were youngsters of sixteen upwards; the arduous work was good for strengthening and developing muscle. They would stand by him against the older workers. They, other than the two arguing, stood watchful and he gained the impression they were waiting for him to act. Waiting and ready to praise or condemn as circumstances dictated.

  “Bastard!” Haggai stepped forward with the lifted pick. “You want it you can have it! No dumb creep is going to brace me and get away with it!”

  Within seconds they would be fighting, or pretending to fight, but how long would it remain pretence if he failed to act? As the pick swung, glittering, the point missing Kazvin’s helmet by half a metre, Michael touched the button at his belt.

  The sudden, strident radio-screams shocked them all into stillness.

  Into the silence he said, coldly, “This is not an alarm. I repeat, this is not an alarm. Even so we have an emergency. Fouche! Alexsky! Kazvin is tired. Please help him from the workings to the first rest area. Haggai, you had better go with him. We’ll need that pick so please put it down. I’ll inform Medical of your pending arrival.”

  “Medical? What the hell are you getting at?”

  “You complained of feeling tired, Kazvin, we all heard you. That fatigue could be the symptom of something serious. It would be best if you were examined. And you, Haggai, I appreciate your concern over our common welfare but a pick in the head isn’t really the most efficient form of argument.” Pausing for a moment he added, dryly, “Though I’ll admit it would have cured Kazvin’s fatigue.”

  For a long moment no one spoke or moved then, with a burst of laughter, a man said, “Well, what about that? The kid’s got a sense of humor. Guts too—now lets all get back on the job!”

  They were a good team and the workings filled with dust as they tore at the face. The area was air-filled, the suits worn as a protection against dust and a precaution against hitting vacuum. The target was a cavern which had been plotted by sonar which lay some distance below and ahead. Michael checked their direction, watching the instrument as returned echoes made notations on the screen. The cavern was vast, a gigantic bubble probably formed by some volcanic activity. Once reached, sealed, air and lights supplied, it would make a superb underground installation.

  “Michael!” One of the youngsters attending the disposal tube reported trouble. “It’s blocked, I think.”

  “Give me that!” He took the long-handled tool the boy carried and thrust it into the pipe. He felt the jar as it hit an obstruction, thrust again, felt something yield and almost lost his grip on the tool as suction fought to drag it from his hand. “Here!” He handed it back to the boy. “Watch what you pass in there. Dust and rubble only, any large pieces must be broken down before you feed them in. Gillian, watch out for them. Can you manage?”

  “I’m getting a little tired, Michael.”

  “We’ll be resting soon. Can you hold out until then? I’ll have you relieved afterwards.”

  A boy could take over the hammer while she used a mobile pipe to sweep the surface and keep down the air-born dust. If she grew too fatigued he would replace her, but the mere fact she ached proved that muscles were building. Another shift, he decided, then he would see. Already he was learning that to be an adult embraced the necessity for making continual decisions.

  Rest was taken further back in the tunnel where faceplates could be opened, water sipped and a sweet confection chewed. A time for the others to lie and chat and do nothing—for him a time to review progress and to anticipate difficulties. Time, too, to remember the experiment with xetal.

  It had failed or, at least, Bergman had made no comment when, after three attempts, he had been unable to cause the fragment of metallic foil to either lift or spin when subjected to the impact of selected forces. Mental control apparently, was still far in the distant future as far as the enigmatic metal was concerned. And yet the professor had been convinced there had to be an association.

  “I’m positive this substance was ingested by the Qu
een and used to form the external surface which governed the field-drive. Traces of it have been found in the outer skin of the torpedo we examined and it is logical to make the extrapolation. It is also logical to assume some form of direct mental linkage.”

  “Why?”

  “The speed of reaction, Michael. That of muscle controlled by electrical stimulus transmitted over a nervous system is relatively slow when compared to thought. Also no traces of any such system were discovered.”

  “Nor any trace of a brain, Victor.”

  “True, but we were looking for a brain as we know it. And there is another factor to be considered. A remote controlled Eagle does not contain a man but it is directed by one. Are we to assume that no man exists because, on examination of such an Eagle, we cannot find one?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “The key, Michael. We still have to find the key.”

  A needed answer to put among the rest and, one day maybe, they would find it. In the meantime there was work to be done.

  Michael led the way back to the face, pausing as he reached the strange band of enigmatic stone through which they had pierced. It was about twenty metres thick and could extend for kilometres in each direction. Another alien substance to engross Bergman but perhaps he would have greater success this time. Michael hoped so; the old man should not be subjected to continuous failure.

  “Ready, Chief?” Kazvin wasn’t mocking. “Better warn those youngsters to keep on their toes. I’m going to show them how rock really should be moved.”

  “You?” Haggai snorted with feigned contempt. “That’ll be the day. Tell you what, we’ll start from scratch and see who ends deepest at the end of the shift. The loser pays forfeit. Agreed?”

  “Sure, why not? You work a double shift and I loll in bed. A deal. Let’s go!”

  Watching the stone chips fly Michael wondered at the latent violence which all the oldsters seemed to contain. The need to prove themselves, to engage in surrogate combat as if life itself was based on the individual power to survive. As individual life was, of course, but surely the Community took first place? He must remember to query the point with Rita Cantry; if individual survival took precedence then how could persons willingly sacrifice themselves for the common good? And they had, often, the brief history of Alpha was full of such examples. Men and women who had willingly risked and lost their lives while knowing the odds were against their survival.