Space 1999 - Earthfall

by E. C. Tubb

  Now, as compensations perhaps, for their earlier actions, both Kazvin and Haggai were working like men possessed and, by their actions, carrying the rest of the team with them. A deliberate kindness covered by the cloak of a wager. Good progress would ensure his initial success—and they were giving him good progress.

  He did his part, following, directing the clearance workers, seeing that none came close enough to another to cause inadvertent injury. Watching too the roof and the walls and, when not too busy, moving up fresh lights.

  Half a shift and Haggai swore as his pick hammered at something harder than the greyish stone.

  “It’s another seam, maybe, or an outcrop of some kind. Trust my luck to hit it.”

  “Luck?” Kazvin snorted. “A good miner doesn’t depend on luck. Go round it, under or over it, cut it free!”

  Good advice if it was a node—useless if it was a seam. Haggai grunted again, ramming his tool against the surface, the pounding building, sending vibrations through the substance which flowed back to accentuate the new, constructing a harmonic which, suddenly, erupted in a deep rolling note like a stricken bell.

  “What the hell—?” Haggai jumped back. “Did you hear that?”

  A question no one answered as, from the roof and wall to his side, dust and chips began to shower like rain.

  “A quake!” Michael hit the alarm button on his belt. “Back, everyone! Back to the seam!”

  They crouched in the opening pierced through the darker material as the fall increased and the ground shook with a succession of tremors. Minor quakes were common on the Moon but it was never pleasant to be underground when one occurred. Still less to be caught in a newly constructed tunnel which held a mystery.

  “That stuff,” muttered Haggai. “The pick made no impression on it. And then the damned thing rang like a bell.”

  Vibrations which had triggered off poised stresses and released the subtle movement of rock against rock, masses of ancient lava finding new beds. A speculation, the quake could have been caused by any of a dozen other reasons or, as most likely, by no apparent reason at all.

  “Michael?” Morrow spoke from the radio. “Is everything under control?”

  “Yes, Paul. Intensity?”

  “Minor and fading. Injuries?”

  “None. Everything is all right down here.”

  He had spoken too soon. Even as the connection was broken a stronger tremor shook the tunnel, sending rock crashing from the surface of the diggings, the roof, the wall to one side. Then, as the ground settled, the dust spun, streamed towards the face, lifted in feathery plumes from the floor.

  “God!” yelled a man. “We’ve hit space!”

  The fall opening a path to a fissure which led to others, channels snaking beneath the surface to end finally in the void. But there was no danger, the suits would protect them and already air-tight doors would have sealed them from the installations further down the tunnel.

  As the wind died and the ground finally steadied Michael stepped towards the workings. The floor was thick with debris, the roof scarred but intact and apparently firm. The face itself had crumbled, weakened by the drills and hammers, the picks and probes, rock had yielded to fall in a slide. To one side, close to where Haggai had been working, the wall had collapsed to leave a ragged opening edged with dust framing a realm of darkness.

  Darkness which yielded to the light which he shone into it from his helmet.

  “Dear God!” whispered Kazvin from where he had come to stand at Michael’s side. “Look at those things! They’re men!”

  C H A P T E R

  Twenty-Four

  They sat in haunted array at a long table heavy with enigmatic items; oddly shaped pieces of metal, dishes, containers which twisted and served no apparent function, salvers scored with a multitude of lines. Even the chairs were subtly alien in their odd configurations, the backs and seats, the legs and tilt designed for no normal form. But the creatures which sat in them were not and never had been truly men.

  Men or women, it was impossible to tell. Looking at them Koenig searched for signs of difference but could find none. Time, of course, the desiccation of millennia which had shrunken flesh and sinew, tightening skin, reducing muscle, turning them all into withered mummies.

  Had they died at the table while enjoying their last meal? Had they merely sat to share a silent commune? Had they assembled together to make a final sacrifice—that of themselves in a bond of mutual suicide?

  Human motivations—how could they be applied to creatures so alien? And yet, disturbingly, there were points of similarity. The clothing, faded, functional, yet displaying the seams of pockets, the touches of decoration. The shape of the heads, some with a skim of hair, others showing only sere and darkened skin. The eyes, closed beneath arching brows, lashed and slanting. The ears, convoluted, peaked. The hands, slim, long fingered, each with five digits.

  Koenig looked at his own, gloved hand. Coincidence?

  “They’re old,” said Bergman softly. “God knows how long they’ve been sitting here. Thousands of years at least. Half a million, maybe.”

  And maybe more. Sitting preserved in a strange atmosphere—the cavern was sealed against the void. Buried deep in a smoothly finished ovoid as if they were within the shell of an egg. A place two hundred metres long and twenty across. The floor had cut the space in half along its greatest dimension. Below waited massed enigmas; the loom and bulk of ancient machines.

  “It could have been—” Bergman paused, then said, firmly, “A vehicle of some kind. A space craft. This section could have been the living quarters and that below the drive and life-support systems.”

  “The hull?”

  “All around.” Bergman pointed, light streaming from his helmet to illuminate walls of stone broken only at the point they had entered. “Not visible now, of course, and obviously not made of matter as we know it. A force-bubble of some kind.”

  “Which collapsed because of the quake?”

  “Or for some other reason. Haggai hit something dense and created a harmonic vibration. By sheer luck he could have hit on the combination to collapse a part of the shield. Or maybe it all collapsed.”

  If it had remained in existence at all. If not—?

  Koenig thought of a craft like a shimmering bubble descending to a sea of molten lava, dipping into it, submerging itself, waiting until it had cooled and formed a mass of solid matter around the egg-shaped shield. But why should it have done that? Had it been damaged? Did it need to hide?

  If so—from what?

  “Commander?” Maxwell Downes was waiting with his team. “Shall we collect them and take them to Medical?” His hand gestured towards the man-like creatures sitting at the table.

  “You’ve enough sacs? Good. Seal them up and put them in store. Morsanne? You’ve completed your photography?”

  “I’ve taken every centimetre. Commander, using normal light, infra-red and ultra-violet and adding a dozen filters and as many combinations. Holograms too—we’ll be able to reproduce this scene exactly as you see it now.”

  Andre Brisquet said, “Atmosphere cycling complete, Commander. Existing gases removed and area evacuated. Shall we commence pressurizing?”

  Bergman said, “John, is it wise? Oxygen is a highly corrosive gas and we could do irreparable damage to constructs exposed to it.”

  Rust and the green patina on copper and bronze, the chemical alterations of surfaces affected by the hungry atoms, but sooner or later it had to be done if the area was to be explored and, later, used.

  “We must, Victor. In any case the air from the tunnel has already worked its contamination. Also the original vapors contained oxygen. Right, Andre, start as soon as the bodies have been removed. Victor, let’s see what Oliver has discovered.”

  Roache was in the lower compartment, Carter at his side. Both men were stooped over a machine which seemed composed of transparent tubs looped and interwound like a heap of glass-spaghetti. Metal inserts gleam
ed like distant stars and a column held a dull luminescence.

  “There’re no connections,” muttered the engineer. “Or if there are I can’t spot them. Can you, Alan?”

  “There’s something looking like feet at the bottom.”

  “I know. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s try another one.” Roache straightened, seeing the arrivals as he turned. “Commander! Professor! What kind of a thing have we here?” His voice changed as Bergman told him his suspicions. “A space ship? Without a hull?”

  “A force-field would serve as well and be more efficient. After all, what is a hull, really? A sheet of matter and what else is energy but another form of that? Think of a screen of locked stress. It would be weightless, strong, resistant to energy-weapons, be proof against solids, probably opaque and, I’d guess, aside from entry ports, permanent.”

  “A guess,” grumbled the engineer. “But how would it be proof against solids?”

  “It would have to be—if not the crew would fall through it if they ever leaned against the hull. So it had to be repelent to matter. Massed electrons would do it if they could be contained. Don’t forget we aren’t talking about a light screen or a magnetic field. The shield used must have been of a high order of energy established and maintained in a form of spacial stasis. Perhaps one continually reformed so as to allow of motion.”

  “A blink-effect,” said Carter. “That I can follow, but what about when the thing went off?”

  “What can happen in a fraction of a nanosecond? The cycle, if there was one, would have been so rapid as to be continuous for all practical purposes. But if a shield did exist then it is logical to assume it would have originated from a central point.” Bergman tilted his head to stare at the underside of the division. “There, perhaps?”

  A nodule rested close against the dull material; one whose upper surface, if it was an ovoid matching the shape if not the size of the cavern, would be beneath the table around which the mummies had sat.

  “The division could be a conductor,” mused Roache. “It could carry whatever that thing generated and form a matching shape. But how were the rest of the machines held?” He answered his own question. “Locked in an extension of the field. That means the generator must be powered by atomic fuel and is probably a sealed unit. The shield must have collapsed when it decayed beyond a certain point.” He whistled. “For God’s sake—how long has this thing been sitting here?”

  Doctor Kikkido put down the scalpel and lifted her gloved hands to palm her aching eyes. The lights were too bright, the reflected gleams too strong and, as usual, her stump was aching.

  “Lian, are you well?”

  Olurus, as always, was quick. A little too quick and she felt a sudden irritation at the concern in his eyes. What if she had borne his child? Did that give him the right to be so protective? He was a doctor and a good one, like herself he had climbed, but when was he going to learn that any tenderness between them was a thing of the past? Surely she had proved that when she had chosen another to father her second child.

  And yet, during the bad days, he had almost never left her side.

  She stood, remembering them, the crashes and screams, the battle, the crushing weight on her leg. The waking to see him looking down at her, the sleep-inducer in his hand. She had reached up towards him and he had smiled.

  And then she realized she had lost her left leg.

  “Lian?”

  “Nothing.” Lowering her hands she shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  How could a man love a cripple? The prosthetic limb enabled her to walk and dance: and even swim as well as before, but it wasn’t flesh and blood and had no feeling and he had been so engrossed with the beauty of her body.

  It had been better to turn away and not risk the shadow which would have appeared in his eyes. The repugnance, quickly shielded, no doubt, but she would have known it was there. And never would she accept his pity as a replacement for the love he had once given her.

  And so the withdrawal, the hostility, the coldness and, with final desperation, the conception of her second child from sperm selected from the banks.

  At least she had done well in that. Sardia was a beautiful girl as her father had been a handsome man. A pity he had died in the same incident which had cost her her leg. A greater pity he had never seen the product of his seed.

  “Lian, you’re tired,” said Olurus patiently. “This can wait.” He gestured at the thing lying on the operating table. “How many have you examined now? Three?”

  “Four.”

  “And spent how long on each?”

  He knew the answer to that. Days of painstaking labor using the scalpel with dedicated skill, slicing, separating, removing scraps of tissue, organs, fragments to be tested, checked, examined, filed, stored. Too many days in which she had driven herself too hard and for too long. Was it because he worked with her? A means of escape from his presence?

  Why was she so cold?

  The leg, of course, never could she forget the lost limb. And never could she bring herself to accept that he had loved her for herself and not simply for the beauty of her body. Had loved her—the years had cooled his initial passion, the child had sealed his rejection, and work had provided an anodyne. The work he loved, dealing with living, human tissue. Bringing health and life—knowing the heady euphoria of a god.

  And now he wasted time on mummified tissue.

  No—she wasted time. He had only to photograph, assist, stand by to be consulted. And, always, there was the possibility he could learn.

  “Lian?” He glanced at the creature on the table. It had been opened, some of the viscera removed, other organs visible through the gap in the dry-leather-like skin. “Do you intend to continue?”

  “No.” A lie, but she needed to rest a while and if she had said otherwise he would have felt it his duty to remain. “It can wait.”

  “Then I’ll put it back into store.”

  “No!” She was too sharp and knew it. More gently she said, “No, there’s no need. I can manage, thank you.”

  “Of course.” He hesitated, reluctant to leave, eyes searching her face. “You need something to relieve the tension you’re under. Or perhaps you have sinus trouble? I’ll examine you if you wish.”

  “Later, perhaps.” She forced herself to smile, after all he meant well. “Now why don’t you just get on with what you want to do? This dissection can’t be any fun for you and it doesn’t take both of us to make the investigation. Anyway, Nurse Jeba wants to help. She thinks some extra-terrestrial anatomy could be of use one day.” And then, losing her smile, she said, “Please, Gadya! Just leave me alone!”

  It was quiet after he’d left and she was glad to reach the privacy of her office and sink in a chair with her head resting on her hands. The throbbing in her temples had grown worse, the bones of her skull aching as if each segment were grating on the other. Her skin was warm with fever and her shoulders ached. A drawer held medications and she selected a phial and swallowed three tablets, hesitated for a moment, then swallowed three more. A heavy dose but she felt she needed it and, as a doctor, had the right to prescribe. A self-indulgence, perhaps, but she couldn’t face the probing and questions a medical examination would bring. And, anyway, she was only tired.

  She sighed as the pain eased and rose to splash water onto her face from the faucet set over her bowl. A shadow passed over the translucent pane of her door; a nurse moving about her duties or a technician on some errand. It didn’t matter, others were on duty and could handle any problem which might rise.

  She longed for bed but resisted the temptation. First she had to make her notes and, returning to the desk, she sat and reached for her recorder. At least she would be saved the tedium of typing them up, that chore would be done by a youngster from the pool who would have a far more dexterous touch.

  Touching the button and holding it down she said, “Initial report on the fourth alien cadaver. The body was t
hat of a male of advanced years and the general characteristics follow those of the other three. The epidermis is of the stratified squamous variety with the basal layer in contact with the papillae of the corium. The sebaceous glands are closely spaced and the subcutaneous tissue, when the subject was alive, must have been abnormally thick. This also applies to the basal cells which show marked polygonal development and yet little pigmentation. The ramification is extreme but could have been caused by the embalming effects of the preserving vapors.”

  Lifting her thumb Kikkido shook her head, seeing flecks dance before her eyes. Where was she? Oh, yes, the skin. No change and nothing unusual. Human skin aside from certain pronounced developments; thicker, more oily, a harder external surface, greater mobility over the underlying tissue.

  She again depressed the button.

  “Overall height of the subject when received was two hundred and eleven centimetres but there is evidence of shrinkage and compression of the intervertebral discs which leads to the conclusion that the living height must have been in the region of two hundred and thirty to two hundred and forty-five centimetres. There was also heavy calcification of the sternum which, together with the total absence of cranial hair, supports the conclusion that the subject was of advanced age. In relative terms, taking all available evidence into account, the subject would have been in his ninth decade had he been a terrestrial.”

  A guess but a good one and as close as she could get. Looking at the recorder she realized she still had the button depressed, the tape still moving behind its transparent window. Was there more? Had she mentioned the lack of an appendix? The absence of any trace of the hiatus sacralis? The more complex arrangement of the liver which presupposed an abnormal production of endothelial cells. The lungs with their multiple fissures and fantastic surface areas? The unusual arrangement of the kidneys, higher than they should be and with the surmounting suprarenal glands overlarge and buried in sheaths of muscle as well as the usual fat.