Deceleration was a strangely uncomfortable sensation after so many months'
weightlessness. On Morrison's ship, thrust was delayed by several seconds
to allow P-One to draw closer to P-Two -- but not too close. It had been
decided that Berryman's ship would approach the alien vessel directly
to within a distance of one mile, with the command pilot reporting back
every yard of the way and using his initiative if something untoward
occurred. With P-One's more powerful transmitter, Morrison would relay
these reports back to Control, advising Berryman if or when necessary,
and Control would do nothing but listen.
Because of the radio time lag, anything they might say would come too late
to be useful.
All decisions on procedure in the area of the alien ship were thus the
responsibility of Colonel Morrison. Berryman could exercise a little
initiative to begin with, but once the situation was evaluated, all major
decisions would be taken by the colonel. As a precautionary measure the
thrust and attitude of P-One had been modified so as to bring it to a
stop fifty miles short of the alien ship.
McCullough wondered what Hollis was making of
that
.
In the three weeks since he had visited him, the physicist's condition,
both physical and mental, had improved enormously. Hollis had spoken to
him several times and had said so -- without, of course, mentioning the
Dirty Annie business. McCullough was well aware that Hollis could not,
by any stretch of the imagination, be said to have been cured, but at
least his condition had improved to the point where his difficulties,
both emotional and physical, no longer impaired his functioning --
and that was half the battle.
On the radar screen the target showed as a pulsing blob of light which crept
steadily down the distance scale, and in the telescope the Ship grew and
spread until it overflowed the field of view. Gradually P-Two's velocity
with respect to the other vessel lessened until it hung motionless at
a distance of one mile from the Ship.
Like a minnow investigating a sleeping shark, McCullough thought.
Berryman cleared his throat loudly and said, "The -- the Ship is broadside
on to us. I estimate its length at just under half a mile and its
diameter at about one hundred yards. The diameter is uniform throughout
its length, like a torpedo, except where it curves inward at nose and
stern. Two-thirds of the way toward the stern -- I'm assuming it is
the stern because the other end contains more transparent material --
the hull is encircled by a belt of large, transparent blisters. Twelve
of them, I think. The sun is shining directly into one and I can see
metallic reflections.
"There is another cluster of transparent domes encircling the nose,"
he went on, "but these are smaller and flatter -- possibly housing the
Ship's communications and sensory equipment, while the bigger ones are
either weapons or -- or . . . Maybe Professor Pugh would have some ideas
on what they are, because there is nothing visible on the Ship resembling
a conventional rocket motor or even a jet orifice . . ."
The pilot was dividing his attention between the telescope and the
direct vision port. His voice was quiet, controlled and ostentatiously
matter-of-fact. But every time he moved, the perspiration beading his
forehead was shaken loose and hung suspended away from his face, like the
stylized sweat of startlement of a character in a comic strip. Walters'
lower lip had disappeared behind his upper teeth and McCullough did not
know how he himself looked, but he did not feel at all well.
Berryman went on steadily, "We are beaming signal patterns denoting,
we hope, intelligence at them on a wide spread of frequencies and we
are igniting flares every fifteen minutes. So far there has been no
response. I don't understand this -- we're not exactly sneaking up on
them. Have I permission to move in?"
To give him credit, Morrison did not warn them to be careful or remind
them, again, of the absolute necessity of doing the right thing. Instead
he said,
"Very well. We will close to one mile and cover you . . ."
"What with?" said McCullough, in spite of himself.
He had been thinking about Hollis again and the physicist's delusion
about a Dirty Annie on P-One. McCullough wondered suddenly if such
delusions were contagious, like some kind of psychosomatic head cold
"A figure of speech, Doctor. We shall furnish moral support only.
And please remember that everything we say is being rebroadcast all over
Earth, so keep this channel clear for Captain Berryman."
For the past few minutes McCullough had completely forgotten that
everything emanating from P-Two was being relayed through Prometheus
Control all over the world. He could just imagine the battery of
ground-bound space medics playing back that section of their tape,
discussing each word and inflection in the minutest possible detail and
muttering among themselves about father figures and archetypal images
and basic insecurities. McCullough felt his face beginning to burn,
but the two pilots were too busy repositioning their ship to notice it.
For the better part of their arbitrary "day" they drifted slowly back
and forth along the tremendous alien hull. Each pass covered a different
strip of its surface, allowing them to chart the various features it
contained. When they approached the transparent domes in what they
assumed was the bows, they lit a flare, but there was no reaction,
no sign of life of any kind.
Berryman said, "Either there is nobody at home or the watch-keeping
officer is asleep or worse. If it wasn't for the fact that the Ship
decelerated into a circumsolar orbit, and a very neat one at that, I'd
say there was a strong possibility that the Ship is in a derelict or at
least distressed condition . . ."
"A ship in distress usually signals for help. As loudly and as often
as possible."
"If they were telepathic," said McCullough, joining in, "they might expect
their distress to be plain for all to hear."
"If they were telepathic they would know that we weren't."
Berryman shot the doctor a brief, sympathetic glance, then went on quickly,
"They can't or won't react to the usual methods of attracting attention
and their ship appears to be in a powered-down condition. I think it is
time we knocked on the nearest airlock door and walked in -- politely,
of course, and with all due caution.
"I suggest leaving the doctor on watch," Berryman went on, "while Walters
and I have a look at the big seal which is passing under us just now.
It looks like a cargo lock big enough to take P-Two from here, and there
is a smaller lock -- for personnel, I expect -- set into the large one.
I think we could open it. After all, there are only so many ways to open
a door . . ."
Morrison was silent for so long that they wondered if he was going to
wait for instructions from Earth before giving permission. But finally
he said,
"I agree that we should take some more positive action,
but I'm concerned about the possibility of booby traps. Unintentional
booby traps in the shape of mechanisms whose operating principles are
so alien as to be a danger to you."
"We'll be careful, sir," said Berryman.
"We're only going to open a door," Walters whispered disparagingly to
the doctor, but not quietly enough.
"Pandora thought the same thing, Walters, you might remember that!
However, you have permission to land on the Ship's hull and open an airlock.
Take your time about preparations -- there must be no avoidable accidents.
And you, Berryman, will remain on watch. I can't risk losing both pilots,
Walters and the doctor can go -- if they don't mind, that is . . ."
Put like that and with countless millions listening, they had, of course,
no choice.
But the strange thing was that McCullough did not feel afraid -- tense
and impatient with all the waiting around, perhaps, but not really
afraid. Earlier, when they had been approaching the Ship for the first
time, he had been expecting literally anything and he had been more
afraid than he had believed it possible for any man to be. Perhaps it had
been what some people called a moment of truth. But when the moment of
truth spreads itself out over twenty-six hours, there is a considerable
dilution of effect.
McCullough launched himself in the wake of the pilot, slowly and carefully
so that his magnets would stick to the alien hull rather than bounce off,
and a few minutes later they made a gentle, sprawling contact. McCullough
detached his wrist magnets and slowly straightened up.
It was only then that it hit him.
This metal plating beneath his feet had been shaped and processed from
ore dug out of the earth, but not
the
Earth. From his position
by the airlock the hull looked so enormous that he seemed almost to
be standing on a metallic planet complete with a range of beautiful
transparent hills. The sun was shining through one of the blister hills,
distorted by refraction into a gaudy smear which threw blurred highlights
off whatever it was that the blister contained. And this whole vast
fabrication was the product of a design staff and engineers who were not
of Earth. At no stage in its construction had the people from McDonnell
or BAC had a single thing to do with it.
Its reason for being might be as strange and alien as its makers, whoever
and whatever they might be, but McCullough felt that its basic purpose
could be easily understood by human beings of a certain psychological
type -- the type who drowned or crashed or fell off mountains trying to
climb higher or fly faster or dive deeper than their fellows.
For some reason McCullough felt sure that the aliens had gone to the
stars, had come to this star, simply because it was there . . .
"When they were giving us all those lectures, Doctor," said Walters,
displaying his genius for converting the sublime into the ridiculous,
"they forgot Burglary. How
does
one pick an airlock?"
chapter seven
There are only so many ways for a door to open," Walters said, very
seriously for him, "and I'd like you to check me on them. It can be
hinged to open inward or out. It can slide open by moving up, down or
to either side. It can be mounted on a central pivot, like a butterfly
valve, or it can unscrew. Have I left anything out?"
"I don't think so," said McCullough. "But if these people were advanced
enough to have molecular engineering, the entrances might iris open and
shut . . ."
"Unlikely," said Walters. "The door and surround are ordinary metal,
very roughly finished and showing deep scratches and dents. If they
were capable of controlling the molecular binding forces of metal to the
extent of being able to dilate an opening in an area of solid plating --
of making the metal flow like a viscous liquid -- they would not have
scratches showing on it. These markings could have been made by heavy
tools or equipment being moved into the lock chamber. They vary in depth
and are of uniform brightness.
"If the Ship was assembled in space, the markings could have been made at
any time during its construction and still appear fresh and bright. There
are an awful lot of them, all over the place . . ."
"We would like a more detailed description of mechanisms in the area,
if you can see any. I can't see very much with this telescope . . ."
The voice coming from P-One sounded strained, with the subtle difference
in tone which labeled it for public rather than private consumption. On
Earth everyone who could get within earshot of a radio or a simulated
mockup on TV, would be hanging on every word -- a world record for any
single program. Morrison could not help being conscious of those billions
of ears. Even Walters seemed to be more frightened by them than what
lay inside the Ship.
The pilot took a deep and audible breath, then continued, "Six inches
from the rim of the personnel lock, on the side facing aft, there is a
lever about two feet long. It is set flush with the skin except at one
end where a hemispherical dimple about three inches deep gives access
to the handle . . ."
He was using the term loosely, McCullough thought as he photographed it,
because the handle was not meant for hands. It terminated in a small
knob containing two small, conical depressions on opposite sides, and
it was the perfect shape for a finger and thumb, or pincers . . .
"I'm pulling it from the recess now," Walters said quickly, giving the
colonel no time to have second thoughts. "I am doing it very slowly.
There was resistance at first, suggesting spring loading, but now it is
moving easily. This must mean a powered actuator rather than a direct
linkage to the door itself. So far nothing has happened. The lever is
now approximately thirty degrees along its angle of travel, approaching
forty-five . . . Oops!"
A brief, silent hurricane rushed out of the suddenly open airlock,
and they were in the center of a globe of fog which dispersed almost as
soon as it had formed. McCullough reached forward, gripped the lever and
returned it to its recess. Obediently the lock swung closed. He waited
a few seconds, then opened and closed it again several times.