‘Which could mean that nothing happened and we have one dead man and several others injured for no reason at all.’
Maddox was being sarcastic and Manton knew it. Quietly he said, ‘There has to be a reason, Carl. All we’ve done so far is to eliminate sources of familiar energy, but there are others and they may be the cause.’
‘Such as?’
‘Eric is thinking of the paraphysical, Carl,’ said Claire. ‘We know that some people possess the talent to move objects without physical contact but as yet we have no means of discovering what type of energy they use. Telepathy, also, requires a form of energy and that is equally unexplained even though we know that telepathy exists. The warning —’
‘Warning?’
‘It has to be that,’ she insisted. ‘Twice now we have known panic and the desire to run. The first time we heard, or thought we heard, an actual voice giving us instructions. Perhaps that was because of the unusual conditions in which we received the message.’
And a man lay dead to show it should not be ignored.
Maddox took a step forward and halted just behind where Weight sat at the main console. Before him lamps flashed in endless signalling, one of the circuits that continually monitored the ship and surround.
‘The big screen, Frank. Full magnification.’
Maddox watched as the distant stars seemed to move aside, an optical illusion that gave the impression of hurtling at a fantastic velocity towards them in space. And still he saw nothing.
‘Try filters.’
The stars flickered and changed colour as Weight obeyed, feeding selective filters over the scanners, blocking out various bands of the electro-magnetic spectrum while bolstering others.
The results were the same.
Nothing.
Space remained as empty as before.
Empty, but holding something which had warned them twice now to stay away. Something which could emit psychic energy to directly influence the brain. A power which warned of devastation and death unless they obeyed.
‘Commander?’
‘That’s enough, Frank. Order a Pinnace and crew to make ready for an investigation-flight. Douglas West will want to take command — let him pick his own co-pilot.’
‘And?’
‘Put the ship on yellow alert — and keep it on until further orders!’
Leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat, Ivan Gogol indulged in a dream. He was a chief of the Bandhaisai riding with Attila, the Kagan of the Hiung. Beneath the hooves of his horse the Steppes rolled back to the East while ahead, misted in rumour, lay the wealth of a decadent civilisation. Soon now they would reach the gates of Rome and, the world would be theirs to loot, to burn, to take and use as they wished.
Even the thought of it sent the blood pounding in his veins to throb in his ears, sending adrenalin to stimulate nerve and muscle, sharpening his awareness, his aggression. The physical prelude to combat as it was a symptom of fear.
‘Ivan!’ From the pilot’s chair Douglas West glanced at his companion. ‘Keep alert there!’
‘I’m alert, Skipper.’
‘Then report on instrumentation during the past five minutes.’
‘All systems operating at optimum,’ said Ivan immediately. ‘Temperature of rear left lifting jet a little high but within tolerance. All clear on scanners. Radio contact at constant level. Humidity —’
‘That’s enough.’ Automatically West scanned his own instrument panel, a shift of the eyes which had become second nature to the Head of Spatial Reconnaissance. Ahead space, as far as he could determine, was clear. As clear as it had been when they left the Ad Astra an hour ago.
Settling back, he thought about his co-pilot.
Ivan Gogol was a dreamer and a romantic of the old tradition, living in imagination the glories of the past, fighting ancient battles and adopting the mantle of the great. In that there was no harm, only when it threatened his efficiency would there be cause to worry. His immediate report had meant little; any serious fluctuation in the operation of the Pinnace would have triggered an alarm and in such a case West would have acted. Yet he hadn’t actually lied, he had the facility of split-mind operation; turning a part of himself into a watchful automaton while allowing the rest of his mind to indulge in fantasies.
A trait which could be an asset in certain conditions but dangerous in others. No pilot, West knew, could be expected to maintain total concentration for long periods at a time. It was mentally and physically impossible to do that; insidious fatigue would ruin finely balanced judgements and, unless recognised, would lead to fatal error. A man who could watch for hours at a stretch, who would spring into full and complete awareness at any moment when triggered by something wrong, was a man ideal for routine patrols.
But for an investigation flight?
West had made his decision and had chosen Gogol to accompany him. How he acted now would determine his future with Reconnaissance.
He said, ‘Skipper, have you ever studied history? I mean really studied it?’
‘Why?’
‘I was thinking of Attila. Of how he managed to unite the tribes and sweep across plains to reach Eastern Europe. You know that he actually managed to reach Rome and would have taken it if they hadn’t bought him off.’
‘So?’
‘Think of it! A man, a barbarian in a sense, who managed to do the near impossible. He could have made himself Emperor, become a Caesar, ruled the entire known world!’
‘Instead of which,’ said West, dryly, ‘he died in pain to be burned by his followers. And after?’
‘Nothing,’ admitted Ivan. ‘He was a strong man and there was no one to follow him. All he had built vanished almost at once. The affiliated tribes, the vassal Germanic peoples, all those who had become one force beneath his horsetail standard, all dissolved as snow in the sun. But if he had lived another ten years, or if he had managed to leave a strong heir, or if the tribes had managed to work together instead of letting petty feuds destroy their unity — who knows?’
‘If pigs had wings they would fly.’ West scanned the instruments and threw a switch. ‘Pinnace One to Mission Control. Frank?’
‘Receiving.’ Weight’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Anything as yet, Douglas?’
‘No. We could be flying into a vacuum.’
‘You are.’
‘I was talking metaphorically. There’s nothing out here but nothing.’
‘Which is the way we want it to be.’ Weight smiled. ‘Maintain alignment, Douglas. It’s important.’
‘Will do.’
The screen went blank as West broke the connection and again he checked his instruments. The target-star was a fraction out and he returned it to the centre of the crosshairs with a deft touch on the controls. It was a big, blue-white sun and it was known to have planets that they were on their way to investigate. That was when his small fleet of Pinnaces would come into their own as their mother ship, the Ad Astra, remained in orbit.
‘Skipper!’
‘What?’
‘I — nothing.’ Ivan frowned at the instruments. ‘I thought I saw a flicker just then. One of the receptors registered. At least I thought it did.’
Dreaming or not he would have caught it and it was proof of his efficiency that West had not. For a moment he hesitated, studying the instruments, then again made contact with the mother ship.
‘Frank?’
‘Here.’ Weight looked from the screen. ‘Trouble?’
‘Could be. Did you spot anything?’
‘Such as?’
‘An energy emission of some kind. One of the receptors kicked just now. No repetition as yet which could mean an internal malfunction or a local nexus of limited extent.’
‘Nothing registered here, Douglas.’
‘Then it could be local, but you’d better maintain constant observation and monitoring. We could be heading into what we’re looking for.’
West glared at what lay ahead. To the naked eye there was nothing, to the instruments the same, yet something was waiting there, he sensed it, felt it with every fibre of his being.
Grimly he resisted the urge to run. To turn the Pinnace and head back to the Ad Astra as fast as the ship would travel.
Ivan Gogol felt the same.
He shifted in his chair, easing his body against the restraints, his hands reaching for the controls only to fall back as he realised that to touch them would be useless. West had the control and would retain it unless there was a good reason why he should not. And a feeling, no matter how strong, was not reason enough for the Skipper to abandon his authority.
But, if he were dead?
An odd thought and Ivan did his best to banish it. He liked West and admired him and envied the man his skill and position. One day, with luck, he too would be a master-pilot with a Pinnace of his own. One day, again with luck, he might reach up to become Head of a Section. One day.
He shivered, conscious of a sudden chill, then was suddenly gasping for breath. Blinking he stared ahead, concentrating on the stars, seeing them appear to shift and form new patterns. A house, a ship, a horse, the lineaments of a woman’s face.
A smooth, firmly contoured visage with enigmatic eyes and a mouth which betrayed sensuality. Hollow cheeks and strong jaw. The hint of Slavic ancestry. The ears and blonde helmet of the hair.
Doctor Claire Allard!
Smiling at him from the empty depths of space. Beckoning.
‘No!’ Douglas West reared in his chair, snarling at the jerk of forgotten restraints, freeing them with a blow as he lunged towards his co-pilot. ‘Don’t, you fool! Don’t!’
Ivan Gogol was already on his feet and reaching for the door of the module. His helmet was open and his eyes were glazed. One hand was resting on the control which would open the port — and beyond lay nothing but the airless void.
‘Ivan!’ West grabbed at his shoulder, turned the man, threw him back towards his chair. ‘Seal up and strap down. That’s an order!’
‘I — no! I must go! I must!’
Madness. It showed in his face, his eyes, the tormented knotting of skin and muscles and, with the mania came a maniacal strength.
West was thrown back to crash against the hull head ringing from the impact, details blurring as he sank to his knees. Dazed, almost unconscious, he saw the other man tear at the portal, the sudden flood of ruby from the alarms, a red flush which accompanied the strident clangour of the warnings.
‘Ivan! The controls!
‘Too late!’ The man turned, foam at his lips, blood running from bitten flesh. ‘Wait for me! Please wait for me!’
Then there was nothing but a roar of confusion and an overwhelming darkness.
*
‘Eighty-nine hours, seventeen minutes and thirty seconds as from — now!’ Manton threw the time-control on the chronometer then looked up from where he sat at his desk. ‘That’s how long it will take us to reach the same point as Douglas did when he ran into trouble assuming, of course, that the area remains stationary relative to this region of space.’
‘The Forbidden Area,’ murmured Maddox. ‘What caused the trouble, Eric? A barrier of some kind?’
‘It could be that,’ agreed the professor. ‘And, coupled with the warnings, I think that it is. A final deterrent, the last warning before whatever lies behind the barrier is reached.’
And what that could be was anyone’s guess. Restlessly Maddox paced the room. Normally he liked to spend time in Manton’s laboratory, enjoying the touch of familiar things, seeing the rows of old books, the scrolls of proven accomplishment, the models and small items which Manton had brought with him on their voyage.
Now there was no time to pause and linger, to step metaphorically back in time to when life was a matter of following routine instead of the continual challenge it had now become.
Pausing he stood before a chart hanging on the wall. It bore a mass of curves, symbols representing stars, a yellow swathe their progress. His finger rested on the point where the Ad Astra was at the moment, moved on to halt at a red smear. Knowing their velocity any schoolboy could have computed the time remaining before they reached it, but no child born of woman could know what lay beyond.
‘Did you manage to plot the extent of the area?’
‘No.’ Manton shook his head as he came to stand beside Maddox. ‘The only way would be to send out a series of Pinnaces and wait for something to happen. It would have taken too long.’
And have been too expensive on men. Maddox glared at the chart, feeling the anger of frustration. A known enemy he could have faced — but how to fight emptiness?
‘Douglas reported nothing visible as he approached the area,’ he said. ‘The monitoring verified his observations yet, as we know, something must lie in that region. What, Eric? A field of energy of some kind? A destructive vortex? A trans-dimensional warp?’ His left hand made a fist. ‘What the hell are we up against?’
Manton said, thoughtfully, ‘I’m not sure, Carl, but perhaps it is invisibility.’
‘What?’ Maddox shook his head. ‘Invisible or not substance still has mass. It has temperature. It radiates energy. It can be spotted on instruments.’
‘Not if it rested in a spherical field,’ Manton insisted. ‘A bubble of force which rotates all received energy through a half-circle of 180 degrees. It is a mathematical concept, Carl, which we used to play with at university. How to become invisible. You can’t do it by becoming transparent because any touch of dust or dirt will reveal you as it would a building made of glass. But if light could be rotated so that you saw not the object before you but the light it received from behind —’
‘Then you wouldn’t see it at all!’ Maddox punched his right fist into his left hand. ‘Of course. All light and so all visibility would be curved in a half-circle so that you would look around the object and not at it. The same would apply to all bands of the electro-magnetic spectrum. Our instruments are registering the energies received from beyond the area, the stars we see are really occluded but we can’t tell that and so, for us, space ahead is empty. But how, Eric? Magnetic fields?’
‘If so they must be of incredible density.’ Manton was dubious. ‘It’s possible, but I’m inclined to think a spatial warp of some kind could be responsible.’
Lifting the communicator from his belt Maddox snapped, ‘Mission Control…Saha? Have the computer check on all stellar observations. I want special reference paid to any variation in apparent brightness or shift of position no matter how minute. Full scan in direction ahead and for 180 degrees to either side. Top priority. Rose?’