“You don’t think the disappearance of Number Six has anything to do with Whitaker being aboard her, do you, Jet?” I asked.
“It has been at the back of my mind,” he replied.
“There would be nothing to stop his turning on the motor, leaving the formation behind and going on ahead,” suggested Mitch, “if he wanted to.”
“But why should he want to?” I asked. “Where could he go?”
“Lemmy, call up Control,” ordered Jet.
The radio operator left us and moved over to the table. But in less than a minute he was back and saying: “There’s no point in my trying to call Control, mate. It’s a complete waste of time.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jet. “The radio’s working, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then get back to it at once and get Control.”
“I’m sorry, Jet,” said Lemmy, “but I’m afraid you’re still talking through your helmet. That ionised gas or whatever it was we came through completely ruined any kind of ship-to-ship communication, didn’t it?”
“That’s not exactly news.”
“Well, that gas now lies between us and Earth,” went on Lemmy, “and if no radio wave can penetrate it, then Earth cannot receive us nor can we receive them.”
“Of course we can’t,” said Mitch bitterly. “That cloud cuts us off from home completely. At least until the Earth has moved sufficiently in her orbit to be clear of it.”
“And how long will that take?” I asked.
“At a rough guess,” replied Mitch, “I’d say two months.”
There was a pause. Finally the silence was broken by Jet. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, looking at each of us in turn, “this loss of contact with Base, while serious enough, need not be fatal. They won’t give up trying to contact us for weeks--months, in fact--and we shall be talking to them again long before we reach Mars. Meanwhile we’ll have to keep going. We’ll have a lot more work to do, of course, now we’re on our own, particularly in the navigational field--so we’d better get started. Lemmy, call up the Fleet. Have them take bearings on the sun, the Earth and Mars and report their findings as soon as possible.”
“Yes, mate,” said Lemmy.
“Meanwhile, Mitch, you and I had better get to work on the navigational tables. As soon as we’ve worked out our position and velocity we can eat.”
“Then don’t take too long,” said Lemmy. “I’m famished.”
When Jet and Mitch had completed their calculations they were able to say that our course was near enough correct and we could expect to arrive above the surface of the Red Planet at the appointed time, always supposing, of course, that no other mishap delayed us. We sat down to our meal that night in better spirits than our situation warranted.
The next few days were uneventful.
By now the sun was only four-fifths of the size it appeared from Earth but, because of the clear viewing conditions out in space, was a far more beautiful object; a great gleaming, blue-white disc which hung in the sky surrounded by a fiery corona. As for the Earth, it now appeared bluish in colour with reddish-green patches which were the land masses. The whole was covered with irregular white cloud formations and at both poles we could see the incredibly bright ice caps. To the naked eye, the Earth-Moon system looked like a huge double star which expanded and shrank as the satellite encircled its parent planet.
But the most interesting and remarkable object in the whole heavens was Mars. As we observed it through the small navigational telescope, it already appeared much larger than we had ever before seen it. Deep pink in colour, the darker portions of its surface showed up sharply in olive green. Even at this distance we could detect a few cloud masses floating in its atmosphere and the dark, thin lines of the canali were certainly no optical illusion.
And so we coasted on for another month. We had now covered nearly one hundred and nineteen million miles since taking off from the Moon.
No contact with Earth had yet been made, nor could we hope to establish it for at least another two weeks. We had resigned ourselves to wait patiently when suddenly, one day, from the loudspeaker above the control panel came the familiar voice of home saying: “Hullo, Space Fleet-- Control calling.”
Lemmy, who had been lying on his bunk trying to sleep, pushed off from the wall and went floating over towards the radio. He had hardly begun to drift when the voice came through again. “Control calling Flagship Discovery. Trying to contact you. Come in, please.”
If Lemmy was quick off the mark, Jet was even quicker and he got to the table before the radio operator. Once there he lost no time and shouted into the microphone: “Hullo, Control--Morgan calling. Hearing you loud and clear. Repeat, loud and clear. Over.”
Mitch, his face lit up with smiles, was the last to reach the radio. “Well,” he said excitedly, “there’s a turn-up for the book. I didn’t expect to hear that beautiful Australian accent for another two weeks at least.”
“Beautiful, he calls it,” said Lemmy with a laugh.
But before Mitch could reply, Control came through again. “Hullo, Discovery--Control calling. Have urgent message for you. When can you take it?”
“Any time you like,” said Jet. “Switch on the recorder, Lemmy.” “Recorder on,” said the operator.
There was a five-second pause, and then we heard: “Control to Discovery. Message will be transmitted in one minute. Stand by, please.”
“Standing by,” said Jet.
The smile disappeared suddenly from Lemmy’s face. “Here, wait a minute,” he said.
“Huh?” said Jet, turning to Lemmy, surprised at the tone in his friend’s voice.
“He answered you pretty smart, didn’t he?”
“How do you mean?” asked Jet.
“The last time we had a message from Earth was a month ago. The time-lag between calls then was ten seconds?”
“So?” asked Mitch, imitating one of Lemmy’s pet gestures.
“So by now the lag should be at least twenty seconds-- but that answer came back in five.”
“I didn’t even bother to notice,” said Jet. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. The times I’ve spoken to Earth I reckon I should notice a thing like that, shouldn’t I?”
“Well, we’ll soon see,” said Mitch. “Get them to call you again, Jet.”
But before Jet could do so, Control were themselves talking to us. “Hullo, Flagship,” said the familiar voice of the Australian operator, “are you ready to take the message?”
“Sorry, Control,” said Jet, “I didn’t hear you. Will you repeat that?”
The moment Jet ceased to speak, all eyes went up to the clock above the table to watch the second hand as it jerked round the dial.
“Control to Flagship,” came the voice. “Repeat, are you ready to take the message?”
“Lemmy’s right,” said Mitch. “It was five seconds.”
“Sorry, Control,” said Jet, “cannot take message at this moment. Will call you again in a few minutes.” He switched off the radio, turned to us and said: “What on earth is going on?”
“The Fleet must have turned itself round while we were in that gas cloud. We’re going back home,” suggested Lemmy.
“We’re heading for Mars,” said Mitch firmly. “Correct course, correct position, just as we should be.”
“Then,” said Lemmy firmly, “that can’t be Control.”
“Then who is it?” I asked.
“Search me,” said the Cockney. “I’m no clairvoyant-- just a radio operator.”
“It must be Control,” said Mitch decisively. “The short delay must be due to some freakish way the wave travels or something.”
“Use your loaf, Mitch,” said Lemmy. “How could that be? Lots of things can block a radio wave but nothing can change its speed, not so’s you’d notice, anyway.”
“Call them up, Jet. Let’s take the message at least,” I suggested.
“Very well, Doc. We can argue about it afterwards. Switch her on, Lemmy.”
“Transmitter on,” said Lemmy.
“Hullo, Control,” said Jet. “Morgan calling. Now ready to receive your message. Go ahead, please.”
Automatically we all looked at the clock again. Exactly five seconds had passed before we heard the words: “Control to Flagship. Here is your message. Urgent. Control to Flagship Discovery. By order of the Supreme Council, Flagship Discovery and accompanying freighters are to abandon all attempts to reach Mars and return to Moon base immediately. Repeat, return to Moon base immediately. End of message.”
“Eh?” was all that Lemmy could say.
“Turn back?” asked Mitch incredulously.
“Hullo--hullo, Control,” said Jet. “Morgan speaking. Are you crazy? We’re nearly half way there. What are the reasons for turning back?”
“There can’t possibly be any,” I said.
The voice of Control gave none either--all it said was “Emergency operation, Plan B, to be put into effect immediately.”
“Plan B!” exclaimed Jet angrily. “That means a complete turnaround. Return to Base immediately, regardless of what we think our chances are. Plan A would give us some choice in. the matter; if I thought it safe to go on, I’d go. But if Control orders Plan B I have no choice. Even if we were about to touch down on Mars we’d have to turn back.”
“But they can’t expect us to abandon the whole project without giving some valid reason,” protested Mitch.
“You know the golden rule on this trip. Carry out orders first, ask questions afterwards.”
“In an emergency, yes,” replied the engineer indignantly; “but what emergency is there?”
“This is where I intend to break the golden rule,” said Jet, “and ask them.” He turned back to the microphone. “Hullo, Control--Morgan calling. Have received your message but am at a loss to understand it. Expedition is going well. Can you give me your reasons for ordering Plan B?”
“If the Controller gave that order,” said Lemmy, “He’ll be hopping mad at your questioning it.”
“No madder than I am at his giving it,” said Jet.
The voice of Control came back almost at once, loud and clear. “Your message received. Emergency Operation Plan B to be carried out at once.”
“There,” said Lemmy, “what did I tell you?”
“Orders must be obeyed without question at all times,” continued Control blandly.
“Yes,” protested Jet, “but . . . hey, wait a minute. What did he say?” he asked, looking round at the three of us.
“Orders must be obeyed without question at all times,” I repeated.
“Control never used that expression before,” said Jet. “But it’s not the first time we’ve heard it,” Lemmy reminded us.
“Whitaker!” I said.
“Yes,” said Jet, “Whitaker.”
“But that’s the voice of Control,” said Mitch. “I’d know it anywhere.”
“It certainly sounded like Control,” I said.
“Lemmy,” said Jet, “turn back the tape.”
“How far?” asked Lemmy.
“To the part where Control first called us.”
“Right.”
“What do you intend to do?” I asked, as Lemmy wound the tape back.
“Listen to it all again,” replied the Captain.
And listen to it we did. To every word, from the time when Jet first replied to Control’s calls until the statement about orders being carried out without question. When the playback had finished, Mitch said: “Control. No doubt about it. I’d stake my life on it.”
“It sounds like them, all right,” admitted Lemmy, “but it still doesn’t explain why the time-lag between replies is so short--or why we hear them so loud and clear.”
We played the tape again and listened to it in silence. But this time Mitch suddenly gave a start as the recorded voice said: “By order of the Supreme Council, Flagship Discovery and accompanying freighters are to abandon all attempts to reach Mars and return to Moon Base immediately.”
“That’s not the same voice,” the Australian said excitedly. “Almost, but not quite. Before the actual message, a new voice took over.”
We played the tape a third time.
“It is a different voice,” said Jet. “In the shock of being told to turn back we just didn’t notice it. Lemmy, could you get a bearing on that signal?”
“Yes, if you keep him talking long enough I could.”
“All right, get ready to do it. I’ll call him up.”
Lemmy sat at the controls and switched in the directional aerial. Five minutes later, Jet said: “Well, what’s the bearing?”
“One degree to starboard,” announced the radio operator. “Azimuth reading. Altitude nil, depth nil. That means he’s almost right slap in front of us, whoever he is.”
Jet switched off the transmitter and turned to face us. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I think that about settles that. It’s not Control. It’s someone using the voice of Control in the hope of fooling us into turning back.”
“But who?” asked Mitch.
“Whitaker, of course,” said Lemmy. “Who else?”
“Then he must have got ahead of us,” I said.
“But what could he gain from that?” asked Jet.
“He’s got one of our ships, hasn’t he?” said Lemmy.
“But he can’t go anywhere in it. Even if he went on to Mars he couldn’t land her--she’s not built for it.”
“And if he just keeps going,” said Mitch, “he’ll eventually cover a full orbit and in a couple of years he’ll be back where we all started from--on the Moon.”
“And we’ll be there waiting for him,” concluded Jet. “There’d be no point in that, either.”
“He must be raving mad,” said Lemmy decisively.
“No, there must be some other reason behind it,” said Jet, “something much deeper and stranger than we can comprehend. Something to do with his being born in 1893, maybe.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Mitch.
“I’m beginning to believe almost anything so far as Whitaker is concerned,” replied Jet. “The way he behaved the whole time he was with the expedition and the uncanny effect he had on the crew members of the ships he was in-- all of it must add up to something.”
“What?” I asked him.
“I wish I knew, Doc. If I did we might have some idea of what to expect next. Lemmy,” he said suddenly, “get me Frank Rogers of Number Two on the ship-to-ship system.”
“Rogers, Jet?” I asked. “What for?”
“He spent more time with Whitaker than anybody. Maybe he can throw some light on this business.”
When Rogers came through the airlock that led into the cabin of the Discovery, he seemed very pleased at being asked over, which was understandable as, like nearly all the freighter crews, he had not left his tiny little cabin since takeoff from the Moon.