Conrad smiled. “Putting modesty aside, Kurt, I would love to send you—for three reasons: one, because I am a devout coward; two, because you have the better computer; and three, because you talk too much. But there is a problem. Dirtside, you are a genius. Spaceside, you are a babe in arms. I am a spaceman, you are not. And, despite your superior I.Q., if you tried to jet across to that vessel, you would be spinning arse over apex until your superior computer was a dizzy wreck. Does that answer your question?”
“Sorry, Commander. Will you accept a draw?” It was a reference to the last time Conrad and Kwango had played chess. Kwango had thought that he was in an impregnable position. But Conrad, sacrificing a bishop and a rook, had finally checkmated him with a queen supported by a pawn.
“No, Kurt. It’s a resigning position—for you.”
“What are you two talking about?” asked Indira.
“A game,” said Kwango.
“A war game,” amended Conrad. “Don’t forget your orders. It is your task to get the
Santa Maria
back to Earth if I have the misfortune to make a one-way trip.”
Phase Four
ENIGMA VARIATION THE FIRST
Conrad checked his equipment—the suit transceiver; the life-support pack; the re
el of nylon thread; the electro
chron, thermometer, pressure metre, jet-fuel supply metre and air-mix indicator set in a thin strip of tungsten steel on the left forearm of his suit; and the laser torch.
There were two thousand metres of thread on the reel. It had a breaking point of one tonne. It was his life-line and death-line to the
Santa Maria
if jets failed, or if he was injured, or if his body was to be recovered. He slipped the loop on the end of the nylon thread into the feed slot of the Dead Man’s Winder by the external door of the airlock. A white light signalled that it was engaged. In the event of a disaster, he could be wound back to the
Santa Maria
at twenty k.p.h. He hoped it would not come to that.
He tested his suit jets. They worked perfectly. For a few seconds he jetted around in the airlock chamber, getting the feel of them once more. It had been a long time since he had used suit jets. But it was like riding an antique bicycle. Once you had the knack, you never lost it. Finally, he was satisfied. He signalled the nav deck.
“All systems go. I am now about to open the air-lock and jet over.”
“Still no response,” reported Kwango. “That thing is as dead as a dodo. Good luck, Boss.”
“Thanks.”
“Be very careful, James,” said Indira.
He was glad she had called him James, and knew why.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that the only living spacemen were the careful ones; but he thought better of it. “I’ll be extremely careful,” he assured her. Then he added softly: “Remember Applecross.” Apple-cross was the place to which he had once taken her in the North West Highlands of Scotland. It had been a lovely interlude. And it seemed a long time ago.
“I was afraid you might have forgotten it,” she said.
“No chance. That was one of the golden times… Over and out.”
He de-pressurised the air-lock, comparing his own pressure metre with the one on the bulkhead. Both registered the fall identically. When the chamber was evacuated, he pressed the stud that operated the entry-port. The steel panel slid smoothly to one side.
Conrad jetted out into space. He glanced around him at the vast wilderness of stars, remote, diamond-sharp, beautiful. James Conrad was a hardened atheist; but when he was alone in space, he always experienced a strange impulse to pray. Not because he was afraid, but because he was always overwhelmed by the sheer splendour of the cosmos.
He glanced back at the
Santa Maria
, now some hundred meters away, taking care not to turn his visor toward Regulus. Not that it was too dangerous to glance at the brilliant sun. The phototropic visor would react instantly to its radiation, darkening to shut out the glare. But, when he turned away, the visor would take a second or two to become completely translucent once more. He did not want to be partly blind even for a couple of seconds.
He gazed at the vessel ahead. It was so vast that he felt as if he were an insect—a tiny fly buzzing towards a huge piece of cheese. He took one more look at the
Santa Maria
. Once it had seemed to him to be a massive vessel; but, compared to the alien ship, it was like a toy.
Sunlight caught the nylon thread connecting him to the
Santa Maria
. He felt for a moment as if he were some strange, armoured spider spinning a long tenuous strand. Then he put such fanciful notions out of his head and concentrated on the alien vessel, now only about five hundred metres away. He gave a small retro-blast on his suit jet to slow himself down. He wanted to arrive slowly, very slowly—not like a guided missile, more like a feather drifting.
Kwango’s voice came over the radio. “How goes it, Boss?”
“Well enough, I’m going dead slow from here on, I don’t want to excite anybody, and I want a good look at the ship before I touch down.”
“You won’t be exciting anybody—except, of course, the good Lieutenant Smith, who is discreetly biting her finger nails. That thing is dead, Commander. Matthew says so, the computer says so, and—most important of all, I say so. You have bought yourself a mausoleum.”
“Thanks, Kurt. But don’t forget to hit the D.M.W. button if the mausoleum yields up ghosts.”
There was a chuckle. “Lieutenant Smith already has one finger poised. If she sneezes, you’ll be hauled back so fast you’ll spread like jam on impact. Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
Two hundred metres. Conrad gave another retro-blast. He wanted time to study the thing.
It was huge.
It filled him with awe.
It made him feel humble and insignificant.
Whatever race had built the vessel must have been far, far ahead of mankind in science and technology, even if it was not an F.T.L. ship.
Conrad allowed himself to drift slowly on, studying the details of the hull. The port-holes were about one metre in diameter, he judged. The transparent “glass” flashed annoyingly as it caught the sunlight. At fifty metres, he tried very hard to peer through one of the port-holes; but the reflected light stopped him. He would have a better chance when he touched down.
The rods projecting from the hull were of two kinds. One type was about two metres long and appeared to be hollow, the other type was about half a metre less and seemed solid. At various points along the hull there were large, hexagonal indentations. Conrad could not make up his mind about the function of the rods. They could be part of a system of telecommunications, they could be some kind of weapons—which he doubted—or they could belong to an energy dispersal system. Assuming the vessel was powered by nuclear reactors, that seemed the most likely explanation. But he was fairly confident that he knew the purpose of the hexagonal indentations. They were some three metres in diameter, and they were probably airlock entry ports.
At twenty metres, he’ was able to see that the hull— which before had seemed perfectly smooth—was pitted and scarred. Evidently, it had endured much bombardment from tiny meteors and other minute flotsam of space. Which argued that it had been around for a long time. A very long time.
Gently he drifted a few more metres, then expertly reversed his attitude so that he could make contact feet first. He hoped the hull was of steel so that his magnetic boots would give him stability.
But the hull was not made of steel. He hit it lightly and bounced off. He had to use the vertical stabilisation jet on top of his head-piece to get him down and make him stay down. Which was a pity, because constant use of the stabilisation jet would decrease the time available for power
manoeuvres
.
Well, if the hull wasn’t steel it was probably titanium. In the Solar System, titanium was very expensive and not very plentiful. Maybe in the system where this vessel had originated, titanium was the cheap metal and iron the costly one.
He made radio contact with the
Santa Maria
. “I have arrived safely. No problems, no signs of life.”
“So we have observed,” replied Kwango. “What are your intentions, Commander?”
“I’m going to kick on the hull. Somehow I don’t think I’m going to see any curious face peering through the portholes. But first I’ll try to look inside. I don’t think I shall see much… The power system probably folded long ago… The skin of this thing isn’t steel—I can’t use my magnetic soles and I’m having to use the vertical jet to keep me down. I think it may be made of titanium. Anyway, it’s been around a bloody long t
im
e. There are lots of typical micro-meteor scorings all over it… I’ve noticed a number of hexagonal markings that look as if they might be air-locks. If I can’t kick any response out of the vessel, I’ll torch my way through one of the airlocks.”
“O.K., Boss. Take it easy. Lieutenant Smith is still hypnotised by the D.M.W. button.”
Indira came in. “If it is dead, James, why not just leave it?”
“Because we need to find out why it was here—if we can. We need to find out what kind of people operated it and whether they could have any possible connection with the rings of Tantalus. Over and out.”
Conrad walked carefully to the nearest port-hole. He peered through the “glass” and saw nothing but blackness —as he had expected. He straightened up and stamped heavily on the hull. The force of the action—despite the thrust of his vertical jet—lifted him three metres clear of the hull. He came back and stamped again, with the same result. He went through the procedure four times. Then he peered once more through a port-hole. There was nothing to be seen.
He reported back to the
Santa Maria
. “I’ve had enough of being a yo-yo. I’m going to torch my way in. If the metal is titanium it should not take too long.”
Cautiously, he made his way to the nearest air-lock—if, indeed, that was what they were. He took care not to pass near any of the metal rods. It was almost certain that there were no living creatures on the ship. But it was still possible that the rods could discharge some sort of energy.
“Why not burn through one of the port-holes?” suggested Kwango. “It would probably be easier.”
Conrad was professionally shocked. “Suppose we were in S.A. on the
Santa Maria
and somebody torched through to the nav deck. We’d all be dead of explosive decompression. We have a fail-safe on our air-lock. I assume these people have one on theirs.”
Kwango chuckled. “Boss, you are a real white man.”
“I’m a
trespasser
,” retorted Conrad primly. “I’m just trying to be as careful as I can.”
The nearest hexagon was about one hundred and fifty metres from where Conrad had first touched down. He examined it carefully, and was none the wiser. It had to be an air-lock; but there was no way of knowing.
He unhooked the laser torch from his belt and set it at maximum power. “If
‘t’were done,” he quoted to himself, “
t’
were best done quickly.” He had forgotten the reference, but he thought it was Shakespeare and—vaguely—Macbeth.
“How’s that again, Boss?” asked Kwango.
“Nothing. I was talking to myself. Cancel statement.”
Kwango did his impersonation of Matthew. “Decision noted. Execution proceeds.”
From the way the laser torch sliced through the metal, it looked as if Conrad had been right about titanium. He cut a circular hole almost a metre in diameter. He needed it that big to get through without damaging his life-support systems.
As soon as the torch burned through the metal, Conrad braced himself. He had suspected that the lock might be filled with air. In which case, he would have been blasted away from the vessel as it rushed out.
He was right about it being an air-lock. He was wrong about it containing any air.
When there remained only two or three millimetres of metal left to be torched before he completed the full circle, Conrad killed the laser and returned the torch to his belt. Expertly, he tapped the section. It fell inside the lock. He adjusted his jets, switched on his head light, and went in after it.
The lock was not greatly dissimilar from the
Santa Maria’s
air-lock. It was a cubiform chamber; and Conrad was mystified as to why it should have a hexagonal exterior panel. Perhaps
the hexagon had some emotive / in
tellectual
/
religious
/
philosophical
/
scientific significance for the people who designed it.
There was a problem, and it was a nasty one. The airlock contained a control panel—as did the air-lock of the
Santa Maria
. But Conrad could not interpret the symbols. The problem was: should he torch his way through the panel that gave access to the vessel’s interior, or should he pull out—having satisfied himself beyond any reasonable doubt that the vessel was derelict? -
Indira’s voice came over the radio. “Are you all right, James?”
“Yes. I’m in one of the air-locks. I’m afraid I am going to have to cut through into the main section of the ship> after all.”
“Why not leave it and come back? You have proved that the thing is dead.”
“All we know is that nobody has responded,” he said. “We can’t continue the Tantalus mission until we are sure there can be no interference from upstairs. I hate to have to do it, but I think I’m going to burn through.”
“Then take care—and come back in one piece.” She managed to laugh. “Kurt will testify that I am no longer hovering over the D.M.W. stud.”
“That’s right, Boss,” cut in Kwango. “The Lieutenant is only looking pale and interesting.”
“Fine. I’ll keep you informed,” said Conrad.
First he played with a series of buttons on what was evidently a control console. Nothing happened. Regretfully, he unhooked his laser torch and went to work once more.
He torched his way through the inner door much faster than he had managed to burn through the hull metal— which was hardly surprising.
Again, there was no outward blast of escaping air. He was profoundly grateful. If his action had evacuated the ship, he would have regarded himself as a homicidal—or would it be aliencidal?—vandal.