Asteroid Man (5 page)

"Well, I've got to the state, and I don't mind admitting it, where I want a consultation. You are two of the senior men on the post. I called you in first. Have you any ideas?"

"I appreciate the compliment, sir," said Krull, "but I'm afraid I can't come up with anything. When you rang the summons bell, we thought you had something for us."

Rotherson shook his massive bull-like head. He was biting his lip.

"There must be something we can do. I don't want to send another squadron up there if I can avoid it. If the first ran into some kind of trouble, the second would probably go the same way unless we can find out something more about it."

"On the other hand," said Jonga, "if they're in some kind of trouble from which they might be rescued, the longer we delay, the less their chances will be."

"You mean the fleet itself?" questioned Rotherson. "It's a pretty big move. I should have to call in the P.M., and we haven't got anything to go on yet. If we send a fleet up there, and it turns out to radio interference, we're going to look pretty silly. We could get away with sending a survey expedition up before it was needed— but to send the fleet up—" He shuddered at the thought of the questions that would be asked in the Inter-planetary Council. "Can't you just see some hot-headed young M.P. trying to make a reputation for himself on the back benches! You know darn well that I'm their favorite whipping-boy as far as expenses go. They never have liked spending a penny on inter-planetary development. What happens if we blast off a couple of millions credits worth of fuel and it turns out that it was just radio interference?"

"I see your point, General," said Krull. "On the other hand, what happens if we just sit here and wait, and something out there is ready to sweep on the whole system?"

"I know that, too," said the general, "and I don't want all that responsibility on my own. I think I ought to contact the President…"

"But that's going to take hours," said Jonga unhappily. "Just imagine if some of those chaps ran into a bit of difficulty, and the squadron were landed on one of those asteroids to take the men off: a stricken ship…"

"—In which case they'd have radioed back," put in the general. "Men don't just go out there and disappear. They would have made radio contact. On the other hand, we all know well enough that radio contact from space can be a very erratic thing. There's so much interference that only the finest sets will pick it up, anyway."

The others agreed, and sat sipping their drinks in a stony, brooding silence, looking from one to the other.

"I've got one suggestion," said Jonga. "It's not very original, if I go back and check the survey we're on— we're counting for the fifth time—if I finish that survey and there's still a negative result—in other words, if we still stick at 2,813, then I suggest we hang on, and regard things as normal. But if anything in the least odd shows up, we'll report back to you, and you can contact the President."

"Well, it would give us something concrete to work on, but what happens if nothing shows up?"

"Then we'll give them two more radio checks—"

"I couldn't stick another eight hours," said Rotherson.

"How do we know there isn't something already out there that's swallowed up those other ships like a sponge?"

"I know! I know!"

"Why do the wrong men get into politics?"

"Well, I suppose we've got to have someone see we don't waste the public money."

"Yes, I suppose so." Krull laughed ironically. "But how much good will the money do the public if there's a thing out there, like I imagine there might be!"

"What sort of thing are you imagining?" asked the general.

"Something with a brain as big an asteroid. Something as old as the stars themselves. Something that can control destiny. Something as terrible as a nova, something stronger than gravity. I don't know! I don't know!"

"I think we'd better be getting back to the chart room."

"O.K.," agreed Jonga, still playing with his empty glass.

"Cigarette?" asked the general suddenly.

"Thanks." They sat in that same stolid silence, watching the blue-brown spirals of smoke curl up toward the ceiling.

"I don't know what the heck we're going to do," said Jonga. "I've got no idea at all."

"I think your plan is about the best. It's better than sitting here and sweating it out."

"We couldn't send just one scout ship up to see what's happened?"

"I think it's pointless. If whatever's up there is big enough to smash five, what's the use of throwing good money after bad? It's either the fleet or nothing. The question is, is it bad enough to send the fleet? Or are they going to come crackling through on that radio beam and tell us everything is O.K.? It could be a band of cosmic rays just cut all radio contact for a time. It has happened before."

"That could be it," said Krull, but he didn't sound convinced.

"We'll leave it like that for the moment," decided the general. "There's another project here I'm supposed to be getting busy on, but I don't feel much like it."

He reached for a sheaf of papers, and gave a wave of his hand to indicate that the interview was at an end. They made their way back toward their own section.

"He's feeling the strain," said Krull. "Sometimes it helps to know that the man at the top is feeling it, too. It gives you a better perspective on yourself."

"I suppose it does," agreed Jonga. "Still—I don't like it. I don't think there is an easy explanation. I've got a nasty feeling here, in the pit of my stomach, that something's gone very badly wrong… I shall be very surprised if we ever hear anything from those ships again."

"You're a Job's comforter."

They reached the control room again, and Jonga crossed to the computer. 2,810, 2,811, 2,812, the computer crackled and stopped. "Two eight one two?" He pressed the recheck key. "Krull, come over here."

The astrophysicist crossed the room in three quick strides. "What is it, Jonga?" he asked.

Jonga pointed dumbly to the clock. "2,812. The asteroid has gone!"

"What?" exploded Krull.

"It's gone! We're back to the original number!"

"Jumping galaxies. It looks as if it's gone and taken our five ships with it." Jonga nodded silently. "Do a recheck, see if you've missed anything out anywhere."

"Sure." By the time he had completed the check, Krull's urgent ringing had brought Rotherson to the checkroom.

"It's gone," Rotherson was exploding as he came in the door. "Are you sure?"

"Was the computer all right?" asked Krull. Jonga nodded.

"As right as it's ever been. The asteroid is gone as surely as if it never came. And so have our five ships, apparently."

The general sat down—he looked suddenly old and tired…

It seemed to Greg Masterson that this was the end, and, grim as the situation was, he could not fail to see the ironical twist of it. He had escaped a crash that had killed twenty-four other men; he was the sole survivor of million to one odds. He was in the middle of a mystery so grim, so deep, so dark, and so obscure that it looked as if it were going to be the greatest thing since they invented nuclear fission nearly three centuries ago… and now he was going out like a light, either to be killed by the fall, or by the jaws and clutching talons of the beast which he had glimpsed lurching and lumbering toward his hole. He had only seen it for a few fleeting fractions of a second—but that had been enough! More than enough! It had been like something out of a nightmare! It was a sort of combination—that fleeting impression—of claws and teeth and scales and dripping slime, and foul venomous fangs. It looked to be as big as a mountain, a mountain with bloodshot, purple eyes, a mountain with tentacles. A walking death mountain, lurching toward him like a gargantuan cat in pursuit of a singularly microscopic mouse. Like the most enormous spider in pursuit of himself—the tiniest fly.

A quick death at the bottom of the hole would be far, far better than falling into the hands of that beast. His feet struck something that felt rather like a hard flooring, plastic. Then he felt a jarring sensation. The suit was flexible and tough, devilishly tough. It had to be to withstand the rigors and the pressures and the temperatures to which it was exposed. He was aware that against the pressure of the suit there was a strong tide of escaping air. Then, for a few merciful seconds, blackness engulfed him. Just before consciousness left him, he remembered wondering whether it was his own air that was escaping or whether the sound came from elsewhere, whether the feeling came from some other place—then he seemed to be taking a head-first dive; a deep, relaxing dive into an enormous black pit, a pit from which there seemed to be no awakening. He dived for what seemed an eternity—then he seemed to be surfacing again, very slowly, so slowly that he felt as though his lungs would burst, as though his chest could no longer sustain the pressure of something. What—he had no idea. At last consciousness flooded back in pain-stabbing rays of light against his eyes. He couldn't understand it. He should have been dead; it had been a long fall, far more than the twelve feet he had originally calculated. He looked up. As he did so a shadow fell across the opening of the hole through which he had fallen. It was a huge black shadow, cutting out the sunlight. The shadow of the creature! He shuddered involuntarily. Though he could only see a small fragment of it, framed in the aperture, that fragment was enough. He calculated the hole was about five or six feet across at the most. The creature was scraping at it, trying to get at him; the foremost claw was reaching down into the tiny hole, reaching for him!

As a fisherman digs for clams, down came the claw. Greg remained alive for one reason only. He was a fighting man right through. Because he was a fighting man he relied on his instincts. Instinct recovered far more quickly than intelligence did. Instinct went for his gun. Lying on his back in the narrow bottom of the shaft, he fired. The reverberating crash sounded thunderous to the auditory system of the suit. There was a wild, jerky withdrawal of the claw, and a movement as of many rocks above him. It felt as if the end of the world had come, as though the four horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding roughshod over the mountains and valleys of the earth, crashing and crushing them on top of screaming fugitives. Whatever that thing was up there, he realized grimly that it was vulnerable to his blaster. Something that might have been the remains of a claw dragged itself painfully from the hole. It was very vulnerable! The knowledge gave him a certain bloodthirsty satisfaction, a satisfaction that was not destined to last very long. A shower of hard granulated shingle rattled down on the outside of his suit. The thing was trying to bury him alive. It had more intelligence than it had originally appeared to possess. He wondered, for a fleeting instant, whether that thing could be the intelligence ruling the asteroid, governing and directing it. Surely not, he told himself. The difference between the rudimentary intelligence which the monster had demonstrated and the degree of technological development which would be necessary to move an asteroid artificially would be very far removed from one another, as different as chalk is from cheese, or as night is from day…

He was brought back to the immediate dangers of his position by the ever-increasing volley of stones which the creature was shoveling in. A few seconds more and he would be helplessly trapped beneath them. He had to get out—to get out fast. The question was—where? It would obviously be pointless to try to reascend the shaft even if he had been capable of doing it; the second his head appeared over the top it would have been cracked like a nut between those cavernous jaws. His only escape obviously lay along the tunnel which opened before him. But what lay along the tunnel? His mind was a whirl of unconnected thoughts as he crawled awkwardly toward the aperture. Seeming to sense that its prey was escaping, the creature above redoubled its efforts. Greg was aware of the air moving past the outside of his suit now, buffeting him as wind buffets, trying to force him up through that hole. The stones were forcing him down, and the wind was forcing him up. He felt like a tiny piece of driftwood caught in a maelstrom of currents. He struggled on for what seemed an eternity, but was in reality only a matter of seconds; then he was into the tunnel. The creature gave away the actual quotient of its intelligence by continuing to hurl stones down into the rapidly filling hole.

A few seconds more and the wind had ceased, telling him that to all intents and purposes the outlet was blocked. The true nature of the subterranean passageway was now borne in upon him with overwhelming clarity. It was quite obviously some kind of ventilating mechanism. He was able to stand upright in the tunnel, but for a few moments he did not recognize this. He continued to crawl doggedly along like a determined infant. He staggered as he crawled. He stretched out his hand toward the side of the tunnel, missed it, misjudged the distance, and rolled over onto his back. He was utterly exhausted, for mental and physical reasons. His nerves had already stood far more than any man's nerves could be expected to stand. He had reached the end of his rope. He almost wished what the monster had gotten him, or that the fall had killed him, or that the stones had crushed him. There comes a moment, he decided, when death is far preferable to life. He imagined death as a quietus, a calm and peaceful finish. The words of an old hymn went throbbing through his aching mind:

The thought of sleep was an overwhelming one. He knew that he must rest. He had to rest. If he didn't he was finished, completely and utterly. He sipped in oxygen desperately. He turned the tap of the cylinder so that it was charging the suit at a rate far above the normal level. It made him feel light-headed, almost drunk.

It gave him a sensation of power and freedom. Suddenly he stopped caring about the monster. He could go back and fight it with his bare hands. He didn't care. Darn the monster. He had hit it once; he could hit it again. This time he would hit it where it really hurt. His mind threw up an odd little projected image of himself, standing on the monster's chest, one foot on its head, smoking guns in his hands, rather like Elephant Bill of by-gone days. He saw himself as a legendary big game hunter, his foot on the body of a lion, his .303 Express rifle held triumphantly but nonchalantly in the crook of an arm. Something deep down within himself told him that he was oxy-drunk. But he ignored it. He felt supremely confident, full of the knowledge that he could do anything to anything. He could fight the whole asteroid if it was alive—he didn't care. Maybe he was even now walking down one of its arteries. And the stuff he had taken for air was a kind of gaseous blood! Right; he'd give it a clot! He'd put it right! He'd find the heart chamber and blow it to bits! That would stop the asteroid destroying any more ships! He thought of himself as a germ—a singularly dangerous germ, walking down the arteries of the asteroid, a germ against which the white corpuscles—in the shape of the monster he had just injured—were unable to fight. The more he considered the analogy, the more it seemed to make sense to his oxygen-befuddled brain. That must be the obvious answer. He was a germ in the passage of an artery, and the monster he had just injured was a white corpuscle, and the way it had shoveled stones back into the hole was very similar to the way in which the body repairs cuts and minor abrasions. That was what it was. He started singing gaily to himself as he rose and walked along the passage. It was absolutely pitch black, but he seemed to take no heed of the darkness. It was darker than anything he had encountered before. The darkness was velvety black. Gradually the light-headed feeling began to leave him. The darkness pressed in upon him, tighter and harder than any darkness he had ever remembered. It seemed to be so velvety that he could almost feel the pile of it. The darkness was solid, tangible darkness. It was getting into his nose and mouth and throat, choking and suffocating him, poisoning him. He felt as though he had been buried alive in thick black mud. He coughed and spluttered. There had to be some other reason. It resulted in another cough. He realized he had overdone things with the oxygen. He'd have to strap on one of his spare cylinders, and he'd have to do it pretty quickly. Stop moving, he told himself; you're wasting your breath! Stop it, do you hear? Stop it, stop it, he was shouting to himself. Sit down and get that cylinder on, or you're dead. Why hadn't the warning indicator worked? He remembered the cylinders had taken a terrific pasting when the ship crashed. Perhaps they were leaking invisibly. Maybe that was the wind he had felt—leaking cylinders. They had taken a second battering since then. If the first one had weakened them, this would be enough to finish them. Maybe he was going to sit here and suffocate in this abysmal black tunnel. His fingers seemed slow; they wouldn't respond to the summons of his brain. I've got to get that blasted cylinder on, he thought to himself. I've got to get it on, I've got to get it on. I've got to get it on—I've—I've—he rolled over, sucking in lungfuls of foul carbon dioxide-loaded air.