The Ecolog, page 4
He turned and clambered over the wing and through the air lock into the Manta where Mike, at the shuttlecraft's controls, sat waiting for him. The outer air-lock door swung shut and sealed itself, followed by the inner air-lock door. The commodore glanced around at the eight-man squad of brown-coveralled soldiers strapped down in the narrow passenger compartment. Satisfied, he took his place beside Mike in the copilot's seat.
"Manta One requesting takeoff clearance," said Mike into his helmet microphone.
"On the count of three," came the controller's voice in his earphones. "One, two, three."
The panels in the Corregidor's wall opened so swiftly that the rush of escaping air, combined with the push supplied by the reverse of polarity in the magnetic clamps, carried the Manta out into the void without any use of its own power.
As the sliding doors quickly slid shut behind them and the Manta continued to drift away from the mother ship, Mike got his first look at the planet with his naked eye. The useful but somewhat distorting videotelescope remained on board the mother ship.
"Why," he said with awe, "it looks just like Earth! What a strange coincidence!"
"Don't ask too much of coincidence, Mister Phillips. No, this planet is the way it is because someone made it that way."
"God?" Mike half joked.
"No, but perhaps someone regarded as a god by the present inhabitants."
The voice of the controller crackled over the earphones. "We're broadcasting power to you now, sir. You can start your engines any time."
"Thank you," answered Briggs crisply. "Let's go."
Mike gestured over the studs on The Corregidor was behind them now, invisible through the ports but still to be seen on the small monitor screen in the center of the instrument panel, a steadily dwindling black and white image.
"Controller," said Briggs. "Where's that dirigible now?"
There was a moment's pause before the answer, "It must be on the other side of the planet, sir. At any rate we seem to have lost track of it."
Another voice broke in… Christina Enge. "Briggs?" She sounded worried.
"Yes?" said the commodore.
After a long pause, Christina sighed, "Nothing."
The controller came on again. "Good luck, sir."
"Thank you," said Abraham Briggs.
There was no further communication from the Corregidor. Briggs switched over from gravatic wave to radio and tuned to the frequency the natives had been using. For a while there was nothing but white noise; then suddenly a carrier wave came on and a male voice said, "Zone twenty-four. We see you. Can you pick up cargo? Over."
The woman's voice again, proud and commanding, "Affirmative. Stand by at the mooring mast. Out."
The carrier wave vanished and the white noise returned.
Mike examined his instruments and said quietly, "We hit the upper atmosphere in—let's see—exactly 12 minutes and 15 seconds."
Briggs nodded, chewing on the tip of his index finger; it was obvious his mind was on other things.
Like a vulture the Manta glided downward in lazy circles. The engines were off and the only sound was the rush of air along the shuttlecraft's outer surfaces. A moment before, the atmosphere had been heating the little ship to a red glow, but now that they had slowed, the wind was having a cooling effect.
"There's a city," said Mike, pointing.
"I see," said Briggs. "Let's land as close as we can to it."
From the shadows below they estimated that it was early in the morning.
"We might upset the natives, coming down from the sky like this in an alien flying machine," said Mike.
"No doubt we will, Mister Phillips," agreed the commodore, "but it can't be helped."
They swept in low over the rooftops, banking steeply, watching for some sign of hostility. All was quiet. They climbed once again into the yellowish gray light of dawn, then made another low-level pass over the city. Still no sign of danger. Mike and Briggs looked at each other and Briggs nodded, smiling, but Mike saw that he was pale and tense. Mike brought the streamlined, white Manta to a standstill in the air about 30 meters above a spot some distance from what seemed to be the main gate of the city.
"Still no sign of anybody." Mike was somewhat relieved. "I guess they're keeping out of sight."
"Can you blame them?"
They both laughed nervously. All around them, as far as the eye could see, lay desert, without a trace of man or animal. "Set 'er down," commanded Briggs softly.
Gently, carefully, the little flying wing settled toward the ridge of a dune until, with a soft bump and a rasp of sand against metal, it was down. The whine of the engines died away to a dull hum, a trickle of power "just in case."
Mike gazed at his instruments in surprise. "The air is Earth-normal, sir. Exactly Earth-normal."
"As I expected."
"And the virus and bacteria counts are below Earth-normal. In fact, there don't seem to be any microbiological forms that might be hostile to us." Mike was more surprised still.
"Paradise, mister. In a way it seems a shame to disturb it."
"We're germ-free ourselves, commodore."
"I wasn't thinking of germs, Phillips. It's what's in our minds that's a danger. We may bring this whole civilization down like a precarious house of cards." He began unstrapping himself, adding fatalistically, "So be it."
The man's voice on the radio suddenly announced, "Aliens down. Over."
The woman's voice answered, with an unmistakable undertone of triumph, "Thank you."
An instant later the hum of engines died and every light in the Manta went out.
"It's impossible to jam a power transmission," insisted Mike.
"Impossible for us, perhaps," answered Briggs, taking a handkerchief from his spun steel pocketbelt and wiping his forehead. The sun was as yet low in the sky, but already the desert was heating up.
"For us? I thought you said we were in advance of the people on this planet!"
"I was wrong, incredible as that may seem. It would appear we are dealing, not with some backward medieval intelligence, but with a seventh level mind—at least seventh level—that delights in temporal eclecticism. A little something from the Middle Ages, a little something from the first century A.D., a charming dirigible from the 1930s and, for spice, a dash of the distant future!" Mike was appalled, but his commanding officer seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the seriousness of their situation.
With a crank they had managed to open manually an emergency exit atop the fuselage and now squatted on the dune near the crippled white Manta. Their eight-man squad of soldiers crouched in a rough circle around them, weapons ready to hold off any possible attackers, though there was still not a soul in sight.
"What now?" Mike would almost have welcomed the sight of an enemy at this moment. At least then he would have been able to do something.
"Calm yourself, Lieutenant," said Briggs sharply. "Remember, if you can, that you are a soldier. Our mission is to contact the natives of this planet and seek their help. Correct? Then that is what we'll do. Nothing has changed, really, except that we have more reason to hope that our hosts will have a computer advanced enough for our needs."
The commodore turned toward a trio of soldiers cowering in the shuttle's shadow—they seemed, if anything, to be the most frightened in the whole troop—and called out, "You there! You three. Come with us. The rest of you stay here and guard the Manta."
The three stepped forward somewhat reluctantly.
"And you over there," continued Briggs, his eye fixing on another "volunteer."
"I want you to write a message in the sand. Yes you! Nice big letters now, so the Corregidor can see them with the videotelescope on their next pass overhead. Tell them—let's see—tell them 'Power out. Continuing mission. Await orders.' Hmm. Yes. That about covers it. I hope it will keep those fools up there from sending down another shuttle to join us… in this trap."
"Aye, sir," said the soldier uncertainly. He began marking out the message in the sand, scuffing along with his boots.
"Who's the senior officer in the squad?" demanded Briggs.
"Me, sir… I think." A short, intellectual-looking fellow with thick glasses held up his hand.
Briggs gazed at him a moment, then sighed and said, "Very well, sir. You'll be in charge. If we don't return by sundown, come after us. We may need rescuing. Otherwise wait for further orders. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" A snappy salute.
Briggs smiled. Mike knew the commodore was always impressed by a show of discipline. As long as the salutes were right, everything was right as far as old Briggs was concerned!
"You, Phillips, and you three soldiers come with me. Cheer up, gentlemen. We're only going for a little walk into town. Who knows? There may be beautiful young ladies waiting there to be liberated. That would suit you lecherous swine, I'm sure. Now, forward march! Hup two three four!"
They set off in a straggling line toward the gate of the walled city, and the hot wind picked up the dust from their footprints and whirled it aloft in a swirling yellow cloud. The gate was wide open. If these were hostile natives, why didn't they close the gate? Why didn't they man the walls and start shooting?
As they neared the entrance Briggs became more cautious. "Fan out," he ordered, with a gesture. "Move in quickly now, but don't shoot unless someone shoots at you."
"Aye, sir," came the replies as the little party split up and began moving in toward the gate, crouching and half-running.
A moment later they were through the gateway. Briggs straightened up and, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, turned slowly around. There were the buildings… military buildings, stables, two-story living quarters of rough baked clay, even an inn, marked by a faded sign with a picture of a mug of beer on it. The sign swung in the breeze with a creaking sound that was almost the only relief from the oppressive silence.
"Nobody home," whispered one of the soldiers.
"A ghost town," said another with awe.
"So it would appear," snapped Abraham Briggs. "Search it!"
Mike stepped out of the darkened doorway into the ruddy glow of the setting sun. Briggs, seated on the edge of a well in the center of the city square, stopped fanning himself with his helmet long enough to call out, "Hey there, Lieutenant Phillips! Found anything?"
Wearily Mike shuffled through the dust toward the well, holding up a can. "Another plastic can, sir," he answered with disgust.
"But this one, unless my eyes deceive me, is unopened."
Mike seated himself beside Briggs and handed him the can, and the commodore examined it with some interest. Mike wondered what sense Briggs could be making out of it. One more can! They had found so many plastic cans and bottles today, most of them empty. They had found furniture, too, and ancient rotting clothing, but no people… not even any human bones. "And the label, as usual, is in English, whatever that may mean."
Briggs read the words, "peanut butter." He looked up from the can and said, "Nothing is meaningless. It's just that we see, not with our eyes, but with our minds. The man with an untrained mind might as well be blind." He set the can down and began fanning himself again with his helmet.
"It'll be dark soon," said Mike, after a pause.
"I know."
"We'd better be heading back. No use getting everybody all upset."
The commodore stood up. "You're right, of course. Perfectly right. It's only that I'd hoped…" He put on his helmet with an air of resignation, leaving his sentence unfinished.
A voice called out, "Commodore Briggs!"
Briggs brightened. "Hello. Maybe this is it." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "What is it?"
The answer echoed through the wide empty street. "Footprints, sir. Fresh ones. Over here."
The commodore had already broken into a run, heading in the direction of the voice. He called, "Stay there, man. I'm coming." Mike followed, walking quickly but unable to bring himself to run.
When he caught up, he found the commodore kneeling in a dark, dusty alley, examining something with his flashlight. Nearby stood the three soldiers, and one of them seemed quite proud of himself. Briggs looked up. "They're fresh, Mister Phillips! I'll wager they're not more than a few hours old."
Mike leaned over, noticing that whoever had left the prints had been barefoot.
"Small feet, wouldn't you say?" Briggs went on excitedly. "A child, perhaps. But running. Notice the distance between the prints."
"Bare feet," said Mike. "That means a savage."
"Beware of snap judgments, my boy." Briggs stood up. "Well, let's go. He took two steps in the direction the footprints led. The soldiers looked at each other uneasily. "We're going to follow them, of course," added Briggs, turning on them with a sullen frown.
"It'll be dark in a minute," ventured one of the troops.
"The others will think…" began another.
Indeed the sun had gone down by now, and the light at the zenith was fading fast. A breeze stirred. A cool breeze. Briggs stood silent a moment before saying, "Quite right. Quite right. The lieutenant here has already been kind enough to inform me of that fact."
There was a heavy silence.
The commodore gripped the hilt of his Scottish sword and broke the silence with, "I'm staying." He spoke casually, without expression.
"Alone?" asked Mike.
"If need be. Someone will have to go back to the Manta and report to the others, but I intend to follow these tracks. Of course, if there are any volunteers…"
Nobody moved for a second, then Mike stepped to his side. The three soldiers remained rooted to their places.
"Excellent," said the Commodore stiffly. "Those also serve who only turn and run. Very well, you three, move!"
The soldiers did not need to be told twice. Crouching, casting fearful glances at every doorway and window they passed, they set off at a trot for the city gates.
"So, it's just you and I, eh?" said Briggs with satisfaction. "Well, what do you think of that?" He gave Phillips a mocking wink.
"I think you're a damn fool, sir."
"Indeed?"
"A man as valuable as you has no right to place himself in danger on an unimportant—"
"Unimportant, you say? It is my continued existence that is, in these circumstances, unimportant. If we fail to get help from the natives of this bloody planet, I may withdraw my veto against blowing up the Corregidor … and if and when the Lorns trace us here, that will be the end of us all."
Briggs turned and, with the aid of his flashlight, began following the footprints. Mike, right behind him, held a rocketdart stinger pistol at the ready.
There was no moonlight—this planet was without a satellite—but a vast, oval spiral nebula filled the sky, casting a spectral blue glow over the irregular looming hulks of the buildings.
The blonde crouched.
Through a crack in a decaying door, she could see the flashlight far down the street, crossing and recrossing from one curb to the other, as she had crossed and re-crossed, ducking in and out of doorways and passageways. At times the wind shifted, and she could hear soft voices, men's voices. Are they after me?
She realized that they were following her footprints… but how could she stop leaving footprints? Dust was everywhere. And here, inside a building, the dust was worse than it was out in the streets.
Perhaps up on the rooftops…
She left the door and pitter-pattered up a flight of stone steps, down a cobweb-choked hallway, up another flight of steps. An instant later she was on the roof, carefully picking her way over the slippery tiles.
Below her the door creaked open. The men were entering the building! She heard their voices again, closer than before, but still could not make out what they said.
She reached the edge of the roof and stopped.
It was a long jump to the next roof, and there was a two-story drop to the cobblestone street.
Her glance snapped to the right, to the left. Trapped!
A chimney was nearby. It might be big enough to hide behind. She scampered to it, climbed behind it, hanging on tight to the rough, rocky surface. She slipped and almost fell over the roof edge, but caught herself in time.
"What was that?" came a voice from inside the building.
She held her breath.
"Our friend with the bare feet, I hope," came another, deeper voice. "On the roof, I believe, Mister Phillips."
There was the sound of boots on the stone steps.
Peeping around the corner of the chimney, she caught a glimpse of a helmeted head silhouetted against the nebula, then another. A flashlight snapped on, and as it swung her way, she shrank back out of sight.
"It may be a trap, commodore," said the first man.
"And then again, it may not. If we sneak about I doubt that we'll fool anyone but ourselves, and it gives a better impression if we walk right in. The more harmless and defenseless we seem, the better, wouldn't you say, Phillips?"
"Maybe, but—"
"Hold on! I thought I saw something move… over there behind the chimney." The strangers spoke with a funny accent, but she understood one thing clearly enough. In another instant they'd have her!
She sprang from her hiding place and scampered frantically over the tiles.
"There he goes, sir!"
"After him, Phillips!"
The gulf between this roof and the next was just as wide on the opposite end, but without giving herself time to think about the danger, she launched herself into space.
With a grunt she landed on the neighboring roof, caught her balance and kept running. A thump and a curse told her one of the men had jumped across behind her.
"Jump, Phillips, damn you! If I can make it, so can you."
"I don't know—"
"Go down the steps then. Try to head him off. I haven't time to argue."
She opened a trapdoor, bolted down a flight of stairs, tripped, fell, jumped up again and kept running. It was so dark! She knew these buildings well, but in the dark even she could make mistakes.
And now the boots were behind her again, drumming down the stairs. She went down another flight four steps at a time. She was on the ground floor now and about to burst out through the front door when she remembered the other man had been ordered to head her off. He might be waiting for her in the street. She turned and headed instead for a side window. As she pulled open the shutter, a rusty hinge squeaked. The steps behind her stopped for a moment, then came toward her even more quickly than before.
