The Rings of Tantalus [Expendables 2] Page 3

  “Maybe you are right. But there is a creature on Earth that plays dead until it is sure of its prey. We can’t take chances… Lieutenant Smith, why are you not checking out the suits as ordered?”

  Indira said coldly: “Sir, I request permission to apply emergency resuscitation to our four comrades. We may need them.”

  “Permission denied. At a time like this, we don’t want to have to worry about who is going to stab us in the back. Get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted insolently and left the navigation deck with Kwango.

  Conrad sighed. So much for the idyll in the North West Highlands of Scotland. He turned to Matthew. “Any sign of life?”

  “Query, sir. What criteria are to be applied for recognition of—”

  “Cancel question,” interrupted Conrad wearily. “Is there any response to transmission of signals?”

  “None, Commander.”

  “Continue transmissions. Also programme master computer with relevant data concerning alien object’s mass, velocity and orbit. Request astrogation sequence for fastest possible rendezvous of Santa Maria with alien object. Also request computer to develop F.T.L. Earth destination programme in case we need to get out of here fast.”

  “Decisions noted, Commander. Execution proceeds.”

  Six hours later, Conrad decided to go for broke. There had been no response of any kind from the huge alien vessel. So he decided to pay it a visit. The computer had revealed that its orbit was a vast eccentric one—which was probably why the robot probe had not registered its existence. Though of course, it was entirely possible that the vessel had entered the Regulus system after the probe’s departure. Whatever the explanation, Conrad knew he could not proceed with the proving of Tantalus without attempting to resolve the mystery.

  He called Kwango and Lieutenant Smith to the navigation deck.

  “What’s the weapons situation, Kurt?’*

  “Not good, but not too bad. I have had two of the robots, Mark and John, constructing a battery of six laser rifles mounted in the air-lock. All the rifles can be triggered simultaneously and the beams can be brought to focus on a given point if we know the exact range. It should be effective on carbon steel at, say, five thousand metres. Also Peter and Paul have attached spheres of cold nitro—which you may recall, was Fidel’s specialite de la maison—on to the heads of three distress rockets. Extreme range estimated at fifteen thousand metres.” Kwango shrugged. “Trouble is, Boss, we haven’t had an opportunity to prove these gadgets.”

  “Let us hope we don’t need them.”

  “Amen to that. I’m praying on it and I’m betting on it.”

  “Lieutenant, the space-suits are all tanked up?”

  “Yes, sir.” Indira’s voice still had an icy edge to it. “The life-support systems are good for ten hours at maximum demand, the emergency systems will give two more hours, the jet-packs will allow ninety minutes of continuous manoeuvre.”

  “Well, then,” said Conrad tranquilly, “the Santa Maria, as an aggressive mouse, is as ready as it ever will be to go and kick that sleeping elephant in the balls. It is my decision—which I have entered in the log—that the Santa Maria will match orbit and velocity with our enigmatic elephant. We will come up slowly and close, trying hard not to look aggressive in our intentions. While this is being done, we will continue trying to establish radio contact: If that does not succeed, at a range of twenty thousand metres we will try to make contact by visual signals. I have already instructed Matthew on the signalling procedure. And if that does not bring a response, we will nose in until we are close enough for me to jet across. I’ll take a look around and maybe give the hull a few good kicks. And if that doesn’t bring any reaction, I’ll believe your theory, Kurt, that we have found a derelict.”

  “You think that is the wisest course, Commander?” Indira’s voice indicated quite definitely that she thought his decision was stupid.

  “You can suggest a better plan of action?” he countered.

  “Why don’t we ignore the bloody thing, touch down on Tantalus and carry out our proving programme?”

  “Because, Lieutenant,” he explained patiently, “we cannot afford to touch down without attempting to resolve this mystery. The moment we hit dirtside, the Santa Maria becomes a sitting duck. If that thing is occupied—and, for all I know, it may contain a thousand very aggressive little green men in S.A. all waiting for the alarm clock to say: Wake up, we’re there—then we could have a nasty situation. Particularly if they think they have more right to colonise Tantalus than we have. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have a question, Boss,” said Kwango.

  “Go ahead. Spit it out.”

  “What happens if one of those little green men wakes up in time to notice your big hello. Suppose he is very irritable and goes: Bang, bang, you are dead.”

  “In that case you do not retaliate—I repeat, you do not retaliate. You get the hell out of it as fast as you can, if you can. If you can evade their detection equipment, you take the Santa Maria Clean out of the Regulus system, put yourselves back in S.A. and report to Terra. Matthew is fully programmed for F.T.L. procedure. You would need something like six hours to get under way. If, on the other hand, the Santa Maria is attacked, you throw everything we have—such as it is—and still get out. O.K.?”

  Kwango nodded. “It isn’t going to come to that.”

  Conrad smiled. “Let us hope so. But if it does, you, Lieutenant Smith, will assume full command. It will be your responsibility to carry out these instructions as efficiently as possible. Understood?”

  “Understood, Commander,” Her voice had softened a little. “Don’t make yourself a dead hero, that’s all.”

  “I’ll try not to… Now, let us all have a decent meal before we blast out of orbit.”

  Conrad waited until the alien vessel had passed over the night side of Tantalus and was approaching sunside before he made the rendezvous manoeuvres. The star-ship’s computer would have carried out the operations perfectly; but Conrad preferred to control the Santa Maria himself. He prided himself on his skill as a space captain, and hated to think that a programmed machine could match his years of experience. One thing he knew intuitively—and derived some satisfaction from the knowledge—was that in an unanticipated crisis the man would make a sounder and faster decision than the machine.

  The first power manoeuvre was carried out at one G acceleration, the second at two thirds G and the third at one third G. The Santa Maria edged cautiously towards the huge object.

  Meanwhile, Luke continued to search the radio frequencies and Matthew worked patiently through his sequence of variable pitch signals.

  At a range of twenty thousand metres, the egg-shaped object, brilliantly white in sunlight, looked awesome.

  “Change now to visual signals, Matthew,” said Conrad. “Use the same sequence and try variable light intensities and colours. Start at the red end of the spectrum, but alternate with white light signals.”

  “Decision noted, Commander, Execution proceeds.”

  Kwango was looking through the manual telescope. “It’s got rows and rows of windows, Boss,” he said excitedly. “If those little green men are going to notice our existence, now is the time.”

  “Not windows, port-holes,” corrected Conrad absently. “Any response, Matthew?” Now that was a bloody silly question! The robot would have reported a response immediately.

  “No response, Commander.”

  Kwango handed the telescope over to Indira. “I think I can see things that might be radio antenna.” she said excitedly. “There are several rather thick spines sticking out at regular intervals.”

  “Or they could be weapons,” observed Conrad sombrely. “I wish to hell we could get some kind of response. The enigmatic silence doesn’t give me a great feeling of tranquillity.”

  Kwango laughed. “Would you feel any better if some angry little character came on the vid, uttering
gobbledy-gook and making sinister gestures?”

  “No. But at least I would know we had got through to somebody… I am going down to the air-lock and getting into a suit. If there is still no response by the time

  I have hooked up all my gear, I’ll take the Santa Maria in to one thousand metres range—very slowly. Then I will jet across and have a look-see… Matthew have one of your boys set up cameras to tape the whole approach operation.”

  “Decision noted, Commander. Execution proceeds.”

  Kwango said: “Why not send me across to that thing, Boss? Putting modesty aside, we both know I have a better computer between my ears than you have. But, apart from that, I am probably a shade more expendable. If there is something nasty in the woodshed, you are the guy who stands the best chance of getting this outfit back to Terra.”

  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 reel of nylon thread; the electrochron, 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 time. 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.