Read A Company of Heroes Book Four: The Scientist Online
Authors: Ron Miller
A Company of Heroes Book Four: The Scientist (11 page)
“Excellent!” he replied, just as Hughenden cried out, “One hundred feet! Fifty feet! Twenty! T . . . ”
He was interrupted by a terrific crash; the spaceship bounced up and down sickeningly, two or three times, like a wallowing, overballasted boat. It stopped and for a moment silence flooded the interior of the cabin, a silence the like of which Bronwyn had never before experienced.
CHAPTER NINE
PLANS
Rykkla was very unhappy: she had found out what an
houri
was. It was Thursby who had explained that they were mythological black-eyed nymphs, beautiful virgins endowed with perpetual youth and grace, that Musrum personally assigned to the especially faithful. They delighted in catering to every whim of His most devout followers and were monomaniacally devoted to their comfort and pleasure.
“You look just exactly like the houris in the pictures,” Thursby added, which, however flattering, Rykkla found inexplicably disquieting.
“Out of one hundred and sixty women,” Rykkla argued, “surely there must be others who look more like Musrum’s birthday present to the Baudad than I do. And out of the millions of women he had his choice of kidnapping it seems even less likely that I’d be the only houri he’d find.”
“You’d think so. But there always turns out to be something wrong with them. He keeps looking and hoping.”
“Well, I can tell you right now that there’s something wrong with
this
houri. What are you looking so shocked about?”
“I would consider it the greatest honor imaginable, to be chosen by the Baudad!”
“What do you mean, ‘to
be
chosen’? What are you doing here, if he hasn’t already chosen you?”
“Well, of course he chose me to be here, but I’ve never, um, been
with
him, if you know what I mean. Not like an houri.”
“What about all of the others? With one hundred and fifty-nine women to chose from, why would he want one more?”
“But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? He really hasn’t been with many of them at all. I don’t think that he’s even seen Gravelinghe since the day she first came here and she’s been here for years and years.”
“Well, that I could understand; but none of the others? That’s hard to believe.”
“I didn’t say
none,
but pretty close. I think that he’s really a sort of collector.”
“A collector?”
“Uh huh. like paintings and bugs and stamps and things?”
“He collects women?”
“Every different kind that he possibly can. He’s very proud of having Gravelinghe since she’s from Peigambar and their women are very hard to get. She thinks it’s funny that he’s afraid to come and look at her. In fact, I think that she just stays around as a kind of lark. It’d be kind of hard to stop her if she wanted to leave.”
“But,” objected Rykkla, “why are there so many women here like Gravelinghe? I mean, not Peigamberan amazons, but why so many who are obviously not houri-types? If the Baudad has such specific standards, why are there so many women who don’t seem to fit them? I would think that there’d be a lot more like me here.”
“Oh, he doesn’t go out and find the women himself. He orders them. Sometimes its just an individual woman, kidnapped or sold into slavery, maybe, whose description intrigued him or that one of his men thought might earn him a bonus. Sometimes his men are sent out to raid a village here or there, but then he has to depend upon the discretion of his chamberlain who is so terrified of his master that he sends back any women he runs across rather than take a chance of missing the one the Baudad is looking for. Between you and me, I don’t think that the chamberlain has much of a discerning eye, so far as women are concerned. Sometimes the women arrive in carload lots.”
“If what you say is true, that the Baudad is just a collector, then I don’t have anything to worry about so far as, uh,
that
is concerned, do I?”
“I don’t know. You’re the only houri he has. That has to make things different. Are you a virgin?”
“Whether I am or not, what has that to do with anything?”
“Houris are always virgins. It’d be important. The Baudad is a very religious man.”
“And he thinks that I’m Musrum’s special gift to him?”
“Uh huh.”
This gave Rykkla much to think about. Of course it crossed her mind to tell the Baudad that she was not a virgin, but, having his heart set on her, as he apparently did, he would probably not believe her. Or, worse, he might not take the news with good grace. In any case, religious fanatics being what they are, he would probably find some reason to rationalize away that minor impediment. A miraculous healing of some sort, no doubt. She was therefore not at all confident that the current state of her vagina would offer her much protection.
After her first interview with the Baudad she had been taken back to the harem pensive as anything. This was when she discovered for the first time that the big doors were kept securely locked and that the eunuchs were as much guards as they were servants. In fact, they were not in any real sense servants at all, at least not to the women, and considered themselves responsible and answerable only to Bobasnyda who in turn ran the harem as though it were little more than a stable of prize thoroughbred horses, for which attitude there was some justification. Other than the blockaded entrance, there was no other way in or out of the harem wing of the palace, which had neither windows nor skylights, and the women never left unless accompanied by at least one of the eunuchs.
At dinner that evening she discussed a few of her thoughts, questions and conclusions with Gravelinghe and Thursby. Both of the more experienced girls were agreed in their opinion that the Baudad would want to partake of his latest acquisition as soon as possible, perhaps as soon as the next day. Anyone who had been waiting most of his life for something would certainly chafe at an additional twenty-four hours. Rykkla had no intention of allowing the Baudad to exercise this indulgence, but neither Gravelinghe nor Thursby had any useful suggestions. It had never occured to the small woman that anyone might want to leave, and the amazon wasn’t worried about it. Thursby was convinced that the big warrioress would have little difficulty in dealing effectively with any of the palace’s minions up to ten in number, individually or in any combination. Rykkla glanced at the big woman, who nodded in agreement without a flicker of self-consciousness or untoward modesty. She certainly looked healthy enough.
“I’ve got to get away from here before I see the Baudad again,” Rykkla said.
“I don’t see how,” replied Thursby. “I would have thought that if there had been a way, someone would have escaped by now.”
“Be realistic, Thursby; look around: how many of the women here
want
to get out? Have you ever thought about escaping?”
“That’s a point. The Baudad doesn’t often make mistakes like you and Gravelinghe.” The small woman sighed. “I have to admit that life here has been so much more pleasant than where I came from, that I’ve managed to convince myself that I’m not really a prisoner at all. Many of the others here are like that, too; they’d gladly give away freedoms that were for the most part only abstractions anyway, rather than return to lives far more unpleasant than anything, I suspect, you yourself have ever experienced. Most of them, however, are just too simple, or were brought here too young, to know any different.”
“Well, then, wouldn’t you think that just for the reason that no one’s ever tried to escape, that escape might be easy? I mean, don’t you think that after all of this time, things might have gotten a little relaxed, slack, complacent?”
“I don’t know. Besides, what difference does it make if that’s true? There’s only one way out and it’s locked all of the time. Guards might get lax, but vault doors never get complacent.”
“I’ll have to think about this,” replied Rykkla, who barely tasted her food during the next hour. It was not until she had retired to her mountain of silken, feather-stuffed cushions, hours later, that she had an Idea.
CHAPTER TEN
BAD MOON
Bronwyn was the first to leave her couch and clamber onto the catwalk for a look out one of the circumferential ports. Her legs almost failed her and they wobbled a little under the unaccustomed sense of weight, even if that weight were but a fraction of what they were used to. She pressed her inconveniently long nose against the polished quartz in an effort to expand her field of view as far as possible.
What she saw was simultaneously exhilirating and anticlimactic. Anticlimactic because the scenery surrounding the spaceship looked almost exactly as her astronomy books had predicted it would: a stark, precipitous, monochromatic landscape with the strangely near, clear-cut horizon characteristic of a small, airless planet. She had the sensation of being atop a broad, circular plateau with a very distinct edge. Where distant mountains would have faded to blue silhouettes on the earth, here she could discern the finest details on hillsides she knew were miles away. It gave her sense of perspective a disconcerting twist, as though she were looking at the flat, painted scenery of a play.
Although she knew there was no atmosphere, and the barren soil was as starkly lit as a plaster model, shadows were not as black as she had been led to believe by book and magazine illustrators. Again and again she had read of the inky black, sharp-edged shadows predicted by astronomers and described by fictional space travellers; in reality, however, the shadows were soft-edged and while those cast on the ground were as black as velvet, the shaded sides of hills and rocks were, she noticed, so light that she could see detail in them. It only took her a moment to realize that this latter effect was due simply to the light that was reflecting from the brilliantly illuminated surrounding landscape. The unexpectedly soft-edged shadows, she suspected, were the result of the half-degree-wide sun not being a point source of light. Shadows were soft on the earth for this reason, she knew (and not because of its atmosphere, as some people believed, which only served to turn shadows blue), so it stood to reason that it would be no different on the moon. And, of course, she was quite right.
Between the distant hills and the spaceship was a gently undulating plain that looked like any terrestrial desert or salt flat, distinguished only by the ubiquitous presence of craters ranging in size from fist-sized pits to sizable excavations. It looked as though an army of treasure-hunters had scoured the countryside, a thought that reminded the princess of the gold that she and the professor suspected to be present. But there was nothing at all that looked like gold. If anything, the barren landscape looked like a long-abandoned salt mine.
By this time the two scientists had joined her as sightseers, each gazing eagerly out of his own porthole.
“Grim-looking place,” observed Wittenoom.
“What did you expect?” said Hughenden. “Formal gardens?”
“When can we go out?” asked the princess.
“I suppose any time we want,” replied the professor. “What about you, Doctor?”
“I’m in no hurry,” he said, turning from the port to his instruments. “There’s plenty of time to play tourist. For the moment, I’ve a few better things to do. If you and the princess want to go rubbernecking, I’d just as soon you were out of my way. I’ll take care of bringing the log up to date and shutting down the ship.”
“That’s good of you,” said Wittenoom. “In the meantime, then, the princess and I will take a stroll.”
Specially-made suits were removed from lockers beneath the floor of the cabin. These had been adapted from ordinary diving-dress and consisted of heavy, rubberized fabric, woven of asbestos fiber, with spherical, asbestos-covered aluminum helmets somewhat smaller than those used by deep sea divers. A sort of knapsack fitted between the shoulders, and below this was a cylinder of liquified air which, when passed through the warming and expanding apparatus in the pack, furnished pure air for a practically indefinite period. The respired air was passed into another portion of the upper chamber where it was forced through a chemical solution which deprived it of its poisonous constituent, making it fit to breathe again.
The pressure of the air inside the helmet automatically regulated the supply, which was not permitted to circulate into the dress, which would probably rupture under the force of the expanding gas. The helmets of the professor and the princess could be connected by a long, light wire communicating with telephonic apparatus inside.
It was a considerable struggle to don the cumbersome suits in the confined space of the cabin, a process that was finally accomplished with no little loss of decorum. Bronwyn was grateful for her decision to dress as the men had, in shapeless but comfortable cotton coveralls.
Bronwyn gingerly placed her helmet over her head, screwing it into place; a half turn of the helmet on the metal ring that circled her neck brought the round plate of glass before her eyes. The plate was so close to her face that she was surprised at the breadth of her range of vision. Meanwhile, the professor connected her air-making equipment and she was soon aware of a faint hissing sound and the touch of cool air on her face. The outlet was so placed that the air first passed across the glass, helping to prevent her breath from fogging it. It also helped to dispell a creeping sense of claustrophobia.
Feeling a little foolish, especially since she could see how ridiculous the professor looked, Bronwyn moved aside as Wittenoom undogged a circular, domed hatch in the floor of the cabin. Swinging this open revealed a cylindrical chamber that appeared to be just big enough for two people. There were rungs attached to the wall of the cylinder and they used these to enter the chamber. Appearances had not been deceiving: there was just barely enough room for the two of them to squeeze in side by side. Wittenoom, in particular, had to stoop slightly to allow the hatch to slam shut above them. As soon as the latches were dogged, Bronwyn heard a kind of heavy panting. She knew that this was an air pump removing the atmosphere from the chamber. As it did so, she felt her suit inflating slightly from the residual air contained within it. Soon, the sound of the pump grew ever fainter until eventually all that she could hear were the noises inside her own helmet: the fluttering of the regulator, the sighing of the air outlet, the thrumming of her own blood. She twisted her head until she could see the professor. Through his faceplate she could see his mouth moving, but could hear nothing. He realized that she was deaf when he saw her puzzled expression; he laughed silently and pointed to the floor, where there was a second, smaller hatch. Bronwyn stood straddle-legged on the narrow rim of floor while the professor undogged the hatch and allowed it to fall open. She looked into the gaping circle, but to her disappointment could see nothing but blackness.
The professor gestured toward her and then toward the open hole. His meaning was clear enough: he was inviting her to be the first to set foot on the moon. It was thoughtful, but she considered declining the invitation.
What the hell,
she finally decided, and sat on the rim of the opening before allowing herself to drop on through. The ground was only six feet or so below and she landed on her feet as lightly as a descending bird. She could see, now, the landscape that surrounded the spaceship. Above her were the open tubes of the scores of rockets that, she hoped, would eventually take her off the doomed little planet. She stepped aside as Wittenoom’s feet dangled from the manhole. He dropped to the ground beside her, drifting down with the dreaminess of a soap bubble.
He gestured for her to approach him and when she complied, he attached one end of a long wire to a socket on the side of her helmet. She was startled to hear a tinny voice speaking into her ear: “Let’s get out from under the rocket.”
She nodded assent, forgetting that the professor could hear her now, and together they stepped out into the glaring sunlight. She immediately felt the heat, transmitted even through the asbestos layers of her suit. She surveyed her surroundings, holding a gloved hand above her faceplate to shade her eyes. The craggy, ragged-looking mountains that she knew were miles distant looked even closer than ever. They were as sharp and forbidding as shattered glass. The lack of aerial perspective gave her the uncanny sensation that she felt she could reach out and touch them.
There was a tap on her shoulder and when she turned in response, the professor handed her an opened umbrella. Startled at first, she noticed that the upper surface of its fabric was coated with a silvery metallic paint. She understood its purpose immediately and held it over her head. Almost instantly she felt the heat reduced and was now also able to look around the landscape without the uncomfortable glare stinging her eyes.
“I’d like to look around,” she said, her voice sounding hollow as it reverberated inside the metallic sphere.
“Go ahead,” the professor replied. “Unplug the telephone first. I’ll join you in a few minutes. Be careful!”
Strolling beneath her parasol as casually as though she were promenading along the Boulevard St. Armazas, the princess wandered a few yards from the rocket while the professor picked up samples and made a few measurements with instruments he had removed from a compartment in the side of the ship. The sense of lightness was delightful and she made a few tentative hops, laughing at the slight effort required to propel her several feet from the ground. The soil, she discovered, was powdery, of a consistency almost as fine as talcum, but surprisingly firm, like plaster of Paris. Her footprints were less than half an inch deep. She kicked at the dust and was amused to see it make neat parabolas, falling directly back to the ground, as though she had kicked a pile of iron filings or lead pellets. It was impossible to create a hanging cloud of dust. She scooped up a handful and was fascinated when it poured from between her fingers like streams of liquid.
The jagged spires that surrounded the two extraterrestrial explorers made Bronwyn feel as though she were the bait in some gargantuan bear trap. A meandering ridge that passed close to the spacecraft led in an inclined ramp to the raised rim of a nearby crater. The steep slope of the crater rim was something that Bronwyn found irresistable. She returned to where the scientist was still busy with his instruments and plugged her telephone into his helmet.
“Professor?” she asked, tentatively.
“Yes?” replied the tinny voice immediately.
“Let’s climb to the top of that ridge and see what we can see.”
“Why not?”
As she might have expected, but hadn’t, the crater rim was considerably further away than it looked. This was compensated for by the ease with which she and the professor bounded kangaroo--like across the intervening distance. It was an exhilirating experience, altogether more pleasant than the complete weightlessness of the freefalling spaceship.
Climbing the steep slope was not quite as easy, but their supercharged enthusiasm made light of any difficulties, to say nothing of risks that might have made them more thoughtful under other circumstances. But Bronwyn felt invulnerable.
When they reached the summit, Bronwyn was surprised to discover that she was panting. Perspiration poured down her face, and trickled past the confining collar of her helmet. The droplets tickled and there was nothing that she could do about it. She paused for a minute or two to catch her breath, then stood erect and looked around. Below and behind her was a pockmarked plain that stretched out to the spaceship’s silvery gumdrop and beyond. She was amazed at how small the vehicle looked. Had they possibly come that far so quickly?
The sun was not far from the horizon and was throwing elongated, jet-black shadows across the landscape. She could see no sign of the earth and assumed that it was too close to the glare of the sun. The other, larger, moon was visible, however: a big bright half circle high in the sky.
She turned around and saw what, in effect, Rykkla and Thud had already seen some weeks earlier: a vast bowl-shaped depression, perhaps a mile or mile and a half to the opposite rim. More than half of the crater was in inky blackness. The long slope to the bottom looked not only endless but bottomless once it vanished into the shadow and she had no desire to descend into it. The lack of perspective made the distant rim and the even more distant stars look no further away than the length of her arm, the universe looked
small
. She suddenly had the uncanny, disorienting and disturbing compulsion to tear away the encumbering costume that separated her, even by its scant inch of thickness, from that compelling, stainless, razor-sharp immaculacy.
“Awful-looking, isn’t it?” asked Wittenoom.
“No! It’s beautiful! I mean, it’s never going to be a major tourist attraction, but it
is
beautiful in its own right. I don’t know why for sure . . . It just looks so . . .
pure
, I guess, if that doesn’t sound stupid. It’s like the edge of the sharpest knife ever made.”
“Well, aesthetics is a little outside my field.”
Bronwyn felt herself suddenly jostled and she had to regain her balance. At first she thought that Wittenoom had inexplicably given her a shove, but when she turned to face him, she saw that he was trying keep on his feet as well. It was the ground beneath their feet that was shaking and Bronwyn realized, with a sudden panic, that they were experiencing a moonquake. Then, to make certain that her discomposure was complete, came the recollection of why they were visiting the moon in the first place. She had a sudden and probably not inaccurate vision of the moon crumbling from beneath her booted feet like a disintegrating ice floe. This grim thought was vividly illustrated by a crack suddenly appearing in the plain between the explorers and the spaceship. It seemed to split the landscape in two, a yawning zigzag a dozen feet or more wide, as though some cosmic artist had just drawn a lightning bolt in black ink on the stark white paper of the moon. Little avalanches rolled away from their feet, down the slopes to the right and left, the motion looking weirdly languid in the low gravity and vacuum.
“We’ve got to get down from here!” she cried, as the rolling motion of the moonquake gradually subsided.
