Asteroid Man (4 page)

He moved on…

He didn't know whether he had walked a mile or two miles before he came across the next tangled heap of wreckage. The odd granular surface of the asteroid gritted and grated beneath his feet. He had no idea whether there was any atmosphere clinging to the strange world. There might be—there might not. He didn't feel like opening his helmet to have a look…

It would probably be a pretty quick get-out, when he had had all he could take.

There was nothing but this hard, bare, gritty surface. The asteroid was for all the world like a great cube of sugar, square and yet not quite square; rectangular enough to look as though it might be artificial. But that was a wild theory. There was a great number of rectangular asteroids… Nobody ever suggested that they were artificial. The next crash was right ahead of him now. It told the same pitiful story as his own ship. The men were so badly shattered they were hardly recognizable—fragments of ship and fragments of crew. He turned away, feeling violently sick. Poor devils, he kept saying to himself. What chance did they have? Squadron-Leader Masterson, he hadn't a squadron any more. It made him feel bad, very bad, deep down in the pit of his stomach.

He moved on, finding nothing but rough, gritty, dark brown, granular "something" beneath his feet.

It was like walking over a shingle beach with rock beneath it.

He reached the third, and the fourth and the fifth.

And everywhere the same story. Dead ships. Dead men. He was the only survivor. The only survivor of his own ship, and the only survivor of the expedition.

Chance played funny games sometimes. Apart from the cut across his forehead, where he had crashed his head into the helmet, he didn't seem to have come to any other harm.

He kept moving.

He wondered whether he could compete the revolution of the asteroid before it passed on its erratic orbit out of the sunlight. There had to be something somewhere; it couldn't all be just like this. That wouldn't account for that radioactivity. He turned the geiger counter up again. The noise had not abated by one iota. It was louder than it had been before. He still kept moving doggedly. His strong jaw jutted with determination. He kept grinding on—the shingly stuff, hard and gritty beneath his feet, was becoming very, very aggravating. Greg wanted to destroy it, to kick it off into space, to walk on something smooth, instead of this constant slipping, sliding shingle.

He felt that there was something pretty solid just a short way down, and he wondered how far down.

On impulse, he drew the blaster from his pocket and fired. A searing destruction beam tore a jagged hole in the shingle a few yards ahead of him. The gritty stonelets spat and cracked and leapt in the air with the heat. He laughed. He felt as if he had hurt them. In an odd, twisted sort of way, it gave him a feeling of satisfaction. He'd have liked to have blasted up the whole asteroid that way.

His mind had cleared almost completely now, and he was aware that something didn't ring true. Now what was it? He sat down by the edge of his newly smashed crater and thought. He thought hard. Yes… he snapped the metallic fingers of his suit as an idea suddenly burst upon him like a flood of light. That was what was wrong. Why had the gun gone off? The gun had gone off powered by its miniature atomic blasting power. It was a microscopic miniature of the three-megaton bomb that had been released. They had not exploded. Why? He drew a deep breath and peered hard through the red mist that still blurred his vision. The stones had leapt, spat and cracked. A wide hole yawned beneath him, five or six feet in diameter. Why had the big bomb failed to go off? That was the question. Surely if there was some kind of force field operating, it would have prevented the pistol from firing, just as it had prevented the bomb from exploding. Apparently there was no force field. Then why hadn't the bombs gone off? He gritted his teeth in a desperate effort to bring every focal ounce of his concentration to bear on the problem in hand. There had to be a reason for everything, he told himself. Cause and effect. The whole universe was cause and effect. If it wasn't, then nothing made sense. Today's effects were being caused by yesterday. Tomorrow's would be caused by today's. He lapsed into a long, thoughtful silence. The enigmatical crater, and the smoking gun in his hand prodded at his mind. Prodded at him like an electric ox goad moving a sluggish beast into motion. His brain was the sluggish beast. It didn't want to think. It didn't want to trouble. It wanted to lie down and relax. But he was going to make it think. His will was stronger than his intelligence. He had to find an answer, to come up with a solution. Everything had a solution if only a man looked for it long enough.

He was convinced of that, too. If you think about a thing for long enough, you're bound to come up with an answer. He had faith in human intelligence. He believed that
homo sapiens
deserved the second part of his appellation…

Man had risen by brain and courage to be leader of the brute creation. He had come from primeval slime by the sweat of his brow, by his nerve, by his brains and by his courage. If he was going to stay out of the primeval slime, he needed those things more than ever in the 23rd century. He wondered if the force field was situated at a distance from the asteroid. Maybe only a small distance, and once he was through it, it was no longer operational. Yet that didn't make sense, either. Because having passed through it, the bombs would become operational again as soon as they hit the planet's surface. They were not the type of bomb that exploded in the air. There would have to be a better reason. What if the force field was operated on some sort of time basis? If the nullifying power came into effect only when it was needed? He sat thinking that one over for a time, and then, still no nearer the solution, he went over the edge of the crater he had blasted into the rock and peered down.

"Didn't know the guns were as effective as that," he muttered to himself. He kept on peering down. "By the stars, it's a hole!" It seemed to be about twelve feet deep. There wasn't much sign of a definite bottom even after that. It could have been much bigger…

He cursed the red mist fogging his helmet. "Wonder what the devil it is." He realized he was talking to himself. "Got to stop it," he said out loud. "Got to stop it. This place is getting me. It's giving me the screaming heebies, and the Mongolian habdabs." He laughed at his own joke. "First man to land on asteroid dies of Mongolian habdabs. How's that for a TV headline?" He kept peering as intently as the red mist would permit. The more he gazed, the more perplexed he became. "But I didn't fire at that angle," he whispered half to himself. He retraced his steps, stood where he had stood before, and aimed an empty hand as though he still pointed a gun at the crater. Penetration angle should have been approximately thirty degrees to the surface, away from him. It did go in this direction a matter of about three feet, which was normal limitation for that kind of power charge. After that, it tailed off in another direction. The maximum twelve-foot depth appeared to be practically vertical. He regarded the crater more closely. The edge where the power charge had cut was smooth and shining where the rocks fused and ran together under the instantaneous heat of the gun's discharge. That was to be expected. But the twelve-foot shaft, with the murky, mysterious bottom, led off in another direction altogether, and its outline appeared to have been drilled or dug—it was not seared.

Fantastic, he thought. If I wasn't functioning on about half brain power, I should have realized what I've done. By a million to one chance, his impulsive shot had uncovered the top of an artificial shaft, which had been let into the asteroid, loosely covered over, by a surface that now obviously seemed artificial, or at least, if natural, very unusual. He imagined the effect he would have gotten in the limestone hill country, had he taken a shot somewhere in the hills of Derbyshire. He imagined himself gazing down an 800-foot cavern or mine shaft. Natural or artificial was, at the moment, still a matter of conjecture. The point was that his chance shot had uncovered the lid of some kind of sub-asteroidanean passageway, cavern or tunnel.

The intelligence that lurked in the depths of his subconscious was putting things together for him, even though his conscious mind was still fogged and shaken from the crash and the shock of seeing all his friends dead… It dawned on him like a sudden idea from outside, like a sudden flash of inspiration, that here was the obvious escape route from the radioactivity. If the surface of the asteroid was radioactive, might it not be safe in its interior regions? Should he descend? Would it not be better to risk the radioactivity and remain on the surface?

The auditory receivers on the outside of his suit were tuned in to maximum reception. He suddenly became aware that there was another odd noise. It might have been imagination—but he didn't think it was. It was a very low, dull rumble as though the ground were shaking. What the devil could that be? Distant footsteps? But what manner of creature would make footsteps like that? Thud! About a four-second pause, and then—thud! Three or four seconds, and then—thud!

It told him something about the atmosphere as well. There had to be an atmosphere of some kind—albeit a thin one—otherwise he would have heard nothing, or would he have sensed a vibration? He wasn't sure. He was too muddled to think clearly. He guessed there was an atmosphere of some kind, though. Which again spoke of something unnatural, just as did the gravity. Thud! Definitely a footstep! But what a size! What kind of foot would make that sort of noise? Could it be some kind of trick of the asteroid? He wondered hopefully for a second whether someone from the ship had not been dead after all, and was even now coming to look for him—had followed his tracks through the shingle. Thud! Crunch! That was no human footstep, no matter how magnified. He made up his mind suddenly about the tunnel. It was the only place of concealment about the tunnel. Gingerly he lowered himself over the edge and hung by his hands, peering toward the horizon.

Then he saw it. And the blood congested in his veins and arteries. His eyes stood out from his head as though they were going to touch the very lenses. He felt as though an iron hand had seized him by the throat and were shaking out his life and his courage at the same time.

Something was coming, something so hideous and horrible that his first thought was that some unutterable prehistoric monster had risen from the pages of history where it belonged and was now stalking this nightmare world to destroy him. His nerveless fingers lost their grip and he found himself falling… falling sickeningly into the subterranean depths of the asteroid.

Jonga and Krull were working round the clock! Nerves that had been previously badly frayed by monotony were now being stretched and strained by lack of sleep and anxiety.

Jonga put the computer through its paces for the fourth time during its twelve-hour schedule.

"I wish we could get some word, some report, from that patrol," he said for the tenth time.

"So do I," said Krull. "I want to hear from them more than I want to win the inter-galactic sweep. I need news of them like I need blood."

"You don't think the general's heard and hasn't told us?"

"Rotherson's not that type of guy," said Krull, "and you know it."

"Yes, yes, I know it. I'm sorry, Krull. It's just that I can't stick this waiting…"

"Well, you can take this as definite," replied Krull; "it's not just routine. If it was, we'd have heard before now."

"Yes, yes, I suppose we would."

"What d'ya mean 'suppose we would'? You know we would. It just isn't possible for a routine fight to blast off and then refuse to answer. They should have checked in every four hours. They haven't checked in for the last thirteen and a half hours. Now that's not routine. It may be that there's some kind of force field around this thing. Maybe the radio's out of action; maybe the direction locator's loose. I don't know what's happened; I've got no idea at all. I'm an astrophysicist. I'm not a spaceman! There's a thousand and one things can go wrong up there. But we do know this. Greg Masterson's in charge of that crew, and there's no trouble up in space that Greg Masterson can't handle."

"If anyone can handle it," said Jonga dolefully. "I agree, but what if it's something nobody can handle?"

"Well, if it's that bad, we shall know soon enough," said Krull.

A bell rang, summoning them to Rotherson's office.

Hello, what breaks? they wondered. Jonga's eyes flashed a question to Krull.

They made their way hurriedly to the general's office. Rotherson looked tired, and his enormous frame seemed to be sagging at the shoulders. It was obvious that nothing had come through.

"What's on your mind, Chief?" asked Krull.

"Plenty," said the general.

Dolores came in with a tray of drinks.

"Boy, can I use some of the 'hard' stuff," cracked Jonga. "Just what the doctor ordered. I'm in favor of an increased dose!"

"I reckon you'll need it by the time this is finished," said the general. "Listen, chaps, you're aware that there's been no word from the survey ships for thirteen and a half hours." He looked at the huge, deadly accurate chronometer. "Thirteen and a half hours and three and a half minutes," he corrected himself. "They should have checked in at least three times during that period. I don't like it, not one little bit! First we have this unknown meteorite, this asteroid that suddenly pops up among our two thousand eight hundred and twelve. We don't know which one it is, so we send one of the most experienced men we've got, with a fully equipped squadron of five different ships. He makes the first normal check-in four hours after blast-off, reaches the belt—and disappears. What I want to know is why? He's too good a man to lose five ships, unless there's something up there that's so far ahead of us that we might as well say 'Curtains' right away."

"I see what you mean," agreed Jonga. The general had put all their thoughts into words.

"—And so?" There was a question in Krull's voice. "What do we do now, Chief?"