Forbidden Planet (19 page)

When she’d gone, I waited for ten minutes by my watch. I was so anxious to get going that it seemed a long time. But it was over at last, and I started for the far end of the room and Morbius’ study.

And then stopped half-way, and went quickly back to the dining alcove and found the wall-switch Morbius had used to show us the armored shutters.

I pressed it—and in one silent flash the windows were darkened, cutting out the pale green moonlight.

Pleased with myself for the precaution, I promptly forgot it and went back across the room again. I was almost running when I started, but going much slower when I reached the study door. I was afraid, and with a double-edged sort of fear. I was afraid the one proviso might stop me doing what I was planning; and I was afraid of the plan itself.

I slid back the door and lights came on as it opened fully. I took a deep breath, and walked in and around to the ell.

The proviso wasn’t against me. The Krell door was standing open, as Morbius had left it when he led us out . . .

I filled my lungs again. I seemed to be having trouble breathing, and my heart was pounding uncomfortably.

I went through the strange-shaped arch, ducking my head a little, and walked down the rock corridor. My footsteps rang with a soft, hollow echoing.

I came out of the corridor and into the great oval of the laboratory. I stopped—and the silence as the sound of my footsteps died away was like a blow; it was as if I’d hit some padded, invisible barrier.

I crossed slowly to the railed-off island in the center.

I sat where Morbius had sat, and reached out for the head-set of what the Krells had called the Gateway.

I put the thing on my head, adjusting the pliable arms until the electrodes were as Morbius had fitted them, one on each temple, the third on the cranium.

I tried to make myself calm, but my heart still pounded too hard. In my mind I went over everything Morbius had said, and wished it had been more.

I leaned over and pressed the first switch inside the rail and looked up at the panel and saw the pathetic little glow of my registration.

The white switch was just by my hand. I only had to move my fingers an inch or so to the right.

For one irrelevant instant, I thought of John Adams and wondered what he would think if he could see me, and what he was doing now—

That was a hell of a night. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing anybody could do. Except keep a tight guard and wait.

I didn’t dare start work on the core till daylight in case of another attack. So I wandered in and out of the ship, making sure everybody was on their toes.

They were. Who wouldn’t have been after seeing what happened to Lonnie? And wondering whether it had been worse for Dirocco?

And I kept thinking about Doc. I couldn’t help it, because every time I thought about Altaira I naturally had to think about him too. A wonderful guy. It took guts to go out there alone. Especially after scraping poor Lonnie off the sand and knowing what got him might get you too.

I was keeping myself busy collecting all Lonnie’s personal kit when the man on radar beeped me. I ran up to Control and found him scratching his head. He’d had nothing on the first attack, but now he’d had a flicker he couldn’t make out. It wasn’t right for any of the standard readings, but he said it had been definite.

I watched his viewer with him, but we got nothing. He showed me the sector where he’d seen the flicker. It was the same as the one the attack had come from.

So I went out and grabbed the Bosun. We were walking over to that section, when another one sparked, way off to the right.

This one worked. All the other panels reacted and the whole thing came alive. The searchlight swung around, following me to the contact point while the Bosun brought up a concentration of fire-power behind me.

I could hear something moving out there, scuffling in the sand. And breathing. Not like that other breathing. Lighter, smaller.

The searchlight weaved about. But it didn’t pick up whatever was making the sound. I could hear it all the time though. There was a big patch of shadow out there from a dune. It might be in that, I figured. Or it might not be see-able. Like the first thing.

I had the gun out of my holster. I was just going to try a blast or two at the shadow-patch when the searchlight pinned something. A sort of dark hulk in the sand. As if whatever-it-was was burrowing up and out.

The Bosun gave out with a “Ready!” to the gunners. But the thing moved again and I saw what it was. I hollered a “Hold fire!” and it stood up and came weaving towards the fence.

It looked like a man covered with sand.

It was. It was the Cook, Dirocco.

He seemed in bad shape. He was went double, holding an arm over his face as he staggered on. Somebody switched off the fence and I ran out to him. He fell on my feet and lay there. He was groaning. The Bosun ran up and we knelt down and turned him over.

The reek hit us as he let out a gasp. The Bosun said, “What the ****!” and I said, “Whisky, for Christsake!”

II

They brought him up to me in Control around an hour later. It was beginning to get light outside. The Bosun had him under Class One Arrest. If I hadn’t been so damn mystified, I’d’ve laughed. Cookie, the ship’s character, with a godawful hangover and not a wisecrack in a carload.

They’d scrubbed him and put him in clean overalls. Doc’s man had pumped him out. He was a sorry little man. He stood so stiff at attention he was shaking.

I said to the Bosun, “Did you check the hands’ liquor ration?” And he said, “Yessir. All correct. And there’s no whisky in it anyway, sir.”

I looked at Cookie. “Where d’you get it?” I said. “And how the hell did you get through the fence?”

He was so low he was nearly crying. I told him to pull himself together and he did his best.

He started with something that brought me out of my chair. He said, “It was that Robby that started it, sir—the Robot—”

When I’d calmed down he went on and told the damndest yarn. So unbelievable it had to be true. He reminded me he’d been talking to Robby yesterday and I’d called him for leaving post. He said what he’d been talking about was liquor. He’d got the idea over the grapevine the Robot could manufacture anything synthetically. So he’d slipped it the last two inches of a private stock of rye, and told it to whip up ten gallons and deliver it some time today. Without anybody knowing. He’d even picked a place for the cache; behind the rocks Doc and I had walked out to a couple of times.

That was the gist of it. Because Robby had delivered,
and
without anyone knowing. And Cookie had slipped out through the fence when it was switched off to let me and Doc through with the tractor.

I stared at the character. I still might have laughed, but now I wasn’t just mystified. I was mad. When I thought of what had been going on while this sot was drinking himself to a stupor three hundreds yards away, I could’ve choked him.

But I didn’t. I just threw the book at him. And told the Bosun to take him away. And to keep on his tail. Forever.

I took another walk around outside. And talked to Jerry for a minute. And then came back and went on with the job of getting Lonnie’s stuff together.

When it was in my safe, I sent for the Bosun and fixed for a funeral at zero seven hundred. That’d give him time to have a fatigue party dig a grave after daylight.

I felt bad about Lonnie. The worst thing seemed to be that he hadn’t even seen that underground set-up of the Krells. I worried about that. I suddenly wanted to talk to Doc about it—and to Altaira. But then I remembered she didn’t know Lonnie, hadn’t ever set eyes on him . . .

III

At zero seven hundred we had the funeral. The Emergency Active Service Abbreviated version. I felt sick at my stomach as I read the stuff. Which was funny. I’d thought the words were pretty good before.

Farman and the Bosun lowered the sack into the grave, and I gave the word for a two volley salute.

And that was over. Lonnie Quinn was over.

I had the Bosun and two men fill in the sand and put up the marker while Jerry got the rest lined up in front of the gangway. So I could talk to them.

I climbed up and looked them over. They were all right. They had that rough-edged look about them good spacehogs get when they’re in trouble and ready to fight out of it.

I gave it to them pretty straight. I told them enough of what was going on and how our job was to get the remains of the
Bellerophon
party back home. But, I said, we couldn’t start till the auxiliary core was back in the ship. And that was going to be a long chore. Especially without Mr. Quinn. However, the sooner we got it done, the sooner we could lift off.

I said, “We’re all plenty mad about Mr. Quinn. But this is no time to stick around being heroes fighting something we can’t see . . .”

I said, “And if anyone wants to say we’re running—well, they’re right!”

It got the laugh I wanted—and I put ‘em to work . . .

IV

It was around eleven hundred before I got a chance to buzz Doc with no one else around. I didn’t use the big screen in Control because of the radar man. I used the little set in my cabin.

I had a bad five minutes. That was how long it took me to raise an acknowledgment from him. And five minutes is a long time.

But I got him. He said, “Ostrow accepting call,” but didn’t open his view projector.

I said, “What’s wrong?” and he said, “Nothing.”

So I told him how long it had taken to get him. I said, “Open that viewer.”

He opened it, but it took him too long.

What I got was a close-up. Or he’d meant it to be. But he wasn’t used to handling the gear and gave me more than he wanted to. I could see he was in that goddamn lab. And I could see where he was sitting.

I said, “Everything okay here. How’s your end?”

He said, “All right. Morbius isn’t out of euphoria—and Altaira’s still asleep. No excursion, no alarums.” He sounded funny, sort of excited.

I let him have it. I said, “And what the hell are you doing in the lab?”

It shook him. He started to stammer something but I cut in on him. I said, “You’re monkeying around with that brain booster. You idiot!”

He let his excitement come to the top. “Listen, John!” he said. “This is wonderful! One more little session and I’ll have all the answers for you—”

I said, “Christ, man, you might kill yourself!”

He was in real close-up on my screen now and I saw he wasn’t looking too good. Older and sort of fine-drawn. But I couldn’t be sure.

He said, “John, I’m all right! I’m being careful—a few minutes at a time’s all I allow myself—”

He was going on, but I had to stop him. My communicator beeped and I knew I’d have to go. I told Doc so and said, “For Christ’s sake, watch out for yourself! Buzz you later.”

I switched off and went to the communicator and found I was wanted outside. Some question about the quick or slow way to hoist the core . . .

V

The men really worked. I’d figured we couldn’t even get the core as far as the upper chamber before it was so dark we’d have to quit and go back to full guard again. But they actually had it inside the chamber before eighteen hundred. And after that the work could go on, dark outside or not.

I called a break for food. The first one. Up to now they’d just had coffee and A. S. rations dished out while they were working . . .

Farman arranged reliefs—half strength on guard, half eating. He stayed outside with the first guard himself.

It was eighteen thirty when the first shift started to eat. Outside it was nearly dark, with the moons not coming up yet.

It was eighteen thirty-five when the first alarm came. From radar. The Cadet who was on it jumped up and shouted, “Commander—Commander!”

I was over to him in a couple of jumps. He pointed to his viewer and I saw a whole lot of flickers. Faint nickers, not real readings. They seemed to be all around our perimeter, and a long way from it.

I said, “What’s the distance?” and the kid said, “Couple of miles, sir. Maybe more.” He was nervous. “But that’s not a true reaction on the screen there. It—it—I don’t know what it is . . .”

I told him to keep watching. I grabbed the communicator mike and roared “All out to posts! Possible attack!”

I pulled a manual Colt-Vickers from the rack, grabbed a spare audi-vid belt and ran out of the ship. It was dark as pitch. Until the searchlight flicked on and began to search. I waited till the Bosun reported, “All on post,” and then grabbed him and told him to check the gunners in the ship and stay at gun control and switch on the audi-video there so I could use mine as a command mike. I wondered if the boy on radar had had the sense to switch on his. I tried it and found he had. I said, “Still got the flickers?” and his voice came back clear, “Yessir. More of ‘em. All around. They’re closer. Say a mile.”

I cut him off and switched to gun-control. And got the Bosun right away; he’d made good time. I said, “This is a fire order. Traverse the whole perimeter—three blasts a second. Range one mile and down.”

He gave me a “Command understood” beep, and fifteen seconds later the two big blasters were spraying around the circle. They lit up the whole desert in a band of zig-zag flashes a hundred yards deep.

But the flashes showed nothing. Nor did the searchlight. I could hear the men muttering.

I buzzed radar again, and the boy said, “Still all around sir. Moving in.” I could hear him gulp. “Those blasts should’ve fixed ‘em. But they didn’t—”

I said, “What’s the distance now?” and he said, “Around half, sir—”

I cut him off and got the Bosun. I said, “Fire order. Come down to half range for three bursts. Then shift down a quarter and repeat.”

He beeped the caller in acknowledgment, and a couple of seconds later both guns started again.

This time they were on one orbit after another with no paused in between. The zig-zag flashes were a steady stream. They drowned out the searchlight and showed up the whole ring of desert. Every grain of the goddamn red sand.