Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (190 page)

“On the contrary,” said Smith flatly, “we have all the evidence we need. I used the telefluor on him—you know the arrangement we have on top of the cage—and tried to take some pictures. They just blurred. Pussy jumped when the telefluor was turned on, as if he felt the vibrations.

“You all know what Gourlay said before? This beast can apparently receive and send vibrations of any lengths. The way he dominated the power of Kent’s gun is final proof of his special ability to interfere with energy.”

“What in the name of all hells have we got here?” one of the men groaned. “Why, if he can control that power, and send it out in any vibrations, there’s nothing to stop him killing all of us.”

“Which proves,” snapped Morton, “that he isn’t invincible, or he would have done it long ago.”

Very deliberately, he walked over to the mechanism that controlled the prison cage.

“You’re not going to open the door!” Kent gasped, reaching for his gun.

“No, but if I pull this switch, electricity will flow through the floor, and electrocute whatever’s inside. We’ve never had to use this before, so you had probably forgotten about it.”

He jerked the switch hard over. Blue fire flashed from the metal, and a bank of fuses above his head exploded with a single bang.

Morton frowned. “That’s funny. Those fuses shouldn’t have blown! Well, we can’t even look in, now. That wrecked the audios, too.”

Smith said: “If he could interfere with the electric lock, enough to open the door, then he probably probed every possible danger and was ready to interfere when you threw that switch.”

“At least, it proves he’s vulnerable to our energies!” Morton smiled grimly. “Because he rendered them harmless. The important thing is, we’ve got him behind four inches of the toughest of metal. At the worst we can open the door and ray him to death. But first, I think we’ll try to use the telefluor power cable—”

A commotion from inside the cage interrupted his words. A heavy body crashed against a wall, followed by a dull thump.

“He knows what we were trying to do!” Smith grunted to Morton. “And I’ll bet it’s a very sick pussy in there. What a fool he was to go back into that cage and does he realize it!”

The tension was relaxing; men were smiling nervously, and there was even a ripple of humorless laughter at the picture Smith drew of the monster’s discomfiture.

“What I’d like to know,” said Pennons, the engineer, “is, why did the telefluor meter dial jump and waver at full power when pussy made that noise? It’s right under my nose here, and the dial jumped like a house afire!”

There was silence both without and within the cage, then Morton said: “It may mean he’s coming out. Back, everybody, and keep your guns ready. Pussy was a fool to think he could conquer a hundred men, but he’s by far the most formidable creature in the galactic system. He may come out of that door, rather than die like a rat in a trap. And he’s just tough enough to take some of us with him—if we’re not careful.”

The men back slowly in a solid body; and somebody said: “That’s funny. I thought I heard the elevator.”

“Elevator!” Morton echoed. “Are you sure, man?”

“Just for a moment I was!” The man, a member of the crew, hesitated. “We were all shuffling our feet—”

“Take somebody with you, and go look. Bring whoever dared to run off back here—”

There was a jar, a horrible jerk, as the whole gigantic body of the ship careened under them. Morton was flung to the floor with a violence that stunned him. He fought back to consciousness, aware of the other men lying all around him. He shouted: “Who the devil started those engines!”

The agonizing acceleration continued; his feet dragged with awful exertion, as he fumbled with the nearest audioscope, and punched the engine-room number. The picture that flooded onto the screen brought a deep bellow to his lips:

“It’s pussy! He’s in the engine room—and we’re heading straight out into space.”

The screen went black even as he spoke, and he could see no more.

* * * *

It was Morton who first staggered across the salon floor to the supply room where the spacesuits were kept. After fumbling almost blindly into his own suit, he cut the effects of the body-torturing acceleration, and brought suits to the semiconscious men on the floor. In a few moments, other men were assisting him; and then it was only a matter of minutes before everybody was clad in metalite, with anti-acceleration motors running at half power.

It was Morton then who, after first looking into the cage, opened the door and stood, silent as the others who crowded about him, to stare at the gaping hole in the rear wall. The hole was a frightful thing of jagged edges and horribly bent metal, and it opened upon another corridor.

“I’ll swear,” whispered Pennons, “that it’s impossible. The ten-ton hammer in the machine shops couldn’t more than dent four inches of micro with one blow—and we only heard one. It would take at least a minute for an atomic disintegrator to do the job. Morton, this is a super-being.”

Morton saw that Smith was examining the break in the wall. The biologist looked up. “If only Breckinridge weren’t dead! We need a metallurgist to explain this. Look!”

He touched the broken edge of the metal. A piece crumbled in his finger and slithered away in a fine shower of dust to the floor. Morton noticed for the first time that there was a little pile of metallic debris and dust.

“You’ve hit it.” Morton nodded. “No miracle of strength here. The monster merely used his special powers to interfere with the electronic tensions holding the metal together. That would account, too, for the drain on the telefluor power cable that Pennons noticed. The thing used the power with his body as a transforming medium, smashed through the wall, ran down the corridor to the elevator shaft, and so down to the engine room.”

“In the meantime, commander,” Kent said quietly, “we are faced with a super-being in control of the ship, completely dominating the engine room and its almost unlimited power, and in possession of the best part of the machine shops.”

Morton felt the silence, while the men pondered the chemist’s words. Their anxiety was a tangible thing that lay heavily upon their faces; in every expression was the growing realization that here was the ultimate situation in their lives; their very existence was at stake and perhaps much more. Morton voiced the thought in everybody’s mind:

“Suppose he wins. He’s utterly ruthless, and he probably sees galactic power within his grasp.”

“Kent is wrong,” barked the chief navigator. “The thing doesn’t dominate the engine room. We’ve still got the control room, and that gives us first control of all the machines. You fellows may not know the mechanical set-up we have; but, though he can eventually disconnect us, we can cut off all the switches in the engine room now. Commander, why didn’t you just shut off the power instead of putting us into spacesuits? At the very least you could have adjusted the ship to the acceleration.”

“For two reasons,” Morton answered. “Individually, we’re safer within the force fields of our spacesuits. And we can’t afford to give up our advantages in panicky moves.”

“Advantages! What other advantages have we got?”

“We know things about him,” Morton replied. “And right now, we’re going to make a test. Pennons, detail five men to each of the four approaches to the engine room. Take atomic disintegrators to blast through the big doors. They’re all shut, I noticed. He’s locked himself in.

“Selenski, you go up to the control room and shut off everything except the drive engines. Gear them to the master switch, and shut them off all at once. One thing, though—leave the acceleration on full blast. No anti-acceleration must be applied to the ship. Understand?”

“Aye, sir!” The pilot saluted.

“And report to me through the communicators if any of the machines start to run again.” He faced the men. “I’m going to lead the main approach. Kent, you take No. 2; Smith, No. 3, and Pennons, No. 4. We’re going to find out right now if we’re dealing with unlimited science, or a creature limited like the rest of us. I’ll bet on the second possibility.”

* * * *

Morton had an empty sense of walking endlessly, as he moved, a giant of a man in his transparent space armor, along the glistening metal tube that was the main corridor of the engine-room floor. Reason told him the creature had already shown feet of clay, yet the feeling that here was an invincible being persisted.

He spoke into the communicator: “It’s not use trying to sneak up on him. He can probably hear a pin drop. So just wheel up your units. He hasn’t been in that engine room long enough to do anything.

“As I’ve said, this is largely a test attack. In the first place, we could never forgive ourselves if we didn’t try to conquer him now, before he’s had time to prepare against us. But, aside from the possibility that we can destroy him immediately, I have a theory.

“The idea goes something like this: Those doors are built to withstand accidental atomic explosions, and it will take fifteen minutes for the atomic disintegrators to smash them. During that period the monster will have no power. True, the drive will be on, but that’s straight atomic explosion. My theory is, he can’t touch stuff like that; and in a few minutes you’ll see what I mean—I hope.”

His voice was suddenly crisp: “Ready, Selenski?”

“Aye, ready.”

“Then cut the master switch.”

The corridor—the whole ship, Morton knew—was abruptly plunged into darkness. Morton clicked on the dazzling light of his spacesuit; the other men did the same, their faces pale and drawn.

“Blast!” Morton barked into his communicator.

The mobile units throbbed; and then pure atomic flame ravened out and poured upon the hard metal of the door. The first molten droplet rolled reluctantly, not down, but up the door. The second was more normal. It followed a shaky downward course. The third rolled sideways—for this was pure force, not subject to gravitation. Other drops followed until a dozen streams trickled sedately yet unevenly in every direction—streams of hellish, sparkling fire, bright as fairy gems, alive with the coruscating fury of atoms suddenly tortured, and running blindly, crazy with pain.

The minutes ate at time like a slow acid. At last Morton asked huskily:

“Selenski?”

“Nothing yet, commander.”

Morton half whispered: “But he must be doing something. He can’t be just waiting in there like a cornered rat. Selenski?”

“Nothing, commander.”

Seven minutes, eight minutes, then twelve.

“Commander!” It was Selenski’s voice, taut. “He’s got the electric dynamo running.”

Morton drew a deep breath, and heard one of his men say:

“That’s funny. We can’t get any deeper. Boss, take a look at this.”

Morton looked. The little scintillating streams had frozen rigid. The ferocity of the disintegrators vented in vain against metal grown suddenly invulnerable.

Morton sighed. “Our test is over. Leave two men guarding every corridor. The others come up to the control room.”

* * * *

He seated himself a few minutes later before the massive control keyboard. “So far as I’m concerned the test was a success. We know that of all the machines in the engine room, the most important to the monster was the electric dynamo. He must have worked in a frenzy of terror while we were at the doors.”

“Of course, it’s easy to see what he did,” Pennons said. “Once he had the power he increased the electronic tensions of the door to their ultimate.”

“The main thing is this,” Smith chimed in. “He works with vibrations only so far as his special powers are concerned, and the energy must come from outside himself. Atomic energy in its pure form, not being vibration, he can’t handle any differently than we can.”

Kent said glumly: “The main point in my opinion is that he stopped us cold. What’s the good of knowing that his control over vibrations did it? If we can’t break through those doors with our atomic disintegrators, we’re finished.”

Morton shook his head. “Not finished—but we’ll have to do some planning. First, though, I’ll start these engines. It’ll be harder for him to get control of them when they’re running.”

He pulled the master switch back into place with a jerk. There was a hum, as scores of machines leaped into violent life in the engine room a hundred feet below. The noises sank to a steady vibration of throbbing power.

Three hours later, Morton paced up and down before the men gathered in the salon. His dark hair was uncombed; the space pallor of his strong face emphasized rather than detracted from the outthrust aggressiveness of his jaw. When he spoke, his deep voice was crisp to the point of sharpness:

“To make sure that our plans are full coordinated, I’m going to ask each expert in turn to outline his part in the overpowering of this creature. Pennons first!”

Pennons stood up briskly. He was not a big man, Morton thought, yet he looked big, perhaps because of his air of authority. This man knew engines, and the history of engines. Morton had heard him trace a machine through its evolution from a simple toy to the highly complicated modern instrument. He had studied machine development on a hundred planets; and there was literally nothing fundamental that he didn’t know about mechanics. It was almost weird to hear Pennons, who could have spoken for a thousand hours and still only have touched upon his subject, say with absurd brevity:

“We’ve set up a relay in the control room to start and stop every engine rhythmically. The trip lever will work a hundred times a second, and the effect will be to create vibrations of every description. There is just a possibility that one or more of the machines will burst, on the principle of soldiers crossing a bridge in step—you’ve heard that old story, no doubt—but in my opinion there is no real danger of a break of that tough metal. The main purpose is simply to interfere with the interference of the creature, and smash through the doors.”