Skyprobe (21 page)

Kalitzkin raised his eyebrows at one of the technicians, a man who appeared to be the next-in-charge of the control room under the overall direction of Kalitzkin himself. This man nodded. In Russian he reported, “All is ready, Comrade Doctor.”

“Thank you, Ivan.” Kalitzkin looked at a clock, then reached for the control panel before him and pressed three switches with careful precision and deliberation. An alarm sounded in the open air and was relayed on the television screen, the men on the ground above moved aside, their breath steaming in the air like so many kettles on the boil, as the concrete covers slid apart. Faintly from somewhere beneath the floor of the control room a high whining sound was heard. Kalitzkin pressed the first of the purple buttons, which went down and engaged in the ‘on’ position with a loud click. At once a tremor started to run through the compartment, faint at first but growing stronger. All the technicians were now closely watching the proliferation of dials and gauges, or listening intently, like doctors with their stethoscopes, through earphones. Kalitzkin, who was currently watching the readings on his own control panel, glanced up now and again at the dominating television screen showing the earth above. Shaw and Rencke both had their attention fully on the screen now; the huge round plate appeared after a brief interval, filling the whole space where the covers had been, and then moved on, slow now, purposeful, menacing, until it stood on its stalk some sixty feet above ground level. Shaw watched in fascination. Then the high whining note and the tremors ceased, ending, as the thick metal shaft reached its maximum height, in a jar that shook the whole of the control room.

Kalitzkin said, “When we first home the Masurov Beam on to Skyprobe, the plate will be at its present height. As the capsule comes nearer, we shall retract the plate until it is at ground level, as it was when your helicopter landed. Meanwhile, I have something else to show you.” His hand dropped to the red-painted wheel beside the panel. He began to turn this; there was a hum as the power-assisted mechanism operated and the television screen showed the metal plate dropping on its stalk, and the stalk itself inclining, until the operating face was angled fifty degrees with the ground.

Kalitzkin let go the handwheel and glanced at Shaw. “In a moment,” he said, “I shall connect the power and the plate will come alive. I have so directed its angle, as you can see, that its force will be felt only upon the earth of this one island. What I have to show you is an almost accidental side-effect of my invention, but I believe you will be very much surprised and impressed by what happens!” He was trembling with excited anticipation now, eager to show off his toy. “Please watch the screen very closely.”

He bent towards a microphone and, speaking in Russian, said, “Stage One complete . . . stand by for Stage Two. Report in sequence, starting now.”

He waited; brief reports were passed on a tannoy system and one by one tiny lights began to glow on the control panel. When all were fit Kalitzkin, speaking again into his microphone, announced: “Stage Two.” He began counting: "
. . . ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero
.” On zero, with a steady and deliberate movement of his hand, he depressed the second of the two purple buttons. Simultaneously the lights in the control room dimmed and a single bright-red lamp glowed above Kalitzkin’s panel. And almost at once there came from the television screen one of the weirdest sounds Shaw had ever heard, the sound of a hailstorm much magnified, and the whole surface of the metal plate seemed suddenly to have grown an irregular covering of what looked at first sight like a shaggy fur coat but which Shaw soon realized was in fact a whole mass of metal, small particles that had been drawn irresistibly through the air to impinge upon, and stick to, the plate. As he watched the surface covering grew deeper, and now and then some larger object was drawn in to hurtle visibly across the screen and embed itself in the rest. It was a terrifying mass of metal on the move. Kalitzkin, looking at his face, saw his expression. With triumph in his voice the Russian said, “You see? The beam has acted as a magnet and is attracting to itself all that there is of metal in its path. There are metal ores on this island, you understand—the plate has in effect excavated them from out of the earth! Some of the smaller fragments are travelling at very nearly the speed of fight! Now, Commander, perhaps you have some idea of what my invention is able to achieve—even, as I have said, in the field of mere side-effect?”

Shaw had been impressed but his response was cold. “That was small stuff. And it was close. The capsule’s an entirely different matter and it won’t respond to magnetism.”

Kalitzkin laughed. “It will not need to. That is merely by the way. With the co-operation of my colleagues in China very satisfactory tests of the real qualities of the Masurov Beam have been made, as I told you—you will see! When the astronauts bring the capsule into the earth’s atmosphere it will become as good as mine. And immediately after that, you will make your broadcast to say that all is well. Now watch again, please.”

Shaw looked back at the television screen.

Kalitzkin moved the handwheel once more and the plate drooped farther over, the stalk itself inclining so that the plate hovered almost vertically above ground some thirty feet clear of the edge of the deep pit. Then Kalitzkin pressed another of the red buttons. There was a small
plop
as the second purple button snapped back into ‘off,’ the power died—and a small mountain of metal that must have weighed, at a guess, a couple of tons, slid to the ground. Clear and virgin again, the plate assumed an upward direction as Kalitzkin once more turned the handwheel and it remained there like some grotesque metal mushroom . . . or like the flower of some man-eating tropical plant greedily waiting for Skyprobe IV to drop into its mouth.

Soon after, the stalk was lowered back into its stowage and within a couple of minutes one of the radar operators reported that he had picked up aircraft to the eastward. They were distant and not closing, maintaining a northerly course, and Kalitzkin wasn’t in the least worried, certain in his own mind of the complete security and anonymity of his base. After Shaw had been put through the dress rehearsal of his talk to the West, the four guards took him over again and escorted him back to the cage. He saw Ingrid watching him through the sound-proof glass lining of the bars, with relief and gladness in her eyes at seeing him back unharmed. She smiled at him; he appreciated that smile and the sheer guts it indicated.

He was locked in and left to brood.

He had imprinted on his mind every detail of the control room’s layout, including the fact that the tell-tale television screens didn’t cover the gangway between his and Ingrid’s cages. That might be worth bearing in mind, perhaps; but he had little hope of being able to achieve any results at this stage. He knew that the ditching of the capsule couldn’t be delayed much beyond the extension limit next morning. Possibly they could delay an hour or so beyond it but that would have to be regarded as the absolute deadline; and it would certainly appear pretty pointless to the authorities in the States to put the men in further danger of their lives by delaying the splashdown beyond the known safe limit if the searching forces were still reporting blanks by the time the extra twenty-four hours were up.

* * *

In the Caribbean the recovery fleet, having no knowledge of the fact that Danvers-Marshall would order the retro-rockets to be fired off so as to bring the capsule in over the Pacific, had remained on station for the ditching.

Splashdown was now definitely scheduled to be attempted at 0900 hours next day subject to revised orders only if the hostile base should be located in the meantime. Klaber had personally spoken again to the men in space and had told them of this decision, taken after full consultation with the President, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and his own technical aides.

Once again Klaber asked, “You’re sure the retro-rockets are okay now?”

“Sure I’m sure.” Danvers-Marshall wouldn’t be interfering with them again now; everything was moving his way. Schuster was trembling with frustration; even though there was no conceivable point in reporting the situation to control, since there was just nothing anybody on the ground could do about it—and they must have guessed by now anyway—he would have liked Klaber and the world to know for absolutely sure just what was going on inside the capsule. But a look over his shoulder had shown him that Danvers-Marshall’s eyes were staring insanely and he was becoming convinced the man’s mind had been affected by his position and he would be quite likely to start shooting if anything rattled him further.

Klaber’s voice said unnecessarily, “Report at once if you have any trouble.” Klaber wanted to go on talking, hated the idea of cutting off and leaving them to it. Schuster sensed that; he knew Klaber well.

He said, “Sure, sure,” and his tone was ironic. He couldn’t help that; there was going to be plenty of trouble and they just had to take it. Without the threat of a docking to be used against Danvers-Marshall any more, there wouldn’t be any future at all in risking the Britisher’s gun—and neither could they start anything on the way down. This thing had to be fought out after splashdown and not before—unless things got too much and he couldn’t stop himself, and if he did that, it was goodbye anyway.

He had to watch it. . . .

Suddenly Danvers-Marshall said, “Greg.”

Schuster stiffened at something in the man’s tone. “Yeah?”

“You’ll want to have a word with your families.”

This was ghoulishness. “Like hell.”

“Wayne?”

“Leave them out of this, you Red bum.”

“Look,” Danvers-Marshall persisted. “I’m sorry about all this. I’ve said that and I mean it. My hands were tied—”

“Nuts.”

“Well, if you don’t want to believe that, Greg, I can’t make you.” Danvers-Marshall’s voice was unsteady now. “That’s not to say I won’t go through with it . . . I
will
go right through with it, I assure you. But I want you to think of your families, both of you. They’ll want a word with you. Only, don’t say anything I wouldn’t want you to. That’s all.” He hesitated. “Greg . . . call up mission control. Tell them to put the families on.”

“Get stuffed.”

“I mean it, Greg. I’m telling you to do it.”

Schuster took a deep breath and glanced over at Wayne Morris. Slowly Morris nodded . . . he wouldn’t mind having a last word, though he as well as Schuster knew Danvers-Marshall was only trying to help his own conscience over a sticky patch. Schuster sighed and called up the tracking station at Canaries. He said, “Tell Kennedy, we’d like a word with our families next time round.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, at that. . . .

* * *

They did as they were asked and they put the families on—Linda Morris, and Mary Schuster, and the children. The children, of course, knew nothing of what was happening—they had been kept from school since the real uproar had started in the Press and naturally the newspapers had been kept from them too, and the television had also been forbidden; and they were not present when their mothers actually spoke to the men in the capsule.

Schuster said, “It’s going to be all right, Mary. The fault’s corrected. Don’t worry about a thing.” They were all keeping off the real trouble, as if by mutual consent, though Schuster knew the wives must have been told by this time. “Just don’t worry, that’s all!”

“We’ll try not to, Greg.” The technics of two-way radio kept the conversation formal, but her voice was beginning to falter already. “Oh, Greg. . . .” She let go the transmit switch.

“I said, don’t worry! I mean that.” Schuster’s voice was sharp with his own anxiety—for his family, for Morris, for himself as well and for what was bound to happen on a world-wide scale. “I’ll be back . . . darling, I know it’s not easy, but you have to trust me now more than ever before. The fault in the system’s absolutely okay now . . . we’re fine, all of us, just fine.” Still no mention on either side about the Eastern threat. “I’m going to bring Skyprobe down . . . me and Wayne between us, that is.” He was aware all the time of Danvers-Marshall’s gun, of the scientist’s watchful eyes behind the transparent visor of the space helmet. Once again he said inadequately, “Just don’t worry, Mary dear.”

Linda Morris came on the air after that, tearfully; then they put the children on, while the two women waited out of earshot. They didn’t trust themselves not to break down when they heard the kids speak. . . .

With the children both Schuster and Morris sounded cheerful, happy ... no talk now of not worrying, it just didn’t arise. They were coming down safely and they would get a ticker-tape welcome on Broadway and the President himself would shake them by the hand and call them by their first names. “Know what I’m really looking forward to, though?” Morris asked. He answered his own question. “Seeing your ma pour me out a nice, long coke . . . with ice!”

“Sure, I bet.” This was Wayne junior, despairingly. “Scotch-on-the-rocks more like, pop!”

“Well—maybe. You kids sure have plenty cheek these days.” A pause, a longish one, and awkward. “See you, Junior.”

“Sure . . . see you, pop.”

“God bless, boy. Look after your ma and Bobbie.” A tremor had crept into his voice now and he was thinking: Oh, Christ, let’s get this over with.

“What was that, pop?” There was faint bewilderment, a lack of understanding.

“Oh . . . never mind. Just be good—till I get back. If you’re not I’ll tan your backside. Okay?”

“Okay. . . ."

Skyprobe IV raced on at her 27,000 m.p.h., away from the Kennedy base, away from the families’ voices, heading out once again across the globe. Later, as they came over the Pacific on the last leg of the next orbit, the spacemen passed unseeingly over the combined fleets searching, still without success, for the diversion base. Many of the ships and aircraft were well north now, however, and were beginning to narrow the field towards the Kuriles, although planes that had flown as close to the area as they dared, and had taken photographs, had reported no sign of activity on the fringes of that grim dead region.