The Red Planet (9 page)

“Maybe they had some trouble outside,” I suggested, “went out to fix it--and drifted off.”

“Both of them?”

“Why not, Jet?”

“Because that would more or less put Peterson in league with Whitaker. But the last we heard from Peterson he was yelling for help.”

“Well, maybe. But at-the same time everything points to their having gone outside for some reason or other. The main door open--the suit missing.”

Jet didn’t answer, but moved to the second locker which, of course, was Whitaker’s. He jerked the door open, took a quick glance inside, and then turned and looked steadily at me. “Just as I thought,” he said, slowly. “Whitaker’s suit is still here. Look, Doc,” he went on, “I’m going down into the cargo hold. One of them, both of them even, might be there.”

“Right. But make sure the air pressure’s up to full before you open the cargo hatch.”

“I’ll watch it, Doc,” he said.

Jet was gone for about fifteen minutes, during which time I was able to straighten out the bulk of the tape and rewind it on to the spool. I did not play it back as I knew Jet would like to hear it at the same time as I did. So, first ascertaining by the personal radio that Jet was OK, I began a systematic search of the crew’s quarters. I examined the motor panel, the radio panel, the log books, the stowage lockers, the mess on the table; in fact, pretty well everything.

Finally I moved over to one corner of the cabin where, set into the floor, was a circular, transparent plate which gave access to the inspection hold. Situated on the wall near the hatch was a light switch. I turned it on and looked through the glass into the hold.

What I saw down there had me yelling for Jet to come back into the cabin immediately. A couple of minutes later he was at my side. “We’d better open her up, Doc,” he said at once.

“Where’s the switch?” I asked. “I’m not familiar with the controls on these freighters.”

“On the main control panel. Bottom left. Blue section.”

I moved over to the panel, found the switch and turned it on. The inspection hatch cover slipped to one side, and Jet lost no time in descending the ladder which led to the bottom of the hold.

What I had seen was the body of a man. It was lying on the floor all of a heap and it was difficult to tell whether, whoever it was, was alive or dead.

Jet turned the still form over and supported it in the crook of his arm. It was Whitaker. A cursory examination told me that, although he had been badly beaten up, especially about the head, he was still breathing.

“Let’s get him up into one of the bunks,” Jet suggested. That was quite an easy operation as Whitaker, like everything else in the ship, weighed virtually nothing. Between us we guided him up the ladder, gently floated him towards his bunk, pushed him down on it and strapped him in. While I gave Whitaker a thorough examination, Jet went back to the cargo hold to continue his search. It was some time before he got back. Although he searched the place from top to bottom and had even been down into the tank inspection hold, there was no sign of Peterson.

“Then we’ll have to accept the fact that he left the ship,” I said.

“But why?” asked Jet. “He must have known he’d never be picked up, not in a million years. He must have known he was stepping out to certain death.”

“There are an awful lot of things which need explaining, Jet. Why the cabin is in such chaos and how Whitaker came to be lying down in the inspection hatch with multiple head injuries.”

“How is he, Doc?”

“In a bad way. The base of the skull is fractured and there’s a considerable amount of haemorrhage.”

“Is he still unconscious?”

“Yes--and if he ever regains it I’ll be very surprised. He’ll need constant watching. Shouldn’t be left for a moment. And I need supplies.”

“How about the medical locker?”

“It doesn’t amount to much more than a first-aid outfit. I’ll have to have one of my kits brought over from the Discovery.”

“Or take Whitaker over there?”

“No, Jet,” I said, “he’s too ill. To move him that far might well prove fatal.”

“In that case, I’ll have Mitch bring across all you need. I was going to ask him to come over, anyway.”

“What for?”

“Well, so far as I can tell, the ship’s in full working order, but only Mitch can confirm my belief that the motor is still usable. If it is we can salvage the ship.”

“OK,” I said. “When you’ve finished talking to Mitch maybe I could have a word with him.”

“Sure, Doc.”

“So you decided to call up at last,” said Mitch when Jet contacted him. “Don’t you realise the Fleet is now seven thousand miles ahead? If we don’t catch up with them soon they’ll get to Mars without us.”

“That’s just what I’m calling up about, Mitch. Peterson has disappeared. The crew’s quarters over here are in a shocking state but the power packs are working; so is the air supply and radio--and the motor’s OK so far as I can tell. But I need you to give it a thorough inspection.”

‘You want me to come over there, then?”

“Yes.”

“OK, Jet. Who’ll be coming back--you or Doc?”

“Neither. I’ve got to tidy up the place.”

“Couldn’t Doc do that?”

“He’s too busy with Whitaker who’s too sick to be moved.”

“Oh. You mean you intend leaving Lemmy here alone? Maybe for hours?”

“It won’t hurt him.”

I suppose it was about two hours later that Mitch came up from the inspection hold to give his report on the motor.

Apparently it was all right and there was enough fuel in the reserve tank to give her the necessary acceleration and enable us to overtake the rest of the Fleet.

“That’s good news, Mitch,” said Jet. “We’d better get back to Discovery and prepare to turn the ships over.”

“Both of us?” queried Mitch. “You can’t expect Doc to stay and handle a manoeuvre like that alone.”

“There are only two takeoff couches in here,” Jet reminded the engineer, “and Whitaker is already occupying one of them. And Doc must stay with Whitaker. Firing can be controlled from the Discovery. He should manage quite easily.”

Jet, unaware that I had heard every word of this conversation, moved over to where I was sitting by Whitaker’s bunk. But before he could speak I said: “I’m sorry, Jet, but if the motors are fired I can’t hold myself responsible. The pressure that Whitaker would be subjected to would kill him for sure.”

“But we’ve got to catch up on the Fleet sometime soon,” protested Mitch. “They must be ten thousand miles ahead of us by now.”

“That’s for Jet to decide,” I said, “but as medical officer I must put my point of view.”

“The acceleration wouldn’t be all that great, Doc,” said Jet, obviously very worried, “four gravities at most.”

“Too much,” I said. “In his present condition I doubt if he could stand even two.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Mitch flatly. “Do we put the whole Fleet in jeopardy for the sake of one man who’s given us nothing but trouble since we took off, tried to get us to abandon the trip and go back, and killed one of his own crew mates into the bargain?”

“We’ve got no proof that he killed Peterson,” said Jet quietly.

“Look, Jet,” Mitch argued, “let’s face the facts.”

“I am facing them, Mitch,” replied the Captain. “If Doc says Whitaker is too ill to stand the pressure, then I must take his word for it. We wait. Either until Whitaker is fit again or until time compels me to overtake the Fleet. And meanwhile you can figure out what that time is likely to be.”

“OK,” said Mitch, resignedly. “Where do they keep the navigational tables in this ship?”

“Same place as in any other. In the locker under the control table.”

Mitch went over to the other side of the cabin and sat down. At that very moment there came a sigh from the bunk.

“Jet,” I called quietly, “come over here. I think Whitaker is coming round.” The sick man moaned.

“What did he say?” asked Jet, as he came over to the bunk.

“I didn’t quite catch it,” I replied.

“Leave me alone.” The words were quite distinct now.

“But nobody’s touched him, Doc,” said Jet. He put his hand on the engineer’s shoulder. “Whitaker. Whitaker,” he said gently. “Can you hear me? This is Captain Morgan.”

“Turn back. Turn back,” said Whitaker. “You must turn back. I can fight them, but you can’t.”

Jet turned to me. “What’s he talking about, Doc?”

“I wouldn’t try to make sense of it, Jet,” I told him. “He’s delirious.”

“You do not know the power they have.” It was Whitaker again. “I defy you. Do you hear? I defy you!” The last three words were shouted.

I rubbed his brow gently with my hand and quietly called his name. This seemed to soothe him for, although he continued breathing heavily, he didn’t raise his voice again. He merely said: “I must go back. Back to my wife and children.”

“Has he a wife and children, Doc?” Jet asked.

“If he has,” I said, “this is the first time he’s ever mentioned them.”

Whitaker rambled on. “They’ve gone to the Exhibition,” he said. “Everybody’s going.”

At this moment Lemmy’s voice called from the radio. Apparently it -was time for routine inspection and for the Discovery to call in the Fleet reports. “Somebody had better come over here soon, Jet,” said Lemmy. “You can’t expect me to keep watch on the radio, radar and televiewer and inspect every part of the ship as well. It’s a big enough job for the four of us.”

“They’re running a special train from Baker Street,” said Whitaker.

“Eh? What was that, Jet?” asked Lemmy.

“It’s all right,” said Jet quickly. “I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long. I’ll attend to it.”

“Will somebody be coming back, then? If so, I’ll tell Number One to hold his report until they do.”

“One of us will be coming across in just a few minutes.”

“Right,” replied the Cockney. “Incidentally, Jet, how’s Whitaker?”

“They must turn back. I must tell them to turn back.” Whitaker was shouting again now.

“Still in pretty bad shape, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” came Lemmy’s sympathetic voice. “Well, I’ll get the main door open, Jet. Be all ready for whoever comes across.”

It was decided to send Mitch back. After he had gone, Jet and I settled down to watch over Whitaker, but he had relapsed into a deep coma and said nothing more. So Jet set about clearing up the mess in the cabin. It took him about four hours before things looked shipshape again. Then he carried out the routine inspection of Number Six and passed the report over to Lemmy. Finally he prepared a meal and, with both of us sitting by Whitaker’s bed, we ate it in silence.

After Jet had cleared the containers away I realised how tired he was looking. “You must be completely exhausted,” I told him, “why don’t you get some sleep?”

“I am a little tired, Doc,” he admitted. “But how about you? You’ve had no more sleep than I.”

“But I haven’t been doing any physical work, Jet. Just sitting here and watching Whitaker.”

“I wonder what did happen between him and Peterson, Doc. If only he’d come out of that coma he might be able to tell us.”

“I wouldn’t bank on that just yet,” I warned him. “He’s been too quiet for my liking for a long time. Now go to bed. I’ll wake you in four hours.’“

“OK, but if Mitch or Lemmy call, wake me up, will you?”

“If it’s anything important, I will,” I assured him.

“OK,” said Jet. “Goodnight then,” and with that he climbed the little ladder which led to the bunk above Whitaker’s. He was asleep almost before I had got his safety straps into position.

I had hardly settled down by Whitaker’s side before he began to speak again. First he announced his name; his full name. “James Edward Whitaker,” he said. He repeated this a couple of times and then added the year in which he was born. Not 1940 as we had all been led to believe; but 1893.

Then, to my great concern, he began to rave. He shouted, he twisted and turned and he threw his arms about. Try as I would I could not quieten him. If he had not been strapped into his bunk his contortions would have sent him floating round the cabin to crash against one of the walls and, perhaps, injure himself even further.

I felt sure that Whitaker’s yelling and screaming must waken Jet before long and then, to my surprise, I realised that Jet was making almost as much noise as Whitaker. Like him, he was tossing and turning on his bunk and, although his eyes were tightly closed, the perspiration stood out in little beads on his brow. He twisted and turned as though trying to free himself from the straps that bound him to his bed.

I tried to waken him but to no avail. Then, once more, I tried to waken Whitaker, with no more success. I began to sweat a little myself. It was as though Jet, by some inexplicable means, was suffering in sympathy with Whitaker; as though he, too, were bearing the pain and delirium of the injured man.

I have heard of such cases before; of husbands who suffered from toothache or even abdominal pains while their wives were in labour; of twins who felt an injury sustained by their brothers or sisters even though they were far apart; but this was the first time I had had first-hand experience of such a thing.

There was absolutely no doubt that there was a strong connection between the ravings of the two men for, besides acting in much the same way, they often seemed to be talking to each other. Most of the words they spoke were incoherent but occasionally they became crystal clear, as when Whitaker was announcing his date of birth and Jet suddenly said: “But that’s ridiculous. That would make you seventy-eight years old and you don’t look a day older than thirty.”

Then came snatches of conversation, some connected, some disconnected, such as:

“Have you been to the Exhibition? They’re running special trains from Baker Street. Look at that star. That’s Mars. Isn’t she beautiful? It’s not red really, you know. It’s pink and olive green. If only we had a telescope powerful enough we could see the cities on her.”

“Cities?” It was Jet now.

“Didn’t you know?” Then Whitaker began to sing--a song I’d never heard before. Some nonsense about it being night-time in Italy and Wednesday in some other place. He sang it heartily and laughed when he finished.