By John Kippax and Dan Morgan in Pan Books

A Thunder of Stars

Seed of Stars

The Neutral Stars

John Kippax

Where no stars guide

A Pan original

Pan Books Ltd London and Sydney

First published 1975 by Pan Books Ltd, Cavaye Place, London sw10 9PG

ISBN 0 330 24251 2

© The estate of John Hynam 1975

Printed in Great Britain by

Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd, Aylesbury, Bucks

an ebookman scan

Conditions of sale: This book shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The book is published at a net price, and is supplied subject to the Publishers Association Standard Conditions of Sale registered under the Restrictive Trade Practices Act, 1956

For Merlay (Doc) Thomas, who found me an alien

Contents

A prologue and a link

Chapter I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Dan Morgan and John Kippax (John Hynam)

End of Where No Stars Guide

A prologue and a link

Earth Space Corps ship Venturer Twelve was in orbit round the home planet, and Tom Bruce was expecting a distinguished visitor. There was no ceremonial bullshine, the visitor himself being an anti-bullshiner of renown. So, the Captain waited alone at the lock.

When a dull clunk vibrated through the ship's hull, the lock lights changed to green. The inner door opened, and the squat figure of World Admiral Junius Farragut Carter, SC, came through. He was the same old Carter (whatever could change him?) Bruce thought, except that three start had been exchanged for a ring of five on each shoulder tab. He wore one medal ribbon - the black and gold of the Space Cross.

Bruce saluted punctiliously, the very senior officer returned the salute in a similar manner, then put out a gnarled hand to shake that of his friend. 'Hi, Tom, good to see you again.'

'Hallo, Junius, you fireproof World Admiral, you.'

Dammit,' Carter said, 'I was fireproof when I was a lieutenant JG. I just came up to show off my personal scout- ship; she's a beaut; no damn gravity, though. That's where the big 'uns score. Take me to your crib, Captain, where I will bore the arse off you with the latest gossip.'

A silent elevator pushed them up eight levels, and they settled in Bruce's cabin. 'Any whisky, Tom?'

'Corps ships are dry.'

Carter grimaced. 'Ask a stupid question...' He opened

the flat briefcase. It contained what appeared to be a pack of sandwiches and a bottle of Bell's Best. 'Wasn't that thoughtful of me?' He held the bottle to the light, admiring the golden glow. 'Now, if we could have two—'

A double knock at the door was followed by the entry of a middle-aged CPO, grey, terrier-faced, wearing three rows of medal ribbons. He had a slight limp. He bore a tray on which were two shot glasses and a soda bulb.

'And who the hell,' Carter said pleasantly, 'told you to butt in?'

CPO Dockridge looked hurt. 'Oh, sorry, sir. In that case—'

He made for the door again; Carter gave a short bark. 'Dammit, Doc, I don't know how you survive in the Corps. Put that tray down, you old horse thief, and how are you?'

'Fine, Admiral, sir,' Dockridge said. 'And how's your heart?'

This one'll last a bit longer,' Carter said. 'And you will observe that your Captain and I are drinking lemonade, huh?'

'Yes, sir. A pale yellow liquid. I swear it'

'Bugger off,' said the Admiral, kindly.

Carter poured Bruce five centimetres' depth of Scotch, gave himself two centimetres, and added soda.

'That's a change,' Bruce said.

'Damn all medics,' Carter growled.

Bruce raised his glass. 'Damn one or two. Cheers.'

After some Scotch had been consumed, Carter said: 'I have been chatting with our little President.'

'Still on the ball?',

'I'll say.' Carter slowly shook his head. 'Henry Fong beats me; don't understand how such an honest man can be so - so devious.'

Bruce nodded. 'Honest he is, despite the WBI. Or maybe because of.'

'You ever thought what a real bastard of a president could do with the World Bureau of Investigation setup? They aren't loyal to Earth, you know; they're loyal to him.'

'And no senatorial questions, no accounts of appropriations for the WBI. Good thing he's loyal to all the hundred and fifty colonized planets. Or is it more than that now?' Bruce asked.

'Hundred and fifty-two,' Carter said.

'So, our Henry. What's he got on his mind?'

'Plenty, but nothing he can't deal with, of that I'm sure.' Carter looked at his pale glass with distaste. 'Fancy having to dilute good liquor like that..' He came back to the present. 'Excelsior are going to finance the Big Job, despite the sudden change in leadership.'

There's a Niebohr still running it/ Bruce reminded him. You call that a change? The Colonization Corporation was Elkan's; now it's Elsa's. And is your little mate Hans Koninburger going to run the Big Job?'

Carter glowered. "We need each other like a hole in the head. Working with him at Blue Mountain... oh, well, Blue Mountain Project is dead. But it goes on, with a new name. Project Elkan.'

Bruce just listened.

You meet any Kilroys, Tom?'

Bruce shook his head, but his green eyes narrowed; Carter knew very well what the Vee Twelve Captain wanted with the unknown - battle and victory. Bruce said: 'Give me that warp drive, somebody; then we'll see who rules the roost.'

'Hell of a big roost," Carter remarked. He sipped thoughtfully. 'Koninburger holed up in his Black Forest retreat where, so we're told, he reads for ten or twelve hours a day.'

'Just reads?'

'Yeah. Furthermore, it is possible - now it's possible we think, that he is replacing the essential brute force of the first warp drive idea with another, and he's studying to that end. You remember the risks we thought we might be taking with all that energy let loose?'

Bruce remembered.

"Now, that was based on some work done by Panish and

Hunsecker, twenty-first century bods.'

'Principle of locative enfieldment and dislocative de-enfieldment,' Bruce said.

'Right. That I understood. That was what the enormous power needs and all attendant dangers were about.' Carter did not seem entirely happy.

'And now Koninburger's changed his opinions?'

Carter shook his head. 'He's working on an older idea, but if I know Koninburger, he'd never admit that Parrish and Hunsecker were wrong. He's a devoted man who will do his best for Earth, as he sees it; I have to say that to be fair. Excelsior Corporation have corralled him so that he can do what research he wants. He's apparently gone back to the twentieth century, to the work of Professor J. A. Wheeler. Know of him?'

'Just a name to me.'

'Wheeler's theory is one of curved light, therefore curved space, and holes and tunnels in space where there is no time.'

'Puzzle: find the holes.'

'That's so. I'm no more than generally competent with mathematics, but the basis could be sound. Parrish and Hunsecker were a sight more spectacular, and they could still be right. But Wheeler's theories now seem to appeal to Koninburger.'

'And what does the queen of Excelsior say to it?'

'She's keeping on the people that her father hired. Now she's decided on a Balomain planet for the job, but official line on Earth will be that they're working in the Antarctic. Two birds with one stone, it seems; Balomain Four is stuffed full with mineral goodies, even if it does have half the air a human needs and is cold enough to deactivate a statue's knackers.'

'How do we know,' Bruce said, 'that even if Wheeler is right, that we don't need the work of Parrish and Hunsecker?'

'We don't know.' Carter said, 'but her ladyship has the greatest faith in Koninburger. Here, have a lick more Scotch.'

Bruce remembered something. 'Doesn't K have a geo-nostalgic psychosis?'

'I guess he does.'

"How is she going to use him on Balomain Four, then?'

'I don't know. But I do know that Elsa Niebohr is no more a fool than her father was.'

True.' Elsa Niebohr was no favourite of Bruce's. 'If they're going to work on this new theory, there's no question of dangers attendant on the building of a prototype ship, as we once thought.'

That's right. But it could all be changed if K says so. As far as present thinking seems to show, we just have to have the right sort of ferret to shove in when we've found a hole.'

'And Niebohr's going to finance that?'

'She has to. She's hired Koninburger, and she who rides a tiger—'

'—must watch out when she wants to dismount.'

Bruce thought, tight-lipped, about Elsa Niebohr. That woman, she doesn't miss a trick. If it comes off - and I feel it must - she'll collect millions in licences-to-manufacture. What publicity! "Who killed Cock Kilroy? I, said Niebohr, that's what my money's for, I killed Cock Kilroy."'

'I know you're bitter, Tom. Do you have any better suggestion?'

'We could give Excelsior Corporation the whole blasted Space Corps, now. Save a lot of trouble. She'll buy it up soon, anyway.'

'No,' Carter said, easily. 'Henry Fong wouldn't like that. And he'd damn soon see that the world didn't, and the colonized planets likewise.' He poured himself a careful measure of Scotch, and diluted it. 'Here's to progress.'

Chapter I

I have spent much time upon the General Theory of Relativity. The more I work upon it, the more I find new and deeper meanings. Above all, there is the idea of multiply- connected space-time; I am able to show you how, though our present faster-than-light ships have annihilated the Special Theory, the General Theory remains full of hope, of fascination, and maybe of danger.

HANS KONINBURGER, lecturing at Harvard

James Creighton kept his back turned to Dr Frisch, Deputy Superintendent of the Biological Institute. Creighton held him in deep disgust, having at first meeting dubbed the man as an intellectual attempting to work beyond his intellect; he had never found reason to change his views.

Creighton busied himself with the sorting of his instruments, most of them designed by himself for his own use. Creighton was still under thirty, and was going places beyond the egregious Frisch; that was not merely Creighton's own opinion; other men in high places believed in the future of the younger man, despite his haughty manner.

'Er - ah - are all these yours, Dr Creighton?'

Creighton stiffened, turned, and faced his superior; he topped Frisch by ten centimetres. "What did you say?'

Frisch backed off. 'It did just occur to me that—'

Yes?' The question was like a pistol shot. 'Did you think I was stealing?'

'Oh, no—'

Keeping his eyes upon the other, Creighton took a small sheaf of paper from the pocket of his white coat. 'Would you care to check all the bills?'

'Er - no—'

'Then clear off.' Creighton put the papers back into his pocket, and turned away.

Frisch persisted. 'I am sorry if I seemed to imply that—'

'Listen,' snapped Creighton, 'I'm J. D. R. Creighton, world authority on alien life. I had a team working with me on the human cadavers which had been redesigned by the alien, but I sacked the team; they couldn't keep up with me. I had to check their work after they'd done it. Incompetents, every one. Furthermore: the evidence is now back in cold storage, and I have the information down to the tiniest detail. Don't bother to read the data; you wouldn't understand it.' Frisch was going purple. Creighton continued: There will be a security service pack; label some of these machines and deliver them according to my instructions. If you want to know the destination, then shove your long and graceless nose in here this afternoon. One more lecture to the poor, limited boys I'm given to instruct, and then I'll be well rid of you and this place. I'm off on a working holiday, if that's all right with you, Dr Frisch?'

Frisch did not reply. Frisch, and Barker, the chief, were just a pair of seat-warmers waiting for retirement. Creighton scorned them.

Frisch said: 'Oh. Yes. Of course. The - ah - standard of your work is very high.'

Creighton stared coldly, and his beautifully modulated voice cut like a lash. 'Well. However did you discover that?'

There were times when the presence of her dead father was strong in the mind of Elsa Niebohr. The simple but luxurious office at the top of the Excelsior Colonization Corporation building was exactly as it used to be when he was there.

Now, as she faced the vid scanner, her perfect figure clothed in a suit of iridescent green, this small dark woman seemed beautiful, despite the strong nose which characterized the family.

'Dr Fane, what my father promised you is still valid. Surely you don't wish to withdraw?'

The face on the screen was that of a dark, distinguished- looking man. He waited for her to continue.

The sum was two million credits. One million you have accepted, the other will be yours when you have completed your work on Koninburger suppressing his geo-nostalgic psychosis, so that he may be the technical director for Project Elkan.'

Fane raised an eyebrow. That's a dangerous oversimplification. Since politics brought the Space Corps's Blue Mountain Project to an end, I have been worried about your plan to do privately what the government was not allowed to do with public funds. I sometimes wonder if the project will not break you.'

'Leave that to me.'

'Gladly. But I must remind you; when a little boy, Koninburger was taken on a jaunt to the moon. Then he showed his weakness, and was near to death when they got him back to Earth. Ten minutes after his arrival here, he was sitting up and asking for chocolate. The psychosis is "a longing for earth". But there is not a cure. So what you want is to deceive Koninburger into thinking that he is working on this planet, below ground because of the dangers of surface working, when in actual fact the project will be upon the outer planet of a G-type star, Balomain. That means that everyone on the project has to conspire and combine to deceive this great man. I am talented, Miss Niebohr, but I cannot work miracles.'

Fane was talking sense, but her name was Niebohr and she would not be baulked.

Fane said: 'I have a new drug. It is derived from "shoot". You know of this?'

'I have a bloody fool of a younger brother who is again being treated for his addiction.' Her voice was harsh.

'It may be that a derivation of it could help us with our problem.'

'What would you say if I were to tell you that I could get one of the world's best medicos to work with you? We could arrange a logical cover for the operation; Project Elkan employees must pass a tough physical and be given a series of immunization shots.'

'The cost—'

'My worry.'

'Yes, but—'

'Dr Fane, aren't you satisfied with your money?'

Fane looked hurt. 'I accept your money and I am doing my best.'

'So you see about the drug, and I find the doctor; you're both at the top. I'm sure you'll get on.'

'Do I know him?'

'J.D.R. Creighton.'

Fane was astonished; she enjoyed looking at him. Fane asked: 'You guarantee that?'

'I shall make the right offer.'

‘Nothing but the best, eh?'

'We do not think of failure.' Now her face hardened. 'The motto is "mistakes cost money".'

'And workers.'

'Naturally.'

She broke contact, glanced at the time numerals. After drumming her fingers for five seconds, she opened Creighton's dossier. 'James David Richard Creighton'. A rarity this man, a prize. He was almost a 'traditional' Englishman. Born Cadogan Square, London. Houghton Grove Prep School, Eton, Magdalene College, Oxford, transferred Edinburgh Medical... The pictures showed her a tall blond man, slim but muscular; had won a silver medal at the Olympics seven years ago... collected degrees as a child might collect stamps... was experienced with women... Elsa Niebohr (not Elsa Prince, since her husband had been sacrificed on the altar of her late father's greed) [see The Neutral Stars] found this item intriguing.

Fifteen minutes later, she was feeling irritated. Creighton had not arrived. She glanced at a list of possible numbers, and decided to try the Bio Institute first. Then Creighton, fair, with his blue eyes, his thick, well-brushed hair and reposeful manner, was displayed on her screen.

'I have been waiting for you, Dr Creighton.'

His reply was easy. 'I was not able to leave what I was doing. You still wish to see me?'

'Here.'

'We could talk just as well by—'

'Here. Please.'

'In fifteen minutes, then.'

She spent twenty minutes looking over the manifest copies of an Elkan class freighter. Occasionally, she pounced on such an item; freight personnel knew it.

Creighton arrived, greeted her, and sat placidly.

'I need a first class medico.''

'You have one. Fane.'

'Fane is a specialist. I need a—'

'I do not practise.'

'You have been on research programmes at the Institute. I know.'

'One programme.'

'I repeat; I need a first class doctor.'

'For your Antarctic Base - your project.'

'Yes.'

‘You must be flinging money away.'

'In all the right directions.' She was admiring him, speculating about him. 'My father made Fane a promise. I am keeping it; I need you, and similarly, I make an offer. The same as Fane. A million now, a million when the job is done.'

'A kind of super general practitioner, in fact,' he said. 'Icould find you a score of good men willing to work at a twentieth of that figure.'

'No. I want you.'

'Sorry. You can't have me.'

‘You want more than Fane?'

‘No. I want nothing. Just the chance to continue the only work that matters to me. Ask Fane about it. I'm sorry you have wasted your time. Does that answer your question?'

'It does.' She was angry; this man was topping her without the slightest apparent effort.

'I am working on the problems of extra-terrestrial life, and I work for my favourite employer. Myself.'

He bowed slightly, turned and left.

Roth, the senior secretary, came in at her bidding. He was a cash-register of a man, devoted to his work for Excelsior. He had one totally harmless hobby, that of collecting, in written or recorded form, the folk songs of long ago. Now he was armed with maps, plans and statistics. He dumped papers and parchments upon the empty top of his employer's desk, and stood holding a large and crackly roll of paper. He unrolled it and came near to total enswathement.

'Where do I hook this? That cursed drawing office—'

She switched off the board which occupied a third of one wall, the function of which was to show the state of Excelsior Corporation, minute by minute. Ships, colonies, investments, projects, everything.

'Here, Mr Roth.' He had always been Mr Roth to her ever since the day when, eight years old, her father had given her a backhander for calling him "Roth'. 'Just remember this, baby,' Poppa had said, 'accountants who are also secretaries are people very near to heaven.'

The map was in place, an exquisitely presented job by the drawing office.

'So,' Elsa said, 'that's the choice, eh?'

'Yes, the Weddell Quadrant. Coats' Land has easily workable rock, and the contracts here—'

'Just a minute. Show me the contractors' and subcontractors' lists.'

'Here, Miss Niebohr.'

She scanned. 'Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one main contractors.'

'And about fifty subs.'

That's good,' she said.

Tor my part,' Roth ventured, 'I think that there is a vast amount of this work which could be easily handled by a consortium of our own subsidiaries, and at less cost. And what we're doing isn't our usual form; it is well known that we never contract out for work which our own people will do. The outside world will wonder—'

She turned and smiled, eyes a-glint, just like her father. That's the idea, Mr Roth, keep the competition busy.'

He pursed his lips. 'I have here a statement of the estimates—'

'Pay whatever has to be paid.'

'Miss Niebohr, this is most unbusinesslike—'

'How can it be, when I'm doing it?' It was almost a snap. Then she changed her manner. 'Yes, I know what you mean. Pick ten and haggle with them like hell. And when we've made the show expected of us, tell 'em to get on with the burrowing, while we check over all comparable equipment existing in the subsidiaries, and make good any deficiencies. Pass that out to divisional heads, will you?' She strolled close to the map. 'The Weddell Sea, and Coats' Land. We shall have to take all the big noises - those who think they're big noises - so they can see for themselves how noble is the game we're playing. And of course, we have to get the maximum public reaction for what we are doing. So, as well as the political side, we must have big guns on the science side say their pieces.'

'Koninburger on the TV,' Roth said. He's a legend, and he's not yet fifty.' He sighed. 'I should be so lucky.'

She was in high good humour. She patted his cheek. 'We shall have to find a little air time for you, Mr Roth. I'm so

glad that Poppa slammed my ear when he did.'

Roth remembered what she meant. With a faint smile he said: 'You may wish to revise that opinion in a moment.' He dived into another folder. 'I've done a rough estimate on the ice and rock shifting alone.'

'You never did a rough estimate in your life. What's the figure?'

'Seventy million credits.'

She smiled impudently. 'Peanuts.'

'Er - may I leave these with you, Miss Niebohr?'

'You have an appointment?'

'Er - yes, if I may go. I have the chance of buying some recordings of Big Bill Broonzy. Treasures, I assure you.'

She dismissed him, almost gaily, with a wave of her hand. Then her face hardened. The buzzer called her. 'Yes?'

'Monsieur Duvivier is here, Miss Niebohr.'

'Send him in.'

The tall Frenchman entered with dignity, and a trace of apprehension.

'Monsieur Duvivier, have you any idea why I sent for you?'

'Some special instructions, no doubt.'

'Yes. Yesterday's conference was a long one. It started at eight-thirty in the morning, a one-hour break for lunch, and then on until seventeen-thirty. You remember, no doubt.'

'Of course.'

'I gave the order that no alcohol was to be drunk at lunch time. None was provided - by the Corporation.'

Duvivier flinched. 'Yes.'

'But you had a flask. You drank some brandy in the men's room. Is that true?'

'Only a small—'

'If you have so little self-control, then you have no place in the lineup of my senior executives. As of now, you are dismissed. Remember that your oath of secrecy is binding. One word, for example, about the new alloys and the hardening processes, and I'll get you ten years in jail. Go.'

Chapter 2

There is still much that we cannot see, as, for example, the doors to that other space. Call it hyperspace, superspace, or subspace; it does not matter what you call it. I believe that there are hidden shafts to another space, to another universe, maybe. This is how the little-publicized aliens travel. It cannot be any other way. You will remember eye-witness accounts of how their ships 'faded', or 'shimmered into nothing'.

HANS KONINBURGER,

in a lecture before the World Geographic Society Conference

James David Richard Creighton, throughout the twenty- nine years of his talented life, knew that there was nothing more disarming to the rest of the world than his appearance of being simply the 'traditional' Englishman going about his life with all the 'traditional' attitudes of speech and manner. He was, in fact, a hard worker, devoted to what he considered his prime task, scarcely aware that through his studies there had begun an admiration of the unknowns whom he was studying at second hand. In his leisure, he took the women he needed. That Niebohr woman sent out unmistakable signals...

'James, darling,' said the girl across the table.

Creighton came back to his here and now. The grandiose decor of the club, the brilliance of the clothes of the diners, the urgeful beat of the band which consisted largely of

guitars and electro-flutes, were suddenly around him.

Her name was Shari. She had blue-black hair, an oval face, and the tightly-clinging dress which clothed her to show the creaminess of her skin and the voluptuous firmness of her breasts.

'Hmm?'

'Where were you then?'

'Oh.' Charm oozed from him. 'I'm sorry to say that I was in the laboratory. Forgive me, lovely Shari.'

She was deceived by the simple explanation. But sex was not on Creighton's mind this evening. Death was what he thought of, a crime that would baffle the police, would leave no trace to lead to him. It was necessary for his plans. Nothing could be allowed to stand in his way.

'Darling, shall we dance?'

'Shari, I take one thing at a time, my sweet. Dancing between courses is as ill-mannered as smoking in similar circumstances.'

He glanced at his watch; any time now... his communicator buzzed. With a word of apology to her, he took it in his hand. 'Creighton... yes... surely there's someone else you could call?... What?... Oh well, in that case I'll come myself.' He slipped the communicator back into his pocket. He answered her unspoken question. 'The Institute. I must go at once.' He stood, beckoning the waiter, paying the bill.

'Oh, no!' Creighton saw she was near tears, the stupid cow.

'An emergency, Shari.'

She tried to be brave. 'Of course, darling. I understand.' Her tenth-rate brain and restricted imagination put a cheaply dramatic interpretation upon his departure.

Hie elevator took them up to the roof park. He held her gently by the shoulders; around and below them blazed the millions of lights of the Lake Cities conurbation.

'Dear, precious Shari, I'll make it up to you.' He kissed her gently. She was no problem at all.

*     *     *

He stood for a few moments, watching her receding flycab for as long as she could see him. Then she was gone from his mind.

Now, the plan. He had to get to the other side of town, thirty kilometres away, and he must travel the grubby, nameless way. Flycabs would scan and note the details of his credit card; this time he would travel pubtrans, down in the smelly depths of the city.

He was whisked down to sub-level A. His previous timings and rehearsals of this vital journey had prepared him for the noisome surroundings. Two obvious whores looked him over and were warned off by his expression. At the end of the carriage, half a dozen Yahoozers were playing guitars and singing, far out into a private and collective jag. There were three workers going off shift, and one hardy tourist hung with cameras. One type he had not expected to see was a man in the pale grey off-duty uniform of the Space Corps. His rank was CPO, and his ribbons showed that he had seen long service. He was sparely built, with a creased face which told of a humorous, if not a gay spirit. The CPO was gently massaging his knee and shin. Creighton guessed that the trouble was from a not-too-well executed prosthetic replacement.

But the uniform started him thinking. He was about to commit a perfect murder so that he, J. D. R. Creighton, could join the Corps. With detachment, he reviewed the steps in his driving ambition which had brought him here.

The girl from Computer Central had been not greatly to his taste. But he had bedded her, and satisfied her. Then, after putting her under light hypnosis, she supplied him with information on how to obtain data normally only available to Rear Admirals (and their equivalent civilian grades) upwards. All that was needed to turn the computer into a blabbermouth was someone to punch the right keys and buttons; that was no problem to Creighton, not now.

66231/KIL/5972/s ** *

SUBJECT: ALIEN CONTACT.

INITIAL REFS: MINOS FOUR EXPEDITION STOP KEPLER THREE INCIDENT STOP OTHER SUSPECTED UFO/KILROY SIGHTINGS AND CONTACTS STOP SPACE CORPS CONTINGENCY PLANS RELATING STOP SPACE CORPS PERSONNEL RECORDS STOP

SPACE CORPS PS RATINGS STOP ON BASIS OF FOREGOING DATA AND RELEVANT CROSS REFS GIVE DETAILS OF SPACE CORPS UNIT WITH HIGHEST PROBABILITY RATING OF BEING INVOLVED IN NEXT CONTACT WITH KILROY/ALIENS

Creighton remembered the computer room with its quiet humming. The computer ruminated over his multiple question for thirty seconds; then the answers had flashed upon the screen:

66231/KIL/5972/S***

SUBJECT: ALIEN CONTACT.

SPACE CORPS SHIP VENTURER TWELVE STOP CAPTAIN THOMAS WINFORD BRUCE 556396 STOP PERSONALITY OF BRUCE PRIME FACTOR IN EXTRAPOLATION STOP SEE FURTHER INFO IN EXTRACTS FROM PSYCHE FILE AND SERVICE RECORDS OF THIS OFFICER STOP

Soon, Creighton had the whole story before him. In 2156 Bruce had been a junior officer in command of the landing party which discovered the living but mutilated remains of some of the Earth colonists of Minos Four. A decade later, as Commander of Venturer Twelve, he had taken part in the abortive action near Kepler Three [see Seed of Stars], in which an alien ship had incinerated the entire planet. Bruce was obsessed with the shadowy enemy. Despite the fact that the aliens could slip into another space when it suited them, despite the fact that they seemed to want to avoid contact with men

from Sol Three, despite the fact that their armament was terrifyingly lethal, Bruce wanted to meet them.

And so did J. D. R. Creighton, for reasons which he scarcely admitted to himself. Certainly, no one could guess his reasons; who could believe that he was beginning to feel for them a cold, logical admiration?

Venturer Twelve was now Earthbound for a refit. Creighton had investigated the computer three days after she had touched down. Selection branch were occupied in finding crew replacements before she set off on her next mission. A brief scan of interdepartmental memos made it quite clear that Admiral Gerber, Head of Personnel, was having some trouble in finding mere mortal human beings to fit the uncompromising standards of Captain T. W. Bruce, even in the matter of GD crew. The problem of finding officer-specialist replacements was even more acute, because Corps pay and conditions were not such as might tempt brilliant men and women to sign on, even if a period of Corps service carried a certain cachet. But Creighton knew that he was at or near the very top in half a dozen fields of medical science, in addition to his being the man in ET life. He wanted to be a Corps medic for three years; there was no other way of achieving his aim. As he was at the controls of Central Computer, he thought he might as well check himself out.

To his astonishment and momentary rage, he discovered that he was not top of the list. There was a certain Jean- Claud Martin, whose achievements challenged his own. Complacency left him, and he sought for more. He found it in a personal memo from Barker, Director of the Biophysics Institute, to Admiral Gerber.

DEAR CHARLES:

I TAKE IT THAT CREIGHTON HAS APPLIED FOR A POST IN THE SPACE CORPS. IN THE ORDINARY WAY, I WOULD NOT INTERFERE, BUT I SINCERELY BELIEVE THAT HIS PLACE IS RIGHT HERE, AS LONG AS THERE IS ANYTHING MORE TO BE DISCOVERED ABOUT THE ALIEN LIFE FORMS, AND I BELIEVE THAT THERE IS THEREFORE, I WOULD BE VERY GRATEFUL IF YOU COULD ARRANGE SOME DISCREET REFUSAL OF CREIGHTON'S APPLICATION. LOVE TO MILLY AND THE FAMILY, EDWARD.

For a few seconds, Creighton gave way to his emotions. Then, at once, he began to plan for his acceptance into the Corps - into Venturer Twelve - as Lieutenant (S) JG.

The train came to a hissing halt. Cordell Square was his station. He got out, and in the station hall he went to a bank of luggage lockers. He pressed his hand to the scanning plate, the locker opened, and he took out the bulging, zippered holdall. He hurried to the elevator, ascended to fourth level, where he got out and made his way along the almost deserted street until he came to the auto-hostel. The place smelled of piss and deodorant; too much was left here to an outdated robot cleaning service.

In his easy fashion, Creighton made his way over the scuffed flooring between the double row of grimy doors. He stopped where one displayed a green tag. He fed a coin into the slot, and went in. The room was a graceless box of a place, fetid and grubby. It did not matter. He stripped down to his underwear. From the bag he took a one piece zipsuit of old-fashioned cut. He smeared his face with depilatory cream, cleaned off and then lightly lubricated his face so as to permit the perfect fitting of a head and face mask; at length the device suctioned itself to him, false muscle above responding to true muscle beneath.

He surveyed the face in the mirror; yes, that was Frisch to the life, wrinkled, bulbous nose, and thinning, yellow- grey hair. He took from the bag various other necessities for the next stage, folded his frilled shirt and plum-coloured evening dress with care, and slipped them into the bag. He set the auto-lock to his thumb pattern, and left the room. Now for a very different kind of hoteL

Socially and physically, the Hotel Segovia was up. It had white walls, ornamental ceramic tilings, wrought-iron grills and doors. And it employed a human staff. A reception clerk of aristocratic mien took the card with a flourish, and rang the room of Doctor Jean-Claud Martin. Yes, certainly. Doctor Martin would be honoured to meet Doctor Frisch, though the hour was late and he had been on the point of retiring for the night. A signal to a dark-haired, blue- uniformed bellboy, and a bow from the receptionist...

.. Martin, Jean-Claud.. Sorbonne, Ecole Technique... Tremier grade Chemistry, Physics, Biology.. MB. Guild Member of Society of Surgeons...

'My dear Dr Frisch, this is indeed an honour.' Jean-Claud Martin was slim, dark-haired. He wore a puce robe. Smiling, he offered his hand to shake that of his visitor. He was totally unaware of the tiny prick of the needle as it entered his palm. 'May I offer you some refreshment?'

'That will not be necessary.' Creighton saw the surprise upon his victim's face.

One, two, three, four, five...

It began.

The face muscles twitched spasmodically as the mutated, neuro-tropic virus ripped through the motor centres, fissioning into a million brain-rotting particles. The cry which rose to the victim's lips was never uttered; he crumpled upon the carpet. Jean-Claud Martin died, and in a fashion which precluded any post-mortem information.

Creighton savoured his triumph for a few moments. He was at the top of the list, now. If he couldn't beat them... He peeled away the tape which had attached the hypo needle to his right palm. Holding it with great care, he took it into the bathroom, and dropped it down the disposal chute. Back in the bedroom, he waited ten minutes; then, with a glance at the lifeless form, he took the elevator to the ground floor, where he made a point of bidding the receptionist a very good night.

And what, Creighton thought, about the real Dr Frisch?

The old man would no doubt be embarrassed; a kid's trick.

In the sleazy auto-hostel he once more took on his favourite persona, that of the aloof, highly bred and extensively educated Englishman. Take Shari; she was utterly deceived. So were most others, even when they learned of his academic achievements.

Shari. Why return to her?

There was a public vidphone. He assumed the disguise of dark glasses and an authoritative Alabama accent. He got in touch with the unsleeping lower echelons of the mighty Corporation. He harangued the serfs. 'Now just you tell the sweet lady that this is JC One with some vital information! Don't argue with me, damn you! Get her, or you'll be sorry!'

And they got her.

As soon as he saw her face, he removed glasses and accent. 'Ah. Did I gather, this afternoon, that our interview was not - ah - totally concluded?'

She smiled. 'I'd almost given you up. Top of the building, where you were this afternoon.'

'Not exactly where?'

'Near enough. I'll clear your entrance, and send some private transport. Fifteen minutes, James?'

The bed was large, circular, and exquisite in all its aspects. It was a pleasure pad; Elsa Niebohr, relaxed, rolled over twice to be near her guest. She contrasted the brown of her own sunburned body with the very light tan upon him. She passed a hand over the thick blond hair; Creighton gave a gentle murmur and, without moving, opened his eyes to look at the woman who was now poised straight-armed above him.

He stroked her flanks. 'Good morning, Elsa.'

'I thought you'd be good.'

'Correction, hungry woman; you knew I'd be good, just as I knew you would be. And adventurous with it.'

She made a movement, the meaning of which was quite clear. He said: 'Let's not spoil anything. Some there are who do best in the morning; I am not one of them.'

'James, I have to kick you out.'

He rose on one elbow, bantering. 'There's a fine thing. No breakfast? No E & B? No toast, marmalade and coffee? Where are the values of yesteryear?'

She walked naked to a gilded hatch in the wall, pressed a button. The panel slid upwards and she came back with two cups of coffee. She sat carefully upon the bed. 'Here. Iron rations.'

'Ah,' Creighton said, 'this will do me a power of good.'

After a few moments of careful sipping, she said: 'Listen. The day after tomorrow we can fly to Hierro. My father's old homestead there is lovely. The swimming's fine. We can have the place to ourselves for a long weekend.'

"No servants? Do I have to wash the dishes? Heavens!'

You're a perfect goof.' She dug him in the stomach, and coffee spilled upon the blue fabric. The servants are there, all right, but very discreet. I trained them.'

'Sounds fine.'

'Settled, then? Can you stand me for a long weekend?'

' "Stand" is certainly the operative word, my beautiful. One snag.'

'What?'

Creighton at once recognized the tone - someone was threatening what she wanted.

'I'm due to join Venturer Twelve: Lieutenant (S) JG James Creighton. How does that grab you?'

She looked at him steadily; her mouth twitched to a smile, then to a chuckle, and then to loud laughter, in which Creighton joined. So, he'd be late. So, what?

Chapter 3

It was proved, long ago, that there are no such things as straight lines. Like many others, you gentlemen will have picked this up in the course of your reading and, again like many others, you dropped it without further examination. In absolute terms, geometry as we learned it at school simply is not. Take a light with a thin and very powerful beam, and send it out into space. After a few million years, the light will shine on the back of your head.

PROFESSOR HANS KONINBURGER, in a lecture at Oxford.

Junius Farragut Carter, World Admiral for the past year, was joy-riding. Bald, barrel-figured and bug-faced, he had latched himself on to one of the rides for VIPs down to the Coats' Land workings. At fifty-nine, behind the tanned- leather face, there still lurked something of the spirit of an impish schoolboy, a spirit which had sustained him throughout his Space Corps career, a spirit which allowed him to ignore, almost, the fact that he had to dose himself with pills eight times a day while a new heart, taken from the basis of his own cells, was being grown for him at the Corps Special Projects (S) Labs in New Jersey. Now, clad in a fur parka which made him look like Father Bear, he gazed down at the icy whiteness and grinned to himself; he loved having enough power to take the day off when he felt like it.

His companion was Captain T. W. Bruce, of Venturer Twelve. He was longer and much slimmer than Carter, and his junior by eighteen years. He had a hard face, grey-ginger hair, and his green eyes compelled truthful answers to pointed questions.

'Just imagine, Tom. The first journeys this way were on foot. Scares the hell out of me.'

Bruce grinned. The Admiral had stock phrases, and the one he had just used turned up regularly.

Carter turned his head to view for a moment the six other passengers in the big flycar. Then he turned front, scowling. 'Pity I didn't get me another flycar and put a bomb on this one.'

'Stop bellyaching, Junius,' Bruce said. 'Senator Detweiler back there with his cronies is a champion of democracy, a defender of the people. For a few months at least, with the stopping of Blue Mountain Project to his credit, he can do no wrong.'

'Credit, my rosy arse,' said the Admiral. 'Do you know, there's one thing which I reckon upsets me more than what Detweiler did?'

'Carry on grousing.'

'I bloody well will. It's the fact that there should exist a private organization like Excelsior which can carry out such a project. There's something indecent about it!'

'So you're insulted.'

'No, I'm just upset.'

'All right, Junius. Now feel more upset. Insult to injury has just happened, according to my information.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'One of those controlled leaks of information which our little President manages so well. They're going to gut your old Blue Mountain workings and loan this outfit anything that's useful.'

Carter's face, in the ensuing ten seconds, went from weathered brown to a medium purple. He found two tablets, munched them with distaste. Gradually, his normal colouration reappeared.

'Well,' he said, grudgingly, 'I suppose it is a good idea. I just don't like giving things away.'

'Things like Koninburger?' Bruce suggested.

They were now over a landscape of total white; a rookery of penguins temporarily smudged the scene, then all was white again.

Carter said: 'I admit that Koninburger and I didn't get on at Blue Mountain. I'm used to looking after men in my charge, women tod, come to that. Koninburger doesn't have his feet on the ground, as far as I'm concerned, brilliant though he is.'

'And he wouldn't admit the element of danger.'

'Computer told me that one wrong step - if this thing had to be researched the way some good men think - might cause a spatial shift of around five million tons of this planet, possible break-up, and maybe kicked out of the backyard way past Pluto. Ugh.'

'Helen Lindstrom said a similar thing.'

'Right,' Carter said, 'and then Professor Clever Arse produced his figures and showed that we were talking shit.'

"Wouldn't be the first time any of us had done that. You and me both.'

'Thanks,' grunted Carter. 'Well, there it is. Koninburger is now Excelsior's boy, without any doubt. It's all going to be done his way, Tom. Reckon I'll increase my life insurance.'

'Wait until you've got your new ticker, Junius,' Bruce advised, 'the rates'll be a lot better for you then.'

'Hope so.' Carter frowned.

'You're not worried about it? The technique's very well established.'

'I'm not worried,' Carter asserted, 'any more than I'm worried about your going up to Captain and Helen up to full Commander.' He took a sidelong glance at his companion. 'What'd she say when she got her full ring?'

'As far as I remember,' Bruce said, with some care, 'she made some remark about it now being even easier to save for her rapidly approaching old age.'

'Huhuh.' Carter chuckled.

"When does she get her own ship?'

Carter, who knew the story of the deep love affair between Bruce and Lindstrom, broken off so that there could be nothing personal between a ship captain and his second- in-command, waited before he spoke in measured tones. 'Maybe she'll get it when she's had enough of being bossed around by you.'

Bruce showed a flicker of humour. 'Since you became World Admiral, Junius, you look like being a real old bastard.'

'Is that so?' Carter answered. 'You might like to know that my dear wife Velma was the first to say that.'

'And what did you say?'

'I said it was because I'd always been a real old bastard.'

Bruce had an office in the shipyard, one which he shared with Lindstrom, his second-in-command. She used it less than he did. The only other officer so furnished was Lieutenant Commander (S) George Maseba, the senior medic of the ship. Bruce and his engineer. Lieutenant Commander (E) Sergei Kusnetsov, worked with the chief civilian engineer, Chalovsky, a brilliant man who knew his ships through and through, and who could keep his temper in all situations save one - and that was when somebody made a suggestion direct which should have come through his office.

Now, on this sunny June morning, Bruce stood at a window of the office watching Warrant Officer Nick Panos addressing a few words to the newly arrived GD members of the crew, ten men and eight women. Panos was a dark and jowly character in early middle age, built more for comfort than speed. Despite the proximity of the whine, howl, chop, buzz and roar of the work on the semi-gutted starship, Panos's voice, with all the cutting edge of a lumber saw, was plainly audible.

"You will be interviewed by the Captain in due course, but in matters of good order and discipline, you will largely be dealing with me. A word in your ears about that last item. As you have been chosen for crew of Vee Twelve -- and if I hear anyone talking about her as "the old tub" or "the old bus" I shall have to speak to him or her about it -- chosen, I repeat, then we do not expect any discipline troubles at all. None. Got that? In three years, we've had only three entries on the red-edged sheet. That's for the whole crew, I mean. For the next three years I want no entries at all. You're hand-picked, you can give of your best at all times. Despite what others may tell you about me, I'm always ready to help with a problem. Come and see me, and I'll try to get for you what you want - correction. I'll try to get what you need. One final word; what you do in your spare time is your own affair, subject always to the exigencies of the service. Venturer Twelve is the best ship in the Corps; the Captain says so, the second-in- command likewise, and I say so. Soon, you'll say so too.' His voice rose to a stinging snap as he dismissed the squad. Bruce nodded his approval even though Panos did not see him. Bruce remembered what Maseba had said when Panos refused for the fourth time to take commissioned rank. 'His trouble is, he likes people.'

Creighton was flying himself to the shipyard. The weekend with Elsa Niebohr had been dedicated to their physical satisfaction, and they had achieved that every time.

'Take the job with Project Elkan, James,' she urged, 'and I'll throw in me as a bonus.'

He thought of his reply to that, and grinned. As if he would ever let her get in his way! 'You don't throw yourself in as a bonus to anyone. I'm my own man, you're your own woman. We both know what we have to do with our lives, and we can't do it together.'

She shook her head slowly. 'You, taking a junior medic's pay, and wanting to serve under Bruce. Stupid.'

'My sweet, it only seems stupid. I'm sure that in the

future I shall need you greatly, and maybe you'll feel the same about me.'

'What's so special about Venturer Twelve?'

'Bruce commands it,' Creighton said.

So, they had parted. Now, with a smudge on the horizon showing the location of Lake Cities, he turned his mind to the future. He glanced back into the rear of the machine where many small crates and packages were stowed. He contacted Lake Cities Traffic Control, and they provided him with a signal which would take him right down to the shipyard's parking lot.

Although he tried to control the emotion, he could not help but feel wonder at the sight of the great shining oblate spheroid, with its monstrous telescopic legs and feet, and the twin elevators. Bruce was nothing more than the bus driver who would take him, the super specialist, to the destiny which was forever growing in his mind. Creighton saw that his rank was nominal, knew that he would be given a place of his own; he had in mind some modification of the sick bay in which he would, as of right, work alone and undisturbed.

With care Creighton floated down to a hundred feet, switched off the beam, and allowed himself to be directed to a space by the CPO in charge. Even to Creighton's non- Corps mind, it seemed odd that such a bemedalled CPO should be doing a job like this. As he touched down, the CPO limped towards him. For a moment Creighton thought that...

'You'll be Mr - ah - Dr Creighton, sir?'

'Correct.'

'You was expected four or five days ago, sir.'

'What business is that of yours?'

'No offence sir. Just an observation.' CPO Dockridge glanced into the back of the aircraft. 'You got a lot of luggage there. Shall I whistle up an a/g lift and get it up to sick bay for you? Cargo elevator's working.'

Creighton got but. 'Leave it there,' he said, and walked away.

Dockridge watched him go. 'He'll learn,' muttered the CPO.

In Brace's office, he and his senior medic were vastly amused. 'George, I give you A for nerve!' He opened a drawer, took out a bottle and glasses, and poured generous shots. 'Here, this is better than that rotgut you brew on board.' He raised his glass. 'Here's to nerve!'

'No nerve needed. I just walked into Chalovsky's office, put down the drawings and said, "This is how I think the sick bay insulation ought to be improved." I gave him a salute for nothing, and walked out.'

Bruce laughed again; Maseba had an inkling that maybe there was part of the joke he didn't understand. Bruce, his stern face relaxed, told the other: 'Chalovsky didn't say anything because he'd already decided to give you extra insulation on account of the mods he's doing.'

Maseba scowled for a moment, then he assumed his usual cheerful expression. 'What mods?'

'Giving us a speed of four hundred light with a big plus on that for short-period working. He's also doing over the complete fuse system.'

'Making it tougher?'

'No. Making it lighter. It's because—'

At the door there was a double rap, sharp but polite.

'Come in.' Warrant Officer Panos entered, and gave a magnificent salute.

'Dr Creighton is here, sir.'

Maseba could almost feel the temperature drop. He caught a steely glance from Bruce. 'At last, our valued Mr Creighton. You stay, please,' Bruce said to the medic. 'Show our visitor in, Mr Panos, and then remain outside the door.'

"Very good, sir.' Another salute, and Panos turned and went outside, coming back a couple of seconds later. 'Dr Creighton, sir.'

As the new man entered, Maseba rose and went to him, ready to shake hands. Bruce rapped: 'Just a minute.' Maseba stood back, foreseeing the pattern of the interview.

'Where have you been, Dr Creighton?'

Maseba, a natural-bom close observer of the human kind, was giving his attention to the sparking of instant animosity, Bruce for Creighton and Creighton for Bruce. He judged that they had both decided on their attitudes long before they met.

'Been?' Creighton appeared to resent the simple question.

Bruce said, quietly: 'You should have been here five days ago.'

'Oh, yes. But I hardly thought—'

'A fine summation of your general attitude to your new duties. As far as I am concerned, you have begun your commissioned service with a red entry.'

‘Red entry—'

'Absent without leave!' Bruce snapped. Maseba had never seen his chief looking grimmer. 'What about that?'

'I had to prepare for bringing an amount of my personal medical gear—'

'Did you,' Bruce asked, his green eyes boring, 'or did you not sign the Contract of Embodiment? Did you not further sign a declaration on form five seven five stroke E? Did you not receive appropriately dated travel warrants?'

The only thing he can do, Maseba thought, is to stand and take it. But there's no one to tell him—

'I fail to see—'

'Oh, you may fail to see, mister, but shortly all will be made clear to you. You were given an exact instruction that you were to present yourself to your commanding officer in number one uniform at sixteen hundred hours on the fifth. Is that so?'

'Yes, but—'

'No buts.' Bruce's voice had a stinging quality. 'Am I right, in that last statement?'

'Yes,' Creighton growled. Maseba could see that Creighton

was succumbing, in part, to the needling.

'Yes, sir!' Bruce corrected.

Two angry spots of colour appeared upon Creighton's. cheeks. 'Sir, I must remind you that I am a doctor, and as such I cannot accept that—'

'Shut up.' Bruce was quiet again; his eyes narrowed to slits. 'You are a member of the crew. You obey orders, you help to maintain high discipline. In medical matters you are subordinate to lieutenant-Commander Maseba here. I have only once heard of a case where the medical officer got slapped into the brig, but it could happen again.' He kept his eyes upon the miscreant, and Maseba judged that the younger man was feeling a lot more strain than the older. 'If you had obeyed orders you would have come in here in uniform on the fifth, and slung me a reasonable salute. Right?'

'Ah - yes, sir.'

'Can you salute?'

'I have had no instruction.'

'I thought so.' Bruce called. 'Mr Panos.' The WO entered, once more gave a perfect salute. 'This is Mr Creighton, newly joined. He is a doctor; he lacks the fundamentals of Corps discipline. First, I want you to go with him into temporary quarters, and give any necessary assistance to his putting on his number one uniform. Then, when he is correctly dressed, you will conduct him to number eighteen test hangar, which is empty. You will at all appropriate times address him as "sir". Nevertheless, he will be under your orders. You will instruct him in basic drill movements. You will need your pace stick. Above all, see that he is skilled in saluting. He will salute again and again until you are satisfied with his performance. When - and only when - you are completely satisfied, will you return him to me, when you will have him demonstrate incontestably that he is skilled in the mystery and art of formal service greeting. Clear?'

'Quite clear, sir.'

'Dismiss.'

Panos saluted and left; Creighton shambled after him.

A few steps away from the CO's office. Creighton hissed: This is - impossible!'

'Don't be like that, sir,' Panos said, with astonishing kindness. 'What's wrong with a medical gentleman learning to salute correctly? I reckon you'll get the idea after about an hour. We've got all evening, haven't we?'

Chapter 4

Space is curved, has dimension. But postulate that time is curved. This idea the human mind first rejects. Time is tick tock from the clock on the wall, the watch on the wrist. This we have known since we were toddlers. Are we, then, suddenly being asjted to ignore this measurement?

T. D. RANTZ

in 'An Introduction to Astrophysics for the Middle School' (supervised by Professor Koninburger)

Despite the length of the meeting - four hours in the morning, another three in the afternoon - Elsa Niebohr was not in the least weary. She was in charge, a permanent source of enjoyment to her. She had the whole picture, and she liked what she saw, looking down the long table, every place for her twenty-four top-ranking executives filled. Some of them were imposing-looking men of various skin shades; five were women. She knew she cracked the whip, and they all had to jump.

'Agreed, then, that we afford Space Corps some air time because of the equipment and techs they are lending us. Agreed that the documentaries on Below the Ice, and that fancy piece of work of Mr Ameen's, Onward and Upward, be shown at peak times. Agreed also, that failure would only be admitted if we were all personally broke. Ninety per cent of all your private fortunes would be available for Project Elkan after I have given ninety five per cent of mine. Anyone backing out?'

Her eyes roved along the double line. No one was backing out.

She spoke to Fane. 'Can you handle Koninburger for our purpose?'

'Yes.' Fane was unsmiling.

'Good.' (Fane would never know how massively he had been checked out by her agents.) 'I'm sure we all realize what could be the result of failure? Invasion, subjugation, possibly annihilation. Therefore, though denied by the subject, this is inherent in his calculations. Koninburger knows full well that he has this condition, which absolutely precludes his leaving home planet. He does not know that it can now be so alleviated and suppressed to the extent of which I am totally confident. Therefore I say that the figures which these four gentlemen have so carefully examined are unconsciously falsified, relating as closely as they do to Koninburger's own future. You can expect complete accuracy in the rest of his work.'

When she had concluded, no one had anything to add. She looked at each one in turn, conscious that she was the boss, and that they waited for her. She mentally reviewed all the hazards in the venture, from the underground workings to that great pie in the sky. The aliens could use it, could flick instantaneously out of normal space to - somewhere else. Earth had to meet the challenge now.

She said: 'The plan goes forward. Failure is unthinkable.'

Anderson Fane was happy: With a careful tax spread, he should do quite well out of it.

He paused to take a look at Koninburger, in the single bed, a lilac-coloured light by his side; yes, he was pleased with the way in which the conditioning of Koninburger had progressed. Certainly, Fane was not modest about his own skills. He had hunted out, under light hypnosis, the roots of the condition known as Geo-Nostalgic Psychosis,

with his patient, and decided that they could be suppressed. He had flown south with this precious man, and together they had walked the workings and the domes of the expensive fake, in the certain knowledge (for Fane) that what they saw would be reproduced on far Balomain Four. Deception in colour was easy, if the idea were put forward that the lighting system had been altered, and as for the rich coal seams, they too could easily be faked. The domes and facemasks could convincingly be called protection against the Antarctic weather, while the low hills of the Balomain locations could be sprayed white. Fane estimated that Koninburger would see himself as the ruler of a small but hugely important kingdom, who had only to ask and it would be given. As long as the work went well, as long as Koninburger was equal to the task, then he would not grow querulous over incidentals which, accumulating, might lead him first to fret, then to feel pain, then to investigate just what 'outside' was really like. That must never happen.

During the next four weeks, forty-one freight ships lifted from Sol Three to go to Balomain Four, where the work area had been selected, the digging and boring begun, the whole setup for the mighty project on the move. The little natural ice there was in the area had been added to, and the illusion of Earth's Antarctic exterior was shaping. Domes as protection from the cold as well as for the pumping to human necessity of the thin natural air of the planet were set up; it was all an icy nest in which four hundred men and three hundred women were to work, ant-like, to prepare for the machinery and computers, the double cyclotron, and the arrival of those scientists whose inspired leadership was to take man into a new universe.

Such was the hope.

Bruce was not a man who forgave easily. He felt certain that if once a man revealed himself in an unfavourable light, then this was a true evaluation of the sort of man he was.

He was in number eighteen hangar, the place where Creighton learned how to salute. He stood with Maseba to one side of the newly erected platform, watched personnel file in.

'Lee Hoon Hock,' Bruce said, as a slim Chinese officer took his place. 'I put him in for his half ring, you know.'

'He didn't get it?'

Bruce grunted. 'He's one month short in service for it, and the admin types wouldn't stretch a point. I had a row with Mariano.'

'No dice.'

'None.'

Maseba said: 'Look at old Dockridge. One of these days I'll have that leg off and do a better job.'

'Don't,' Bruce said.

'Why not?'

'George, he is now fully adjusted to that leg. It makes him different, strengthens his personality.'

'He'd still have a good personality if he had no legs at all.'

'Bullshit. Let limping legs limp.' Bruce scanned. "Who's that Eurasian little darling, just come in? The mid-brown PO?'

Talina Dafi. Caiola's consolation.'

Bruce changed the subject and put a rumble in his voice. 'Shall we learn much from Creighton, do you think?'

'He's the world authority on alien life, so you've answered your own question. The point is that you've got to keep up crew morale, let them think they're part of an "in" group. We're really that already; think back, and you'll remember that this crew, except for replacements, is in business re the aliens to the exclusion of just about everybody else. That satisfy you?'

'What will satisfy me,' Bruce said, 'is the sight of a dozen Kilroy prisoners.'

The day may come.'

'Here's the ship's best saluter.'

So Bruce and Maseba took their seats.

Creighton was already an accepted 'character' to the crew. They did not know much about his capabilities as a medic, but they did know that his accent was a real tickler and that he didn't rate Corps discipline very much.

Dockridge operated the rear-projection machine, which Creighton did not need right at the start

Bruce sat with his arms folded, looking at a split in the laminations at the edge of the platform.

'The unknown,' Creighton began, 'is always more frightening than the known. I hope to give you some idea, in the next half hour, of the sort of creature the aliens may be. Let me say, too, that what I have to tell you is not all guesswork.'

Everyone knew before ten minutes had passed, that James Creighton truly was an expert. What sort of a Corps man he would make, what his shortcomings in the service were, was another matter, and one that continued to occupy Bruce's thoughts.

Take from your minds,' Creighton said, 'all thought of bug-eyed monsters, hairy hippopotami-type creatures twelve feet high; in other words, put away your story book, and pay attention to the simple, vital statement that I believe that the aliens are like ourselves in many respects.

'You are all acquainted with the marsupial family of animals, which family is strongly related to the human family, even as are the apes. The evidence points to a humanoid creature, something like ourselves. I do not know how they breathe, but it may not be by lungs, as we understand them. I cannot guess if they have sex, even.' A murmur of amusement went round the assembly, but Creighton was not amused. 'I mean that the procreative process of these people may not be by there being male and female sexes. Perhaps it needs more than two people to make an alien, but more likely it needs only one. Thus they may be not merely marsupials, diverging from the tree of life and taking a direction different from that of our own, but they may well be male and female in one body. Thus, if they do not have sex, as we understand it, then logically much of the emotion of the human being is absent in them. Therefore, we may expect to find that they are more rational beings than ourselves. Yes?'

Leading Crewman Lachlan MacAllister had a question. 'Sir, why don't the bastards stay and fight? I saw what happened to Kepler Three...'

'Yes. I have seen the recordings, crewman, but you have the advantage of having been there at the actual encounter. With our race, the idea of "stand up and fight" carries a certain honour with it. I cannot see the slightest reason why the aliens should have this attitude, because ideas of honour and duty are widely varied within the people of Earth, and with the alien, may be nothing like ours. Remember, please, that it seems to be a characteristic of this alien that he - or it - thinks we are so unimportant that we are not worth fighting, assuming that idea of "worth" in the matter of physical combat has any place in the psychophysical makeup of our potential adversary.'

'Do we have any idea where they come from, sir?' The sweet voice came from PO Yalina Dafi.

Creighton smiled.

'Where do they come from? If we are to believe what has come from certain sources during the past week or so, they have come from somewhere within the holes in space. At the very least, it is certain that even if they come from our own space-time continuum, they know their way about to such an extent that time is annihilated and the universe seems to stand still for them. Some of you may know a lot more about them than I do.'

'That's right, Dr Creighton.' Lee Hoon Hock speaking, in his small, measured tones. 'We could see them, but there was nothing to hit.'

'Yes. I understand your point. I also see that your professional honour as a gunner was touched. But, despite their taking and remaking of the bodies of the colonists on Minos

Four, despite the incineration of Kepler Three, these people may not be our enemies at all.'

A buzz rose, and seemed inclined to turn angry. Bruce, watching Creighton, could not but reluctantly admire the way in which the ET life Forms expert simply waited.

'Soon, you will be suspecting that I am an alien and on their side. I am not, but I cannot allow emotion, however well intentioned, to affect my mind. These are a different kind of people altogether. Not in the minor differences that we know on our own planet, like someone being pink and someone else being light brown and another being dark brown and another being black. We all know these differences mean nothing. These aliens are different from cell number one onwards, and their ideas, to them, are perfectly valid, even as ours are valid to us. There is no abstract standard by which we may say "this is right, this is wrong". Such principles cease to have any value at all, once you go outside the human race. And that human race grew up upon the third planet of an unimportant star in an unimportant little galaxy. We have not the slightest right to impose our ideas upon anyone else, and he who wants to see the aliens in a batch raising their arms and crying "Kamerad" to an Earthman with a gun, is nothing more than a prehistoric relic.'

Upon the field, in the soft dark, they waited for the vehicle. There was not a Corpsman among them, but they were dedicated to their duty. Distantly, in the centre of the field, was a corporation freighter which had undergone a great transformation in its middle sections. Grey, functional holds had been transformed into places of light and beauty, into places where special small hospital wards were partitioned from sections of hospital machinery which gave life and simulation of life wherever it was needed. It was costly, but it was only a tiny fraction of the whole.

Fane was there. His gear and personal effects were already aboard the special ship. So were his doctors and orderlies. It was a team of specialists, no expenses spared, nothing forgotten.

Fane waited.

A distant hum was heard, drawing rapidly nearer.

'There.' Fane peered into the night sky.

It was a large, adequately silenced flycar. It came down gently as a butterfly, switched off. Fane was at the door, the orderly opened it for him. He went directly to the quiet figure of Koninburger there in the bed. He turned and, with his expression only, asked the orderly a question.

'Perfect, sir.'

'Show me the graphs.'

The orderly put the scrawled strips into Fane's eager hands. The psychiatrist studied them avidly, and with increasing relief. 'Oh, yes. Beautiful. A joy to see. I knew we could succeed, but this... oh, this is a dream come true. If only I could write it up in a book...' He reflected. "Well, you never know. I might, before I die.' He became brisk. 'Let's have him out.'

Thus, upon an a/g platform, the bed containing the deeply sleeping Professor Koninburger was transferred to the elevator of the waiting ship, and thence to the sick bay. Fane saw his patient installed, saw him linked up with the history boards, checked him thoroughly, and then stood back. Yes, it was a justifiable deception; it had to succeed, man had to win, man had to catch up with the alien, maybe even to forge past the alien and make it subject to man's wishes.

A ship's officer stood near him. 'Are you satisfied, Professor Fane?'

Fane spoke sombrely, not looking at the other, his eyes upon the pale figure in the bed. *Yes. Just make your gentlest lift-off, and I shall be satisfied.'

The officer turned and left, but Fane continued to look, quite without expression, at Hans Koninburger, genius, who must never be taken from Earth.

Chapter 5

Einstein's general theory, if you study with patience and care, can show you this vital link, this correlation of space with time, 'curved space-time', which is at the very heart of the reasoning. From this we can postulate what amounts to a new science, the science of curved empty space, or, if you wish it, the dynamics of curved geometry; 'geometro- dynamics' is a convenient name, where time and space are both curved.

At this point, let me go back, now, to the thinking of the great Professor John A. Wheeler, once of Princeton University. There were - and are - holes in space; he conceived the idea, to aid his own thinking, of a theoretical particle which is made out of nothing but curved, empty space. Any of you who think you have strolled into the wrong lecture... let me assure you, you haven't. Wheeler's theory was that as the paths or holes in space showed that they could be gravitationally affected by stars or galaxies, then his 'particle made out of nothing' was worth considering as having mass. Let us so consider it.

PROFESSOR HANS KONINBURGER

lecturing at the University of Marseilles

She sat at the desk in the great office in the Excelsior Building, reviewing the state of the company, referring not at all to the board on the wall, or to notes or recordings. All was within her mind, to be held there until it was not needed so to be held. She was not considering mere money, at this stage; all she needed to know was that, up to this moment (or at least within an hour of it) the great enterprise was proceeding as ordered.

It was a source of satisfaction to her that it was she, assisted by the findings of statisticians and other technologists (whose areas of work had been initially designated by her) who had drafted the whole tremendously complex plan for the transportation, in secret, of a great quantity of machinery and electronics to Balomain Four. It was her massive administration order which had planned for all those concerned in the work on Balomain Four to be at the same time in hospital, where they were to be 'conditioned for their own comfort' (press angle) for the work 'below the Antarctic ice'. She had discovered a new hospital outside Tacoma that was being built by an Order of Sisters of Mercy; they were short of cash. She arranged to finish the building for them, had supplied them with all equipment, helped them recruit staff - Fane had proved himself a wonder here - and all Elsa Niebohr asked was the use of that hospital for four weeks. Thus, while most of the people needed were in the same hospital, and it was assumed that they were all undergoing the 'acclimatization therapy' (press angle) there was one precious and all-important man whose personal conditioning had differed. Fane had started work on Koninburger long before that great man went into 'routine' hospital preparation.

Blue-grey and white. That had been the colour scheme of the hospital; she never wished to see it again, for they had been compelled to allow photographers and press into the place and, while using the 'frank and open' ploy, needed to watch that no one saw something that he shouldn't.

And she had managed it. No, she admitted to herself, she had written the detailed order, but Fane had made it work. He had also recruited a small round doctor from Hanover named Hans UschI; Uschl was already a man devoted to his work. Without harming him in any way, Fane had turned him into his dog and slave, had created in Uschl a devotion to Koninburger which was absolute.

A young Ukrainian tech named Mofra had invented a device which could be fitted to all Excelsior ships and which utterly scrambled any attempted tracking by Earth systems, Corps or privately owned.

Four Excelsior ships had split one cargo; it was a complete smelting plant, ordered and loaded against astounded and alarmed opposition of the Corporation's board of directors, until Mr Roth had read the outline report on the mining potentialities of. Balomain Four, and had rammed home the advantages of the situation with a set of his own irrefutable figures. Her mind checked over all the things that had been needed, how she had worked them out, pondered them... a food preparation factory, a warehouseful supply of medical stores... how she had taken a chance on a new system which chewed up and spat out rock faster than any other... all her argosies were abroad, now, going far into the enemy dark, following the advanced party which had left Earth a month after the first three paras of the gigantic admin order were written. Soon, she would receive their (coded) first report. Then, as the ships arrived - and some would be returning for further cargoes before the last of the first- timers had begun their trip - there would be messages, messages in scores. She had laid the plans, she had consulted, conferred, decided, and now the thing was almost out of her hands, working by virtue of its basic efficiency.

Elsa Niebohr did not pray to the Christian God or to any god. She believed in her own strength, this strength which came from her ancestors and above all from the father whom she had deliberately killed. 'There's only one thing that makes a tycoon out of a businessman. The real rewards are always to the fellow who has the nerve, at the right time and in the right manner, to plunge. The real tycoon knows when only the "shit or bust" policy works. Me, I could always pick that moment You, my girl, could learn to pick it.'

She believed that she had learned.

The buzzer of the top floor's exclusive elevator sounded. She smiled. So, he had come, and so rightly, just at the time when she needed a man... no, perhaps that was not fair to James Creighton. She needed him. He was an entertaining companion, and his sexual capabilities were superb. When he lifted off in Vee Twelve, there would have to be a replacement found, but in the meantime...

As the buzzer sounded again, she pressed the button beside it, and from far below the high speed elevator swept upwards. She walked to the small entrance lobby. He stepped out to greet her, smiling. He took her hands, raised them to his lips. And she chuckled.

'Now why,' Creighton asked, 'did you have to go and spoil that? I'd rehearsed it; and then you giggled.'

She led him into the quiet luxury, her fingertips holding his. 'Are you hungry?'

'Starving.'

'Have they been working you hard?'

'Don't rouse unpleasant memories. I'm the junior of those three medics. Enough is enough.'

'Drink?'

He flopped down in a caressing chair, marvelling once more at the discreet beauty of these surroundings. 'Please, Scotch on the rocks.'

She handed him his drink, sat on the side of his chair. He drank deeply, with closed eyes, and once more she thought: 'Oh, I'd like to keep this one, I really would.'

He looked up and said: 'I'm a severe case of malnutrition. Or did I mention that?'

She smiled. 'Hog,' she said.

'You are unkind.'

'No. Hog you are. I remember what makes you hoggish.'

'Like you?' 'Fool.' She went to the table, lifted the covers, put them on one side.

Creighton rose to his feet. 'I don't believe it.'

'You are a seafood hog. So there is our seafood meal.'

Creighton drew breath. 'I've never seen anything like it.'

'Don't you dare sit down before you've opened the first bottle of Niersteiner. Then, if all you do is make savage noises for the next fifteen or twenty minutes, I'll excuse you.'

Creighton did as he was told, and for glorious minutes of sheer eating delight, they spoke little.

'I gather,' he remarked, 'that you don't mind if I make an occasional ungentlemanly burp.'

'I understand you perfectly, James.'

'Good. Very good indeed.' And he ate with relish. 'I'm pleased.'

'Especially pleased?'

'Yes. Because, you see, I'm not a gentleman.'

'With your upbringing, education and so on, you're not? You could have fooled me.'

'I have fooled everybody else. But I am still not a gentleman. A gentleman is one who does not take out of life more than he puts in; therefore, I am automatically disqualified.'

She laughed. 'You're an original.'

'A semi-French way of saying I'm a bit off centre? Well, be glad you're neurotic. Mr Blasted Bruce has never met anyone of my stamp before, and he doesn't like it.'

Elsa pushed away the wreck of a superb lobster. 'You must admit that you got off to a rattling bad start.' She saw a momentary glint in his eye.

'Yes. I did. Bruce may be the king of his little castle, but I know better castles, and have seen better kings. He is well aware that I don't give a sod for him.'

'And how about Maseba?'

'Maseba - no; he gives me the slight inferiorities.'

'Impossible. Why?'

'Because he is the real gentleman on Vee Twelve. He can't beat me at my specialities, of course, but for all-round competence, he really rings the bell. Herr Bruce, I may say, has insisted that I share all routine medical duties with Maseba and Leela de Witt.'

'Like what?'

'Inspecting crewmen's cocks.'

She laughed.

The sheer monotony is incredible. Only thing I have been able to do is to give all the crew a bit of a warm up about ET life. Apart from that I have done nothing of any value.'

'Except your duty today.'

'I could have had a camera with me, of course, to take a picture of any unusual shape or size, but I simply didn't think of it. Oh well. Elsa, my sweet girl, that was admirable. Just about time to finish off the second bottle, I think...'

And when the table was cleared and all servants from the penthouse area gone, they took that deep refreshment which they both gave, and they slept from 0400 to 1200.

'. . .Leading Crewman Wasanov at once tried to go to the rescue of the trapped crane driver, Mears, trusting that he could swing himself on his safety line to the exact point of entry into the cab, and thus remove the man before either the fumes of shorted cables suffocated Mears, or an actual outbreak of fire took place. He was successful in this manoeuvre, and had the unconscious driver by one arm. At this point, before RESCUE, already busy with an a/g lift accident in Hangar D4, could send a telescopic lift, a fresh short in the electrical system of the crane occurred, causing both men to scream with pain. Wasanov let the crane driver fall, and Wasanov, unconscious, swung at the end of his safety line. Mears had multiple injuries, including a fractured pelvis and two broken legs. Wasanov was lowered to the ground. There was only the civilian doctor available,

Dr Rattray. He said to me that this fact contributed to Mears' death. Wasanov will probably never recover consciousness.' The little man who held a bright yellow helmet under his arm laid the document he had just read on the desk of Commander Bruce.

Bruce, his face an expressionless mask, glanced at Maseba, standing at his side. Then he said: 'Thank you, Mr Cohen. You're as good at your job as ever.'

'No, sir.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Well, sir, I try to anticipate accidents. If there was anything wrong with the electrics of that crane, I should have spotted it. And I didn't.'

'Yes. Well. Who's in charge of crane maintenance?'

'Mr Weyata, sir. New Zealander. But we can't blame—'

'It's a civilian matter, primarily, even though maybe we shall have to have an inquest on Leading Crewman Wasanov. He deserves a posthumous citation of some sort, and as it happened on duty his family will be taken care of. But the rest of it is not ours, fortunately. Thank you, Mr Cohen.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Cohen, and left the office.

Bruce turned to Maseba, and the senior medic returned stare for stare. Bruce said: 'I'm going to have that bastard's balls.''

'You mean—'

'Bloody hell, George, do you have to ask? Because of the number of Corps personnel still working on the ship, you detailed a Corps doctor to be on duty as well as Rattray. And he wasn't there!'

'Partly my fault,' Maseba muttered.

'Partly your - what are you talking about?'

'I should have mentioned it to him—'

'No! He should read orders the same as everyone else!' Maseba knew that. Bruce was right. But Maseba, with his respect for ability equalling his respect for human life, saw other aspects of the tragedy.

Took, Tom, I can't remember how long ago it was - before last night - when I detailed a Corps medic to go on standby with the civilian.'

The order was there. You gave it, rightly. Now just you keep to it.'

'If you're trying to turn Creighton into a Corps man, then you're making a great mistake, because you never will. With Jean-Claud Martin dead, Creighton is the top in his line, he's the only one worth considering in the matter of ET life—'

He's a medico on my ship, and he disobeyed a legitimate order. That's enough for me; and by God it had better be enough for you!'

'When a man has progressed as far as Creighton he can't condition himself very easily to looking at notice boards in order to see what he's supposed to do next. It's the sort of mistake which can happen to such a man. He's not flouting the order, he just didn't see it—'

'No excuse!'

'In my opinion, your dislike of this doctor is in danger of developing into an obsession.' That will slow you up, Maseba thought, that will give you something to chew on.

Bruce did not speak for twenty seconds; he stood quite still, with face like granite. When he did speak, it was quietly. "What are you planning to get me into?'

'I just gave you a medical opinion. If you like I'll write it down, sign it and stamp it, copy to the Surgeon General's Department.'

Bruce went to his desk and sat down, spread the fingers of his hands and put them flat before him, gazing at a spot between the thumbs.

Someone knocked at the door. Bruce said nothing, so Maseba went to it, and opened it to reveal Creighton, in civilian clothes. 'I say, I've just been told I'm wanted by the - the chief. Or do they mean you?'

'Come in, Dr Creighton,' Bruce said. Maseba stood aside, knowing that Bruce was going to have his row. If Bruce played his king, then Maseba would have to play his ace - and in consequence, suffer Bruce's disapproval.

'A man is dead,' Bruce said, with an oversimplification to which Maseba took instant exception, 'because you were not here on duty last night.'

Creighton's disbelief and surprise were perfectly genuine, Maseba could see that at once.

The ETL man read the report. 'This is most unfortunate.'

'I'm glad you think so,' Bruce growled.

'But who - who says I was on duty last night? I mean, I understood that the civilian - ah - Rattray—'

Maseba watched, with growing apprehension, the way in which Bruce, without the slightest possibility of his admitting it, was enjoying this encounter.

'Here, Dr Creighton, is the order which was on the notice board last night from sixteen hundred hours onwards.'

Creighton read it. 'I never saw it.'

'Because you didn't look!' Bruce was warming it up, now, getting close to what Maseba had heard called 'his number one frightener' manner. 'What do you think of the fact that your behaviour amounts to dereliction of duty?'

Creighton took it gently. 'How,' he asked patiently, 'could I obey an order which I didn't know about?' Maseba sympathized.

Bruce said: 'It is the duty of every officer under my command - and that includes you, whether you like it or not - to make himself acquainted with Orders Parts One, Two and Three at all times. Have you been told that?'

'Yes, but surely—'

'You pass that notice board quite a few times every day, I imagine?'

'I suppose so.'

'You suppose. Don't you know?'

'Yes, I do pass it.'

'But reading it is beneath you.'

Creighton's voice rose. 'I didn't say that. I am not fully accustomed to this routine, here on the ground. Once we are in space, I feel sure that I shall be able to—'

'Once we're in space. That includes you, does it, mister?'

'Well - yes. Of course.'

Maseba could anticipate the next step, and he hated what he knew he was going to hear.

'Right. Dr Creighton, in my opinion, and in the opinion of the Corps Regulations - which I claim to know rather well - you are guilty in the first degree of dereliction of duty. Look it up in the manual if you want, but that's what it says. This being so, you may now consider yourself under open arrest, confined to this shipyard until such time as a court martial is convened. I can have the senior clerk present you with the official notification, signed by me, during the next hour. Is that clear?'

Creighton said mildly: 'Look here, sir, I know I've made a boob, and I'm sorry. I do earnestly apologize for my omission. It really is that I don't sort of know my way around, yet. It hasn't sunk in. It will do. I'm sure. These days I'm - well - I'm a bit split up - if you follow me.' He stopped and looked appealingly at his commanding officer.

'I'm listening,' Bruce said.

'The thing that bothers me,' Creighton said with a modest dignity, 'is that I'm two people. I mean, I'm one person to myself, and another one to you. I think Dr Maseba knows what I'm getting at. On the one hand I am the world's number one expert on Extra-Terrestrial Life. On the other I'm the Surgeon Lieutenant JG, which, as far as the Corps is concerned, makes me the sick bay's general dogsbody. I've had only one opportunity to demonstrate the first qualities, and too many opportunities to be the second. Yet it is really by reason of the first that I am here at all. I'm hoping that we meet the ET life, and when and if we do meet it, I must have a crack at it. I must; I have got as far as I can without seeing one of the aliens.

'I must have one, alive. On the one hand, sir, there is the subspace programme, and on the other, you find me. It's odd, I admit, but until you put the alien alongside the subspace project with myself and Koninburger doing the

liaison work, little can really happen.'

'Unless we in this ship bring 'em back alive. I'll let you have your court-martial details within the hour, Lieutenant Creighton.'

So the young man was dismissed. Maseba came over to Bruce. 'First time I ever knew you to shit on your own doorstep, Tom.'

No answer.

He shook his head. 'Bad thing. Leave it there, and some stupid cluck is sure to kick it inside. And then you won't like the smell.'

'Now look here, George, we've been friends for a long time, but the day you try to tell me how to run my business, that friendship ends, simply because duty takes precedence.'

The court-martial would finish Creighton.'

'Fine,' barked Bruce, 'then maybe we'll get a junior medic with not so much idea of his own bloody self-importance.'

'But we need Creighton.'

'Who says?'

'Speaking as an experienced doctor. I say that we do.'

'Doctors can be replaced,' growled Bruce.

'Any of them?'

'As far as I'm concerned, yeah, any!'

'Oh.' Maseba made his voice as light as a feather. 'I'd like to tell you two things. One, I have again received a letter from Gus Morgenson, of that group practice I told you about, asking me when I'm coming back to - quote - "sensible hours and sensible money" - unquote. The other point is that I have the privilege of Corps medical officers of ten years service and over to sign on again, or to leave at the end of a tour of duty. In other words I can go to my quarters, change into civilian clothes and shove my service uniforms into the disposal chute, make a well known two-fingered gesture to you, and just walk out! How does that grab you, Tom?'

Maseba noticed that Bruce's shoulders were tense. Then, after a few seconds silence, he saw his CO relax. 'What are you trying to do to me, George?'

'Oh, nothing,' Maseba said, 'we just had a slight argument, and I think you lost. Right?' .

Bruce hesitated. 'Right. But he'll get a court-martial notice, overstamped "suspended".'

Chapter 6

K. lectured us twice, in the hall,

And was probably right on the ball

When he said: 'Now, the geon,

If you get what I mean,

Is three times the square of ferkall.'

(Lines found upon the board of Lecture Hall 3C of King's College, Cambridge. Author unknown)

It was after a midday meal - which had been one of the three weekly 'real meals' - that Leela de Witt, sitting opposite, had produced two white capsules, handed them to Creighton and, with a hint of severity said: 'You should have asked.' He took them, surprised: 'I should?' 'You should. You need two twice daily, I'd say. They take off the raw edge of it, for new boys. Somax "A". Aspirins plus, that's all.' He swallowed them at once.

'That's where your baggy eyes give you away. You're not sleeping properly, and not working properly, all because of the racket.'

'Now that's odd. There are lots of hums at different levels, but not a racket.'

'Which only shows that you are getting used to it. But there's a much higher decibel count than it might seem.' Well, he thought, here is someone who is nice. Leela de

Witt was not in his way, in the path of his progress, therefore he could praise and like. Neither was Helen Lindstrom in his way. He admired her, but made little headway. But, he figured the time might come...

Come to that, neither was George Maseba in his way. Those who knew James Creighton could not imagine him as a humble man, but in the matter of the study of alien life, which was his work, his passion, his goal, he knew that he was an absolute beginner; the only thing that could be said in his favour was that he had begun.

It was this frank admission to Maseba that gained him his senior's sympathy. He did not know of the show of strength'that Maseba had once put up for him, but the African was keen on knowing about the aliens, and shared with Creighton the view that 'we may turn them into friends or foes, depending on how they are treated by us'. For the converse - that it might be interesting to see how the aliens treated human beings - neither of the two skilled medics cared much.

Naturally, it was to Maseba that Creighton showed his ideas about having some form of reception ready in sick bay if they were ever lucky enough to catch specimens. Creighton's needs were simple, so he thought. He wanted a compartment, double-doored like an airlock. He wanted gas cylinders operated from the outside to have their nozzles within the special room; the gases - Creighton's first guesses were nitrogen, oxygen, ammonia, methane, chlorine, hydrogen and sulphur, together with one of the 'pax' gases - so that the mixture the alien needed might be made up for him- easily from outside, the 'pax' in case the alien needed suppressing.

Maseba said: 'Does it ever occur to you that the Minos aliens, the Kepler aliens, plus one or two other odd sightings, may not be all the same sort of alien? That in fact we could have come near to contacting three or four different sorts?'

Creighton looked at the other with utter solemnity. 'Wel

come,' he said, 'to my favourite nightmare. Shall I go on explaining this scratchy drawing to you?'

'I can guess most of the rest. In any case, I'm going for a walk.'

Creighton just sat and looked at him; what the hell sort of man was Maseba? Here they were, hurling through space at light ninety and still accelerating, and Maseba was going for a walk.

Creighton said, 'I'll come with you. It should be instructive.'

'The idea,' Maseba said, as they took the elevator down to the power systems, 'is that the gardener's shadow is the best fertilizer. You heard that saying? In our case it also translates into "prevention is better than cure". You just go around talking to people, never mind ranks, you're the doc, see? And as you chat, you look for clues, an awkward stance, twitch, a slight stutter where you hadn't noticed one before, uneconomical movements, and so on. They all tell a story.' He stopped for a moment, gazing at nothing. 'I remember once spotting a pregnant crew-woman whose belly was flat as a board, simply by the way she walked. And from behind... It's a knack.'

The elevator halted with a clunk, and as the door slid open they were met by a wave of noise felt through the feet rather than through the ear drums. Creighton winced. 'Use your ear plugs,' Maseba said, and Creighton gratefully armed himself against the vibration which was so intense that it carried a touch of fear. The plugs cut out the engine noise, but speech was audible.

Creighton nodded his thanks. They walked the length of the shiny alley, Creighton remembering that he and the Russian Lieutenant Commander had met only once. He'd glimpsed Lindstrom, once or twice in grubby coveralls...

Maseba thumped a red button on the shiny door which was the shape of an elongated oval. The door opened, and there stood an enormous man, nearly two metres in height, with a knobbly, high-cheekboned face, and a large grin of welcome. He shook hands with Creighton, and the latter decided that there were probably no bones broken.

Maseba conversed with the top engineer. Creighton took a walk along the aseptically clean room, where men wore briefs, shoes and caps; it seemed that there were no female engineers or, if there were, they did not work in power control. He found himself moving along, examining each dial and screen. When he turned at the end of the short promenade, he saw that a curved section of panelling, half wall, half ceiling, was out. Kusnetzov was pointing at this, explaining to Maseba. There was some easily-spotted joke there, about the chief engineer's size relative to the opening's measurements.

Creighton watched. A sandalled foot came through the opening, then another. He watched idly, for a moment, then his attention snapped up to full. Those legs were female, and they belonged to a big woman, lowering herself down through the opening. The legs were long, the hips, clad in minimal briefs, were broad and entirely right for the length and size of leg. Then came the rest of her; her clothing, in addition to the briefs and sandals, was a cap set on rich golden hair, and a man's singlet partially covering firm breasts. She turned to Maseba and Kusnetzov, and smiled and chatted; Creighton stood apart, deeply stirred...

Lindstrom put on her coveralls, Maseba and Creighton continued Maseba's walk, and while Creighton listened to Maseba, and saw him, in less oppressive circumstances, exercise his freedom and concern for the crew - he knew everyone's name - Creighton's mind was also concerned with Lindstrom. Who amused and satisfied the woman? Looking as she did, it was impossible for her to do without, Creighton figured, unless she was some kind of liz.

Bruce was alone, running through some of his orders from Corps Central, mugging up a few details from the half dozen closely printed sheets. In a Corps ship, the CO rated three areas which were especially his own. He had his cabin, his office next door to it, and, up at bridge, a standby room where he could rest apart from the crew when there was any sort of alert.

He was not a man much given to fantasies. He had become used to the loneliness of command. To him, it was more of an outside shell than a burden, a carapace which thickened steadily over the years, an all-embracing protection which enabled him to maintain high efficiency. He never thought of further promotion, though Admiral Gerber back home had him down for rear-admiral in two, maybe three years. Sometimes he thought of good crew personnel he wished he could have kept, like Lt (R) Yvonne Maranne, a beautiful octoroon of French ancestry who had been the best radar officer he had ever known. Sometimes he thought of the dead, like that fool Piet Huygens, the defecting medico who died in the Kepler holocaust. . .  [see Seed of Stars]

The orders...

Piloris Five. Get the true story of all the alleged claim-jumping, and have all statements and depositions voice- recorded. Note - smart operator in titanium and other difficult metals, a Mr Achmeed, may he there under false papers. Pictures herewith. If you find him, have him tried under Piloris law for the following charges... Interview Excelsior agent there. Record secretly, run recording through lie detector, take appropriate action... Ariadne Four. Possibility of ecological balance being dangerously disturbed by man, though only sixty-eight thousand total colonists. Rules for maintaining balance laid down, (see Appendix A). Check in detail. Special directives re control of Japanese Knot grass. (See Appendix B) Suggest that Lt Fulton be in total charge of this. Also...

He welcomed the tap at the door. 'Come in, George.'

Maseba saluted on entrance. Then he became less formal.

'Been doing some drawing. I have to show you. Need your authority to proceed.'

'Right here,' Bruce said, and Maseba spread the drawing on the Commander's desk.

"You didn't do this,' Bruce observed.

Maseba's eyes widened. "Well, of course not. PO Martinelli's the expert. I don't keep dogs and bark myself.'

'Structural,' Bruce's voice held a faint note of surprise.

'Sick bay modification. Need a room six metres by eight, minimum, and the following fittings as listed here...'

Bruce said: 'I thought you'd shot your bolt with your insulation drawings back home.'

'This isn't directly for me,' Maseba replied, and to Bruce's attentive ear he sounded a fraction too carefully spoken. 'But it's necessary, I think,' the MO added, 'otherwise we might be caught unawares.'

'Who's "we"? Command, or medical branch, who?'

'Both of those. This is a cage for an alien. If you just look at—'

Bruce felt as though something had snapped inside his head. 'Who initiated this modification?' There was not a scrap of friendliness in his voice, now.

'Creighton.'

Bruce made a grunt, and stared at the drawing, typical of the efficiency of PO Martinelli. The stare became something of a glare, with which expression he looked up at Maseba, who was totally unimpressed.

Maseba said: 'Creighton knows his business. We have to be ready.'

'I'm ready,' Bruce said.

'All you want is something to shoot at,' Maseba said, somewhat sharply, 'but Creighton and I want to catch one alive, if it's possible.'

'Oh,' Bruce said, Creighton and I, you say?'

'As an all-rounder,' Maseba said, 'I can lick Creighton; but he is the expert. How can we afford not to be ready in any possible way?'

'Let's not have you forgetting that you're the boss, medically. What you say goes.'

'You can't apply rigid Corps rules to everything,' Maseba* said patiently.

'I can,' Bruce said.

'I've noticed,' Maseba replied, 'and a fat lot of good may it do us, if you try to treat Charlie Alien as though he was a pubtrans mugger.'

Bruce exhaled air, and his personal irritation lowered a little. 'If you, as my chief medic, assure me that this needs to be done, then that's enough for me. Consult the Siberian Bear, and let his men get on with it.'

Maseba rolled the drawing, while eyeing his CO. 'What Creighton wants, Creighton gets,' he said.

'Possibly,' Bruce said, 'but I'd be more interested if he also got what he really needs, and I don't mean from the standpoint of hotel accommodation for wandering aliens.'

'Message received and understood,' Maseba returned, and as he saluted, there was not the slightest glint of humour in his face.

For some moments after Maseba had left, Bruce stared at the documents in front of him without giving them the slightest attention. Then he roused himself, and continued his study...

...Leander One. (See Directive EX/217/PI/An/Merc/PM) It is possible now, with the coming into service of Fridge suit type D(Impr) that metallurgists may be landed safely upon this planet. Duration of stay probably around three to three and a half hours. Imperative that only truly necessary risks are taken...

Balomain Four. This is to be a social visit of selected top personnel. TOP SECRET message to Captain in code D/5/1A herewith.

Criticism is neither possible nor permissible, as we are in extraordinary situation of being very much second behind the Excelsior Corporation's venture into the possibilities of

subspace travel. Should the Excelsior authority issue an order relative to the scientific work, the Corps representatives will obey without question...

Bruce pondered over that last piece. Oh, yes, he could see behind it the face of Elsa Niebohr, and, faintly behind that the features of her father, Old Elkan. Bruce had not forgotten how she cursed and raved at him on the occasion when duty had brought him out of her bed and away from her before she had gained her satisfaction. Bruce was not proud of that episode.

Once, talking with Bill Kibbee, the priest with the honorary rank of lieutenant who travelled with Vee Twelve, Bruce had taxed him upon the moral values of the business world of their times. Bruce thought it stank, and said so.

'Yes,' Kibbee said, placidly.

'What's the solution?'

'It has been laid out for us, in detail, for over two thousand years. We still choose to ignore most of it.'

'So what can be done about it? Tighter laws?'

"Rats are cunning enough to gnaw a way through anything.'

"Then what's the answer? We can't kill all the rats, or block the holes up fast enough.'

Kibbee shook his head gravely. 'God remains.'

'And I've no doubt He has a bloody uncomfortable time of it.'

Creighton had picked the woman he needed. A study of duty schedules showed him that his off-duty period and hers coincided; this, with the addition of a few discreet inquiries, gave him enough to start on. Everything else would follow.

In the wardroom were no more than half a dozen officers, most of them juniors. Creighton sat at a table on his own, with a chess board containing a complete set; a book was open beside him. He studied the book, then made moves according to the play set down. He pondered frequently; he turned the book over at one point and sat in deep study for fully ten minutes. Although the other officers present knew him and found him reasonably easy to get on with, the fact that he advertised himself as a chess buff kept company away from him.

He heard her come in, and took no notice.

'Ah, now the evening's a lot brighter.'

'Let me buy you a drink, madam, and I'll tell you the story of my life.'

'You're a scoffing, doubting, superficial lot.' Her voice was light and bantering. 'Very well, then. Citron on the rocks.'

'Sam, you heard the lady.'

'Yes, sir.'

'There. See how he pours her a double. You're in Sam's good books, ma'am.'

She answered: 'Sam knows when he's well off. As mess president, in a few days I shall be going through his books; every single drink chit.'

'Give them to me, ma'am.' (That was Lawrence, from astrogation.) 'I'll run 'em through the computer in a minute.'

'Commander Lindstrom,' the barman ventured, 'knows when the personal touch is needed. I'd hate to be told off by a computer.'

Then there was general chatter and, deliberately, Creighton blotted it out of his mind, knowing that, sooner or later, she would come and stand beside him. For ten minutes he played the game and checked with the book, the only slight disturbance being a momentary imbalance of the ship's internal gravity.

Now he was looking at the sparse, oddly placed remains of the game. He set himself to concentrate; much harder than this, and you got onto the three-level game. There was nothing in Creighton's world but the chessboard until, at last, he felt a faint movement behind him, and a tiny drift of an odour of cleanliness, rather than perfume, came to his nostrils. i

She was beside him.

'What book?' she asked.

'Fischer.'

'Ah. One of the wild ones.' She came just a little closer. 'White queen is in great danger.'

'And I, Creighton said, without taking his eyes from the board, 'am in great danger of resigning through sheer incompetence.'

'Are you going on your self-imposed rules... the generally accepted ones for book playing, that is?'

'Yes. But sometimes no.'

'Well, that's the way it is with most of us.'

Now was the time to look up, and say with a smile—

'Ah,' Creighton said, 'you look a lot different from when we met downstairs.'

She sat down beside him, returned his smile. They were two people of the same colouration...

'You mean I'm clean, and I'm clothed. What you saw - namely me crawling round inside some shielding - is part of a policy.'

'Which is?' Creighton was performing an old, standard manoeuvre - of letting his eyes rove with undisguised approval while his manner remained deferential.

'Rub it into the crew that whatever they can do, you can. That can't apply to medics, I know, but it's something we do believe in. Lieutenant Lee, for example - he runs competitions in gun stripping and assembling, and pays fines to any gunner who can beat him. He doesn't lose much.'

'Guns? This ship has guns?'

'No. But missile crews are still called gunners.' She turned her attention to the chessboard. 'Why not look up the ending and put yourself out of your misery?'

Creighton did so, grimaced, and swept the board's contents into a jumble with those which had gone before. 'You play, obviously.'

'Yes. Once George and I used to play a lot, even though we often didn't actually meet. But he's had to give up in favour of study, of keeping up with new material.'

'Perhaps you will be my guest?' Creighton suggested.

Now Creighton was conscious that she was appraising him; he didn't mind.

Look as much as you like, madam. I assure you it's all good quality...

'I've some tapes of the Fischer-Spassky games.'

'Ah.'

'With the waits edited, of course.'

'That's a kindly thought,' Creighton remarked, and he was conscious that there was now no hint of guardedness in the kind of replies they exchanged.

'There are half a dozen of which I never tire. They really cut me down to size. Would you like to see one, on my player?'

With no hint of emotion, or speed, Creighton, feeling that the whole thing was going rather well, fitted the pieces in their box. 'That would be delightful.' He finished replacing the pieces, closed the box, folded the board, and took up the book as well. With the three items under his arm, he made towards the wardroom door. As soon as that door closed, one of the juniors remaining inside gave a long whistle in a low register, and shook his head in envy.

'There ought to be a law, you know,' he murmured.

'Don't kid yourself child, you'd fail your practical.'

'I think you're an assuming lot.'

'And you're unassuming? That'll get you promotion, all right!'

Someone knocked at the wardroom door, and opened it. CPO Dockridge was a man of such character that he dare knock and open in the same second, and not be reproved.

'Yes, Doc?' Lawrence said.

'I don't wanna worry any of you gents, but I think you ought to know that—'

She said: 'I'll be frank with you, James. I've been taking anti-pills ever since we lifted off. It's a long time. I've no time for boys, or for dear lumbering oafs like Sergei. I've an appetite; I need it satisfying, but really satisfying. Are you prepared to see if we match?'

'Yes. Of course. And no rancour if we don't.'

'Fine. I thought you'd say that. And I've a feeling that we might be right.'

As she made the gesture of pushing aside the videotape player, the main alarm of the ship clanged harshly and unceasingly, crying alert stations alert stations alert stations alert stations...

Chapter 7

I heard a young engineer say, recently - and I was not deliberately eavesdropping - 'be a nice change when we start to build'. I could understand his feelings, but 1 fear that the realization of his hope may be delayed. We are only half-way to proving the mathematics. If I were truly a brilliant man, none of this would have been necessary; all that would have been needed was that I sit at my desk, hour after hour, week after week until, having covered X number of sheets of paper, I produce the answer in one line or, at the most, two.

PROFESSOR HANS KONINBURGER

to his senior staff at Project Elkan Base

Elsa Niebohr sat opposite the World President, in his large, plain and quite beautiful office. October rain beat soundlessly upon the broad windows.

'If your father were alive, and this venture were in progress, I feel sure that he would have been not quite as proud as his daughter.' Fong's smile was gentle, as he gazed at his vivid visitor.

'Do tell me why, Mr President.'

'Your father would have been after me, I'm sure, for more help from the Space Corps.'

'You volunteered help. The generators from Blue Mountain are much valued, though we have installed them a little differently.' She was not trying to fool him with her expertise. 'Beneath each one is a shaft one thousand metres deep, with sleeved plunger covers, so that, if need be, the whole pile can be dropped and covered, and cause no damage. And that was a Corps idea, which they never used.'

'I was thinking this way, Miss Niebohr.' He drummed his fingers, left to right, with a light touch. 'You have already gained much prestige in taking on this project; you would gain more if you were able to use a number of Space Corps personnel.'

'With Junius F. Carter in charge?'

'Yes. But with a Junius F. Carter who will receive a severe lecture from me before he goes, on the simple factual basis that in serving Koninburger and Excelsior in this matter - and he is a good administrator - he is serving the Corps. He will at all times keep out of Koninburger's way; that will be a written, witnessed personal order from me to one of our World Admirals, you see?'

'Except for one thing.'

'Which is?'

"His heart. Isn't he due for a replacement regrowth?'

'Yes. But we'll have Vee Twelve there at the right time, with George Maseba in charge. The Surgeon General approves, even if the heart has to be sent out by drone.'

Elsa said: 'This deception is a weight on my mind. It's like a bubble of hot glass in the process of being blown, always pressured, with the glass becoming more resistant until...'

'If my information is correct, you lack minor routine technicians, maintenance men who are well-trained and thorough like the squads in Carter's shipyards, and - ah - it might be better for all concerned if your male-to-female ratio were better balanced. You take my point?'

'I agree.'

There must be good - no, perfect liaison with Fane and Uschl. And all this must be timed so that I talk to Koninburger on his personal vid when the new people are ready to come to Antarctic Project Elkan Base - as he thinks - when in actual fact they will already be in orbit round Balomain Four. Thus, when they come twenty-four hours after I have spoken to him, all will seem - and will be - well. You agree?'

'Mr President, I couldn't fail to disagree with you less.'

'I like the complexity of that remark,' Henry Fong said. 'It's a Mobius strip in words.'

She smiled, and got up from her chair. 'Oh, one thing, Mr President. I've just realized that you never had a copy of the orders I gave for this job. I do apologize. Why did you not ask?'

Fong returned the smile. 'I simply waited, Miss Niebohr.' He watched her open a briefcase. 'And now you are going to give me one?'

She handed him a folder; he thanked her, and walked with her to the door, and bade her goodbye. Once reseated at his desk, he took out another folder, and opened it alongside the one she had given him. He compared the first pages; then he pressed a button, and sat smiling and turning over the pages of first one, and then the other.

Paul Sharva, Commander (JAP Branch) came in to his master's office. He was a handsome Persian, built like an oak.

'Sir?'

'The lady has deigned to give me a copy of her operations order for Project Elkan. I feel that a few gentle chuckles are in order. Come and see.'

Sharva was solemn. 'You surely don't think that she imagines we didn't get a copy of the thing?'

'Of course not. She knows very well that, one way or another, I can get a copy of any document I wish. So we can expect something interesting in comparing the one our WBI took, with this new one.'

'Agreed, sir.'

Page after page was turned.

'She played it straight,' Sharva said.

'The sting may be in the tail, Paul.'

The last page was turned. And Henry Fong, President of Earth, really did chuckle.

'There. An appendix containing the names of all personnel in her organization whom she knows to be World Bureau of Investigation agents.'

Sharva counted them. 'Eleven,' he said. 'Eleven she knows.'

The President looked up at his big aide in surprise. 'Come come, Paul. Eleven she says she knows; she will certainly know more than she admits. She might even be clever enough to have discovered the lot, but she wouldn't dream of saying so to me.'

'Understood.'

'I think I ought to let her know the names of all of them.'

Sharva knitted his brows and showed minimal alarm. 'You mean, she may well look on them as a kind of insurance?'

The President was amused. 'I wouldn't have put it quite like that. It's really no more than a game, in this instance.'

Sharva agreed. 'With unknown jokers in the pack,' he said.

'Like whom?'

'Like the aliens, sir.'

'Yes.' Now Fong was once more grave. 'Still, she knows the risks. So do we all. But if Project Elkan succeeds in taking a step or so towards evening the score, we may yet see Elsa Niebohr invested with the Order of Honoured Citizen of United Earth.'

Sharva contemplated the possibility with tightened lips. He said: 'And there are only six of those at the moment.'

'Quite. But there are some who believe that seven is a very auspicious number.'

Koninburger was in his comfortable quarters. He had broken off his recording of his personal log so that the zealous Uschl could run the daily check on him.

'Fit through and through,' Uschl said. 'Your health continues to improve. It is remarkable.'

'I am well served this time, Hans. There are no political wrangles surging in the background. Should I praise private enterprise, or would that irritate you?'

Koninburger knew that Uschl was in favour of the galaxy's wealth being used for the good of all; despite much propaganda, according to Uschl, this ideal was by no means wholly adopted by man. What Koninburger did not know was that Uschl, being the clever fellow he was, had realized that this baiting of himself by the other was actually good for Koninburger, and so he allowed his patient - Uschl could think of Koninburger in no other way - to carry on whenever he felt like it.

'Bedtime now, Herr Professor,' Uschl said.

'When I have finished my little recording,' Koninburger said, 'and then I shall be ready to sleep.'

'I will sit and wait until you have finished,' Uschl said, 'and see you on your way to sleep before I go.'

World Admiral Carter, though he was sensible of certain emphatic restrictions upon his way of living, was nevertheless satisfied to be on Project Elkan Base, known to Koninburger as the Antarctic area of Sol Three. The great pressured domes on the surface were well situated, with three empty ones and gigantic superdomes for ships stored in two more. He had found satisfying work to do in upping the maintenance standard of the Base, though he carefully drew the line at having anything to do with computers. He decided that the magicians of the team, all civilians, could well look after their own magic. Quarters were good, food improved under his lashing tongue and the insistence that he had the same food as base personnel, and if he didn't like it, he would come and say so, and everyone who knew him knew that if Carter had one characteristic above all others, it was that he kept his word.

He had found a friend, too. An unlikely one, perhaps, but

Carter was essentially a friendly character, with a regard for all those (even Koninburger) who did their jobs well. Doctor Baksh was the doctor responsible for the health of the Corps personnel; he was of Hindu origin, but he slayed Carter on their first meeting by talking English with a regional accent, that of the centre of the county of Lancashire, a manner of speech with which those British from other parts of their islands themselves often had difficulty in understanding. Baksh said 'thee' and 'thou' and 'tha', and 'luking' for 'looking' and 'buke' for 'book' and 'nowt' for 'nothing' and many other variations of the language ranging from near guesses to total incomprehensibility.

And he played chequers like a demon. They were at the fourth game of the evening, the first three having all been won by Baksh, and the present situation on the board seemed to need a little impending disaster music for Carter.

'Joe,' Carter said, 'what happens if Koninburger comes topside?'

'I'll tell thee summat for nowt,' Baksh said. He made a move. 'We're playing draughts, and tha's going downhill again.'

Carter grunted. 'I mean, suppose he gets the idea and wants to see topside, and just does it?'

'Has tha not gotten howd o't fact that all tha can see o' th' outside from th' inside lukes like it's covered i' snow? And that domes are warmed because it's cold outside? Don't be bloody gormless, Junius.'

'And suppose you've got to explain to Koninburger that he's got to wear a breathing mask if he goes outside?'

Baksh made another move, and said: 'There, now tha's in a reet mullock. Why not give up? What'll we play, tiddlywinks?' He cleared the board. 'T masks'll be said to be for comfort, added protection against t' cold.'

'Yeah.' Carter thought for several seconds. 'How good an astronomer is K?'

'You mean—'

'If he comes up in daylight, he can still be fooled, with the sprayed hills and the rest of it, but if he comes up at night, maybe one look at what he sees to be the wrong set of stars, and he passes out. He knows he's not on Earth, and that's a death sentence to him.'

Baksh looked grave; in his black, thinning hair, he shone brown across his skull. 'I wonder if that point's ever been put t' Fane? Not that it'd really matter.'

'Why not?'

'Because Fane's done such a greet job on him that Koninburger believes emphatically he works under t' ground wi' his staff because of t' danger factor when he gets on t' practical work, and for environmental reasons. Tha sees that?'

'I see it.' Carter gave Baksh a cigar, and lit one himself.

'Koninburger feels specially good because he's being treated with some show of t' respect that's due to him; and I'll not deny he's entitled. Me, I admire Fane. A super specialist... What's tha think, Junius? Are they going to come through wi't' goods - the real subspace thing?'

'If it wasn't such a slow job,' Carter said, 'I'd think better of its chances... well, it's a try that has to be made.'

'Aye. And tha can't play "Hamlet" without t' Prince.'

A knock at the door of Carter's hut, and a Corps man came in and saluted.

'Monitored message sir; knew you'd want it.'

'Thanks, Vecchio boy,' Carter said. 'OK, you needn't wait.' Carter scanned the message; it was a standard Corps code.

'Can I ask what it is?' Baksh asked.

'Don't see why not.' Carter read it out, slowly, making it sound as though he was reading in caps. vi2vi2vi2vi2

V12 V12 ALL CORPS SHIPS. ALL CORPS SHIPS. OUR POSITION SEC FIGURES FIVE ONE STOP SEVEN THREE STOP TWO NINE STOP ONE OH ONE STOP DECELERATION DOWN TO POINT FOUR FIVE AND CONTINUING. UFO AHEAD UFO AHEAD NO RECOGNITION SIGNALS AS YET STOP PREPARING LAUNCH MISSILES STOP BRUCE VI2

'What's it mean, then?' Baksh asked.

'Anything from a piece of stray wreckage,' Carter said, 'to a ship belonging to the gentlemen who are the reason why you and I are right here at this moment.'

'Charlie Alien.'

'Yeah.'

'What do we do?'

'We play chequers,' Carter said.

'Because there's nowt else we can do.'

'Aye,' Carter said, 'because there's nowt else we can do. Dammit, Joe,' he added, 'you've got me doing it too.'

'Doing what?'

'Talking with that blasted accent.'

Baksh was incensed 'What's tha mean, accent? What about thi' sen? Tha's got a bloody accent tha could put wheels on. I'll tak' white, just for a change; fat lot o' good tha'll get out on it.'

'Yeah.' Carter's eyes were on the chequers board, but his mind was out in space, with Vee Twelve and Tom Bruce and his crew facing - what?

Venturer Twelve, decelerating, missiles ready, was now creeping at point zero two light, and slowing constantly. Every man and woman was concerned with only one thing, that unknown, shimmering gold ball which lay ahead.

Lindstrom and Bruce were at the Captain's repeater board, which gave them the whole picture. Once more the recognition request went out, and once more, and once more again.

Bruce said; 'Range?'

'Twenty-five thousand kilometres.'

'Wait. Give me top magnification on this thing.'

Top mag showed them only the shimmering ball.

Bruce grunted.

Recognition requests were repeated. No answer.

'Size?'

'Sixty-five metres, absolutely spherical.'

'Material?' 'Not recognizable... maybe not metal. Maybe a kind of ceramic.'

'Ceramic,' Bruce muttered, 'bloody hell.'

'Good insulator,' Lindstrom said.

'That's not very useful.'

'No. Sorry.'

'Range?'

'Nineteen thousand, five hundred kilometres, closing at point zero one eight light, and decelerating, scale "E".'

Down at power units, Kusnetzov stared at his repeater screen with distaste. 'Could be a booby trap.'

Balakirev, his CPO, frowned and said. 'No, comrade.'

'And why not?'

'You don't need a sledgehammer to kill a maggot. All that amount of explosive? Never.'

'Are you,' Sergei Kusnetzov asked with Siberian iciness, 'calling our ship a maggot?'

'No, no, comrade Commander, of course not. Perish the thought. All the same - well - it's not their style, is it?'

'You'd better take the elevator,' the chief engineer growled, 'and go up to bridge and tell the Captain what to do.'

'What would you do, sir?' asked Balakirev, greatly daring.

'Shoot.'

'It needn't be the same aliens we met before, comrade Commander. They could come in all sizes.'

'Like CPO engineers, whose rank has not yet been made substantive,' barked Kusnetzov. 'Shut up.'

The repeater voices came to them. CPO Balakirev went and checked the Decel/Accel meters. He came back. 'Scale "E", right on the nose.'

His chief said, through clenched teeth: 'I know. This department is always right on the nose. Shut up!'

The distort voices told the story.

Up at bridge, Bruce tried again, with the recognition signal. Nothing.

'Sensors?'

'Nothing new.'

Tee.' Bruce said.

'Sir?'

'Every ten seconds, fire four.'

'Four fired.'

Four closely timed thuds sounded through the ship.

Lee said: '.. .fifteen thousand... fourteen thousand... thirteen thousand... twelve thousand... eleven thousand—'

'Destruct.'

The screen blossomed briefly as four missiles blew, bright orange.

'Four fired.'

Once more the thuds, the four in streaks directed at the artifact, once more the reading off by Lee... 'Seven thousand kilos... six thousand... five thousand... four thousand...'

'Destruct.'

The order was obeyed.

Lindstrom said: 'What in hell are you doing? Playing chicken?'

'That's right. Except that this character won't play.'

'God bless us every one,' Lindstrom said.

Four more missiles. Lee Hoon Hock's voice was austerely calm. '.. .three thousand... two thousand... one thousand. .

And still the fine lines of the missiles were streaking for target.

When the missiles, as interpreted by the correction scale, were almost touching the ship - a distance of a hundred kilometres - the third quartet blew up. And when the orange fire had faded, the unknown object remained the same, gold, shimmering, unharmed. Venturer Twelve had almost stopped.

'Wait.'

The seconds stretched out to minutes, and the unknown gave no sign.

Ten minutes,' Bruce said, 'and nothing happens. Boarding procedure one from when we're at five kilometres from the object. Prepare to board. Party, report your names.'

The answers came in smartly, the distortion sometimes creating curious transient anomalies.

'Lindstrom.' She spoke her name to Bruce, and left.

'Creighton.' Bruce grimaced.

'Caiola.'

'Panos, in charge raft.'

'Balakirev.'

Bruce seesawed, his hands sliding back and forth over knee and thigh. The Earth ship was closing upon the unknown.

Bruce seldom felt oppressed by his responsibilities, but he felt so now. This object ahead could be anything at all; the wildest possibilities could not be discounted; the form of intelligent life didn't have to be remotely like the prognostications of Creighton who, as time went by, was not a scrap more in favour with Bruce. It could be a bomb, or maybe a kind of trap which, when Vee Twelve was close enough, might open out and enclose the much bigger Earth ship. It crossed Bruce's mind that it could be some kind of automatic satellite, a machine sent out on a predetermined course; predetermined by whom - by what - he could not guess. Perhaps - if it were all machine - the firing of the missiles might have linked in with some mechanism which commanded it to stop. Lindstrom, Creighton, Caiola, Panos, Balakirev were ready with raft loaded with all the necessary gear. It would have been possible to take the first reserve plan, which was based on the use of one of the scoutships, but scoutships were designed in terms of fast pursuit and slambang attack, and not easily manoeuvrable in terms of a few metres or less. Because of this, then, the five had to go suited in an open raft, propelled by a simple jet, exposed to all possible dangers, including the dreaded one of a tiny meteor penetrating the suit.

All other men's skills we must cherish, All other men's hearts are our own.

Ivan Kavanin, honoured poet of Earth, had written those lines. He was right; Bruce felt for his crew a love which he would not have tried to express. About only one of the party of five did he have reservations, Creighton, obviously, and even in that case he was forced to recognize that Creighton was ready to do his job, seemed to possess a fire for his speciality just as Bruce possessed a fire for all the crew, and for his eternal watch over their duties and their lives.

Some might have thought that the Captain would have gone down to the hangar and seen them off, but that was not Bruce's way. He had seen their preparations, consulted others about the plan, its supplies and its crew. He could have gone himself, but he did not need his book of rules to tell him who should do what. The ship was still to be commanded by him, and the second-in-command must be in charge of the raft, with an engineer, an experienced Warrant Officer, a medical CPO and a Doctor/Specialist.

'Raft ready to leave, sir.' That was Lindstrom, her voice depersonalized.

'Carry on.'

A screen spun in wild colour, then settled down to show him a picture of the raft leaving, with apparently painful slowness, towards the golden mystery ahead.

Records reported. 'Recording sound and vision sir.'

'Right.'

Then, despite the personnel on duty along the bridge below his chair and his repeaters, despite the thrum of the , ship, despite the knowledge that a whole, wonder-complex of humans and machines was there at his command, Bruce felt grim, and cold, and alone. He remembered Bob Prince: 'Why not finish with the Corps, Tom, and be a Fleet Director? For Excelsior.' He thought of MacGuiness, that fine man who had been done to death when one could almost have bet that he would recover from his multiple hurts. He

thought of Paul Sharva, the big Persian of JAG's department, who wanted to marry Helen, and whom she had refused.

And all the while the picture was kept right for him, so that he followed the raft until the gold ball beyond it obliterated all the blackness of space. By the time the raft was within one hundred metres of its objective, he was praying.

Chapter 8

There is nothing tidy about the universe. We know - the Space Corps know especially well - what wild, furiously unpredictable planets can exist within one system. We know that space is curved, and time, a dimension, is curved with it. We know for certain that there are holes - paths of emptiness - in space, and that the name for a theoretical particle of empty space, 'geon', is a good one, because the empty paths of space respond to gravitational pulls of stars and galaxies. How, then, can we expect the space-time structure to be regular? This is wishful thinking taken far beyond reason.

PROFESSOR HANS KONINBURGER

Panos slowed the raft; forty metres, thirty, twenty, ten. Here he stopped, the raft seesawing easily. 'Suggest we search for an entry point, ma'am.'

'Yes.'

In the slightly-sickmaking weightlessness, they travelled round the globe in eight paths; Balakirev, whose job it would be to open an entry point, scanned the surface.

'Hold it, sir!'

Panos stilled the raft. Balakirev, heavily suited, checked his safety line and, picking up his powered hammer, launched himself towards the surface of the artifact. Whatever the material, his mag boots held him firmly. An oval shape, a mere line, two metres by one, could now be discerned. Panos extended grapples, and the raft held on to the surface, with Balakirev about to tackle the opening.

Lindstrom reported to ship. 'May have found entry point. Engineer now working on it.'

Balakirev began to thump around the line with the hammer. The noise of his breathing over the helmet radios became harsh. He paused, disengaged the plunger attachment and withdrew it, placed it in his belt, and fitted another, like a half-disc spade. With this he continued the attack, his grunting audible, and then an occasional Russian word to help him on.

'Da, da, da!' he shouted; 'it's giving way, ma'am.'

Balakirev knew his business. He worked around, making a couple of cross chops with the blade. 'Hinge, maybe, there.' He continued round the oval. 'It's going to spring...' He chopped twice and then the bright oval lifted, and swung out from the surface.

'Entry point now open,' Lindstrom reported. She gave her orders so that Vee Twelve could check and comment, if necessary. 'Mr Panos, stay. CPO Balakirev stay also; you may be needed again. Dr Creighton and CPO Caiola bring that bag of yours. I'll lead.'

She was calm, her fears pushed out of mind by her sense of duty. The line behind her paid out; Creighton and Caiola, bearing the outsize life-support bag, came after; and so, all three stood inside the artifact. There was light, but its general source seemed to come from the walls, an irradiated glow which seemed almost friendly. They were confronted by what she judged to be an outer lock. It opened when she tested a sliding button, and a gust blew. Caiola, his eye on a test instrument on the back of the glove of his suit saw that it glowed. He shouted, even though he had told himself that he must not. 'Air, ma'am! Oxygen, nitrogen as near as makes no difference!'

Lindstrom said: 'All right. Let's see if this lock will take all three of us.'

If they had wanted to kill us, she thought, they could have done it by now; they could have done it while we were still in Vee Twelve, or when we were crossing, or...

The inner lock-door opened, Lindstrom entered, Creighton and Caiola close after.

'Atmosphere still like Earth,' Caiola read out, 'pressure approx same...'

It was a circular chamber without any sign of a control instrument In the centre was a padded chair, feet rests, head rest, full arms, and in it sat a figure, thin, large-headed, slim-bodied and limbed, six-fingered, broad-footed, of a pinker skin colour than Earth humans. In the soft reddish light, the deep socketed eyes were closed.

Creighton made up his mind in five seconds. 'Come on, let's bag it. This is what we've come for. Check your air mixture...'

There was no gravity in the ship, if ship it was. Lindstrom left the medics to their task, and began to inspect, to report back on what she saw. 'Vee Twelve, do you read me?'

Her helmet radio seemed dead. 'Vee Twelve do you read me?'

Clearly there was a hundred per cent blockage made by the alien ship. When she turned she realized, with something of a shock, that Creighton and Caiola had bagged their precious find and were gone out into the raft With an effort she held down the wild spasm which crossed her mind. Duty. She still had another duty to do, as a qualified engineer. She had everything to learn, and little time in which to learn it.

Brace's heart seemed almost to have stopped, Lindstrom, that thing is beginning to - to glow - to pulsate - get out of there!'

'Reckon she can't hear, sir. I'll go in and—'

'Panos! Come back with that raft, now!' He pressed a button, ordered through another mike: 'I'll be down for ready scout ship in one minute!'

'One minute it is, sir.'

Bruce watched the picture with a breathless intensity, saw, in magnification, the grapples switched off, and drawing inboard as Panos turned the raft and swept round towards Vee Twelve. Bruce saw the globe's pulsation increase, a barely perceptible degree at about ten seconds intervals. He felt himself racked by a great trembling; he suppressed it, and did what he had to do.

The suited crew in the scoutship hangar had the main hatch open; Bruce took a deep breath as he came through the rear hangar lock, and plunged himself into the waiting suit held ready by two crewmen. They closed him in, linked up the air supply with a twist of the tap on the loaded chest of the suit. He almost threw himself through the scout- ship's lock; the padded seat enclosed him just as he fired out. If the crewmen hadn't stood clear... well, they had their orders and they knew the penalties.

He chose an arrow-straight path to the pulsating globe, missing the incoming raft by about five metres, and scaring even Panos. Regardless of wastage, he gunned up to the maximum safe speed; he knew he'd need a deceleration that could pull his guts out. The scout arrived at the gaping lock of the artifact, clamped on, and was at the point of leaving his seat when Lindstrom's suited figure appeared at the opening. She took a dive at the scoutship's lock, thumbed open instantly by Bruce. She slipped down into the scout, and Bruce, his heart thumping and his whole hard body pouring sweat, left the fiery globe and headed out, and away from Vee Twelve.

'Keep your suit air on!' he snapped.

'Yes. All right."

'Dammit, couldn't you hear me? That bloody thing's going to blow—'

Behind them, it blew. Golden fire surrounded them at the same moment that the scout received a massive kick which turned it over and over, like an ember blown high from the flames of an open hearth.

And of what followed that first blow, they knew nothing.

*     *     *

Bruce opened his eyes; the first thing he saw was the brown- flecked eyeball, much magnified, of George Tamba Maseba, Lt Cdr (S). Maseba took away the glass from his own eye and stepped back. Caiola was there in the background, polite, quiet, efficient as ever.

'Welcome back,' Maseba said, 'I was beginning to wonder.'

Bruce blew air. He could not properly focus his eyes, so he closed them. 'Have I been out?'

'Ask a stupid question,' Maseba said, 'and you'll get... Yeah, you've been out.'

Bruce struggled to lean on one elbow; Maseba snapped: 'Lie still!' Bruce obeyed.

Maseba sat on the bed. 'Listening?'

'Yeah.'

'Good. You are going to lie quietly, there, for the next forty-eight hours at least And if you try to get up, I shall have you tied down. I have to examine you from top to bottom; that is my duty. If I can do it with your cooperation, so much the better, but in any case, I'm going to do it. You, Captain, are under my orders, my orders. Do you read me?'

'Read you, George.'

'The work on you will be done by Caiola and me. Doctors de Witt and Creighton are otherwise engaged. De Witt is sleeping - when she sleeps - by Helen's bed, and Creighton is sleeping in the same place as the creature they brought back—'

It felt to Bruce as though something had exploded inside his head. Everything came back to him. 'Christ!' He jerked his head, and Maseba was there with a calming voice and outspread, negative hands.

'I'll do the talking. If ever I doubted that this was the finest ship and the finest crew in the Corps, I know it now. Big Bear Sergei took command, sent out two more scouts, working a search pattern until they got a bleep from you, and they homed in, grappled you, and brought you back to

Vee Twelve, as neatly as if it had been a demonstration drill. They got you at five hundred and ten thousand kilometres. And when Kusnetzov came back, piloting one of the scouts, he took a Duty One Pill and went top to bottom through the ship checking on damage and organizing repair schedules. I had to order him to bed.' He glanced at the time numerals. 'Time for the bulletin, or else the whole damned crew will be hammering at the door.' He moved away to a small switchboard, unhitched a microphone. 'Attention. Medical Officer speaking. Five minutes ago, Captain Bruce recovered consciousness, but he is staying put until I have checked him out. Commander Lindstrom remains deeply unconscious; I do not yet know for certain how to treat her condition. She is watched over day and night, but remains in what seems to be a deep sleep, which term I prefer to use rather than the word "coma", which has sorry connotations. That is all.'

Bruce cried: 'Helen, how is she? Is she still—'

Maseba came swiftly to his side. 'You heard me, Tom. She is still asleep. Three cracked ribs and a smashed left kneecap are easily handled. But the mental state she's in - I mean, within her "unconscious-to-us mind" - is something I'm taking very carefully. I have to.'

'When she comes out of it—'

'If she comes out of it.'

'I want to see her.'

Maseba said sadly: 'Don't you remember what she looks like when she's asleep?'

Bruce understood, 'Yeah.' He sighed quietly. 'I remember. .. You know, if I'd thought - if I'd only thought to go down to the hangar and be ready in that scout, I could have saved a minute, and the way you can gun a scout out of trouble... that might have saved her... got her clear.' His lips tightened as he lay, eyes closed. 'If I'd thought... I ought to be court-martialled for dereliction of duty...'

'Balls,' Maseba commented briefly, 'you did what was right, in the right sequence. You had to make a switch from concern for five to concern for one. Correct?'

Bruce's eyes remained closed. 'I hope so.'

Maseba said to Caiola: 'Pete, how long have I been on duty?'

'Eighteen hours I guess, sir.'

Maseba stretched. 'It feels like sixty.'

'Take out your catnaps, and it is about sixty.'

'In that case,' said the senior MO, 'I'm going to take off all my clothes, have a hot shower and go to bed. What a novelty... And you see that your relief is on time too. If he's not, peg him.'

Bruce heard it all.

Creighton was now in a state of scientific euphoria. The alien was not male, not female; it was a hermaphroditic marsupial, so close to the humanoid strain from earth, and yet so different. It accepted the ship's protein cakes as food, drank water, and its excretion was a few dryish pellets a day...

But Creighton decided that he must not seem to keep the creature to himself. It was, to begin with, well understood that he was the ET life specialist. Creighton said he would like to do a formal examination of the creature, cooperating with Maseba. And CPO Dockridge had come up quite deferentially with a report of a situation which would never have occurred to Creighton himself.

'Shark fever?' Creighton had said, taken somewhat off balance.

'Yes, sir. You see, if this what you've got is what the crew have been calling a Kilroy, well, seventy-five per cent of 'em have seen the bastards at work, and they don't like 'em. And here we've got one, all closed up and kept secret, like.'

Creighton was determined to understand the CPO. 'Shark fever, you said.'

'That's right, sir. As a lad, fifteen to nineteen, I was in the Merchant Navy, or what was left of it. Well, sharks are hated by sailors; they're mindless killers, you see, and when there are sharks about, near a ship, and someone ups with a rifle and shoots at one and wounds it, then other sharks gather round the wounded one, and start to tear it to pieces. That gets more blood in the water, and more sharks come, and more sailors start grabbing rifles and shooting into the water, yelling all sorts of language at the tops of their voices, in hatred of the sharks. I've seen sea water boiling red with shark blood; maybe a hundred of the brutes threshing about, and sailors firing into the mess until they'd used all their ammo. For the time the killing went on, I swear that those men were mad with hate... You see what I mean, sir?'

'I hope so, CPO.'

'There's a creepy feeling about shark fever sir, however wrong that name may be. I'm not telling you your business, but I know the way the crew on this ship feel, and they feel - or they're beginning to feel - just like that. I'm not suggesting that you should do anything; I'm just keeping you up with the facts. You can judge what's to be done, or if you take a risk, or risks' - Dockridge shrugged, - 'hope I've made myself clear, sir.'

'Thank you, Dockridge.'

'Er - sir.'

'Yes?'

'Got the odd feeling I've seen you before, somewhere.'

Creighton said: 'I think perhaps I've got the sort of face you see around quite a lot. Thank you, CPO.'

Dockridge saluted and left. A second later, Maseba appeared, fresh, and full of interest. 'Now, Dr Creighton, what the hell do you want me to do that you can't do a lot better on your own?' He was looking with professional interest at the alien, as it lay, pink and naked, goggled, on the bed.

'I'd like you to do with me an examination of this humanoid creature. I've studied these at second hand so

much and so intensely that I feel that I'd like another highly trained mind to rub against. And there's another reason.' He told Maseba about what Dockridge had said

Maseba rubbed his chin. 'Hmm. Well, now you see why Dockridge is sometimes called "the oil". His psychology's sound.'

'So what do I do?'

'Get a guard. Ask Panos; he'll fix it.'

'Thanks,' Creighton said, 'I'll do that.' He drew a mike down within a metre of the alien. 'We'll fill a tape with first comments, eh?' He pressed a switch over the cassette, then waved his hand rhythmically and gently at the goggled creature.

Maseba said: 'What do we do when this thing starts to speak?'

'Then,' Creighton said, 'I think maybe we have a treat in store - or else the biggest setback ever.' He turned to position a couple of lamps. 'Don't you think that if we had this red light, we might take off its goggles?'

'Yeah...' Maseba's voice tailed off.

'What is it?'

Maseba said: 'Look, I'm jumping ahead where I know I shouldn't... but eyes suited to that kind of light might mean they come from a red dwarf system; and another clue might be in the menstrual cycle... All right, just the physical, take it from the top, otherwise, I shall get fascinated with that fold across the stomach...'

'Skull, human proportions... callipers... agreed?'

'Yes.'

'Pronounced frontal lobes.'

'Makes the eyes seem deeper set,' Maseba said.

'True.' Creighton waved a hand over the face, but the eyes only followed the hand for a limited distance. 'I wondered about the mobility of the eyes.'

'Does it occur to you, Dr Creighton, that the eyes could well be only one of the means of self-location?'

'Yes. But I've not pursued the point.'

'I was wondering about the tomograph... sorry, the isocentric chair routine will have to be later. Ears full and round, omni-directional, ear apertures about—' with a small red-bulbed flash he inspected '—about twice as large as human. Probably much more sensitive. See the way they're dished.'

Creighton switched on an oscilloscope; it was registering noise inaudible to either medics. 'Seventeen Khz. What do you make of it?'

'Not being a bat or a dog, I don't make anything. Yet.'

'Nose - vestigial,' Creighton observed. 'There's a vibration, here. Maybe that's your ultrasonic sound. Vibrating top palate, maybe another and more human kind beneath.'

Maseba stroked the warm, pink flesh. 'You know, that reminds me of a lung membrane. What do you think makes the creature lie so quietly?'

'It's caught, it doesn't know its way about with us, so it's playing things very carefully. Wouldn't you do the same, especially if you were not offered violence?'

'You're right, I'm sure.'

In Creighton's mind was bounding triumph.

Maseba's eyes went to the fold across the stomach, and he was puzzled by what should have been the pubis.

Creighton was absorbed. 'Neck longer than human, greater mobility, no doubt. Clavicle exactly like human. External appearances show that skeleton is much like human.' His face was near the alien's chest.

Maseba said: 'Where your breath touches, the skin pales. Skin breather, at a guess. No lungs. Withdraws intake from area caused by pollution of your breath. Just like a bronchial membrane.'

Creighton was still a little awed by the voyage of discovery over the alien body. He felt the pulse; Maseba watched. 'Astonishing. About two hundred.'

'Which is maybe constant.'

Creighton continued. 'Transverse fold across stomach, like earth marsupials. Hips narrow, perhaps not child bearing. Arms slender, more so than human. Hands six fingers, thumb in line, hand musculature can probably operate hand either way, there being no palm. Feet similar, toes three-jointed as human.'

Maseba passed the single-eye-piece scope to Creighton. 'You want to take a closer look at the skin?'

Creighton took the instrument, bent down and put it to his eye. He switched on, and at once the alien's mouth opened widely, and it cringed away. 'Damn!' exploded Creighton, switching the scope off. 'Why the hell don't I think? This blasted thing uses ultra-violet rays, at the other end of the spectrum. I could have killed the creature!'

'We all make mistakes,' Maseba said, 'Look here, you're a little tensed up about this project, wouldn't you say? You've got plenty of time. We can keep it alive; ease off, for your own good.'

'There lies my duty.'

Maseba agreed. 'I'll speak to Panos about that guard roster for you.'

Creighton, to Maseba, was at that point either a total chump or the bravest man the senior MO had ever met. Despite the fact that Creighton did not yet know more than a tiny fraction of what was vital scientific knowledge about the creature, he slept there while the alien, who could be observed from the outside by a simple TV scanner, spent most of Creighton's sleep time just sitting and doing nothing. There was a guard at the door, which was probably of more psychological value to the crew than to the inmates of the sick bay.

But Creighton was as much a prisoner of his own convictions as was Bruce. The Captain, however, wanted revenge; there remained within him the searing memories of what the aliens had done to Earth men and women.

He was getting dressed. Bruce had decided that he had had enough of the prescribed horizontal misery. He felt well, therefore he was well.

He was almost out of the little ward, when a sick bay- attendant came in. He knew the drill. 'Sir,' - and a respectful salute. He was an old-timer.

'Yes?'

'It will be my duty to inform Dr Maseba that you have left sick bay without authority.'

'That's just fine, Attendant Ferrara. I always respect a man who does his duty.'

Bruce walked out and left Ferrara gaping. At the door of the alien's room a guard jerked to attention and saluted as Bruce went through, closing the door behind him. Creigh- ton was examining the double palate of the alien; the creature sat quietly on the bed. Creighton was slow, methodical; the alien's attitude was passive.

'Yes?' Creighton asked the question without turning round. After a pause he said: 'Whatever you've brought, put it on the flap table.'

'I just brought myself,' Bruce said.

Creighton turned. 'I'm sorry, I don't have the time to salute you.' He returned to his work.

Bruce felt his stomach muscles tighten. 'I came to see the prisoner.'

Creighton still had his back to the Captain. 'Well, now you've seen him, you can go away.'

'Mister!' The voice had the authoritative whipcrack, but Creighton ignored it. 'I am the Captain of this ship; I go where I please.'

Creighton straightened, turned from the alien who continued to sit placidly. And Bruce found himself at the disadvantage of being four centimetres shorter than the other. 'If you wish to address me correctly, then the simple word "doctor" will suffice. But here, and with me, times have changed. Captain Bruce; in this special place, as in the sick bay itself, your writ does not run. In matters of discipline, of course you are to be obeyed, but this is not a matter of discipline. You are interfering in scientific work of the highest priority. I am entitled to get on to sub-etheric at once, and let Earth's Biophysics Institute know what is going on.'

'The aliens killed Earthmen.'

'Therefore aliens must be killed. Yes?'

'And what's wrong with that?'

Bruce loathed the smile of contempt upon Creighton's face. The medic said: "Would you dare, at this very moment, to kill this creature?'

listen, Creighton. There is one thing I have to know about - this sort of creature.'

'Only one? A somewhat unscientific approach for a man with your scientific capabilities. What do you want to know?'

Bruce could willingly have shot down both Creighton and his charge. He said: 'Find out for me if this one here is of the race that did the damage on Minos Four, and Kepler Three. In that sick bay lies my second-in-command, almost as good as dead. I have to know.'

'So that you then have more justification for provoking an incident in which you could kill this alien? Oh, no. Whatever I discover I shall note most carefully, with photographs and the fullest text possible. But I shall tell you only what I think you should know; and when I put "Top Secret (M)" on a file, that means that only three people, Maseba, de Witt and myself are allowed to see it. In this matter. Captain Bruce, you're excluded. And, if you don't like it, get yourself on to sub-etheric and ask your question of all the highest authorities, and see what answers you get. Indeed, if you cause further trouble, I shall make a personal complaint to the World Admiral who is, I believe, helping with the work on Balomain Four, World Admiral Carter. I know that he is a friend of yours, but he also happens to be a man who knows more about discipline than even you do.'

Bruce, still boiling with anger, knew that Creighton was right.

'You can only peg me on something like gross neglect of a patient, or of misuse of my powers as a doctor, and even then you can only do that with the agreement of the senior medic. If you need to know more about me, ask Helen Lindstrom, at some suitable time after she awakes or is awakened to health and strength, which is something for which the whole ship prays most devoutly.'

Creighton turned his back and continued with his examination of the placid alien.

Bruce left.

Chapter 9

An intelligence which knew at a given instant all of the forces by which nature is animated, and the relative position of all the objects, if it were sufficiently powerful to analyse all this information, would include in one formula the movements of the most massive objects in the Universe and those of the lightest atom. Nothing would be uncertain to it; the future and the past would be present to its eyes.

MARQUIS DE LAPLACE

Bruce knew that Helen Lindstrom's state was the centre of his worry. He had a friend, however. That being so, he sometimes turned on George Maseba and vented his frustration. He refused to take mild sedatives offered by his MO.

'No, George. They only make it seem easier.'

They were in Maseba's cabin, now on the way to show the flag on Balomain Four. Perhaps, with Creighton's cooperation, they might show more than that.

'OK. Then I prescribe a little booze.' Maseba produced a bottle of his privately distilled arak, and a couple of glasses.

'That's poison, and against orders.'

"Beautiful, pure stuff,' Maseba said. He poured some. 'Doctor Johnson said that brandy could do quickest for a man what drinking could do. This beats brandy.'

Bruce sipped the fiery liquid. 'Going to Balomain Four,' he muttered, 'with our tails between our legs. Helen still under, and Creighton wrestling with that alien.'

'Creighton is devoted to the work. He's making a journey of discovery where every fresh step may be the wrong one.'

'I know. But time is so short.'

'If Creighton could go faster, he would.'

Bruce listened to the sounds of the ship, deadened by the sick bay insulation, and his mind roved for a moment down the list of officers on duty. All efficient, not a friend among them. 'So what's the news of the alien?'

Maseba found a clipboard. 'Here. The alien hears and sees like a bat. Vibrating palate behind vestigial nose sends out a note above human range of hearing. Sound bounces off objects and reports back to brain. It's a hermaphroditic marsupial, with pouch and teat, and internal organs therefore containing both male and female gonads.' He looked up at Bruce. 'I don't know if you remember, but long before we got Charlie Alien on board, Creighton had guessed that last bit. Some guesser.'

'And what about its mind?'

'That will be a long job. Creighton is trying to establish a relationship with the alien. Some sort of - of trust—'

'Trust?' Bruce was incredulous. 'Does the damn thing talk?'

'It does. The lowest notes of its voice are audible to the human ear.'

'Couldn't they get over that by recording the alien and slowing the playback, and the reverse for human speech? Lieutenant Czibulka is the languages and records man.'

'Correct, but it's more difficult than that.' Maseba poured arak. 'We can get over the hearing difficulty in the manner you suggest. But way up there above our normal hearing, the language is highly inflected.'

'Meaning that if you say a word with different emphasis, it means different things?'

'More difficult than that. Like this. If in English we say bananna or banahna, or any variations like that, the word is still understood. But in the alien speech there are six voice levels for every syllable. I don't' know what the permutations of that are, in a four-syllable word, but Czibulka tells me that he thinks they have up to eight- syllable words at least.'

'Eight syllables,' muttered Bruce.

'So, whether you like Creighton or not - and I know you don't - you might just reflect on that one single aspect of the job he's taken on; the language problem might not be licked in a year.'

'How about assessing this creature's intelligence by playing maths with it - binary - making a game of it?'

Maseba shook his head. 'Creighton's the expert. The physical examination is complete, and I've a sheaf of pictures from the tomograph. But as for what makes the alien tick, its mind... I'm glad it's not my pigeon... You look to me as though you need some sleep. Here, take two of these. Soft as a butterfly's kiss.'

Bruce took the two capsules, swallowed them and, with a nod and a half grin at Maseba, he left. But he walked through to the sick bay, nodded to the female attendant, and walked the deeply padded floor to the bed where Helen Lindstrom lay. By the bedside, the devoted Leela de Witt slept in a chair.

Bruce simply stood, looking down at her marble beauty. Feeling empty, he walked away, to go to his cabin; this kind of loneliness was more than the loneliness of command.

Elsa Niebohr asked, 'Does it help?'

Admiral Carter looked through the hut window and through the dome to where the latest arrived Excelsior ship was discharging cargo, some by crane, some by a/g lifts; hatches were open, small, wheeled buggies buzzed here and there.

'All we know is that Creighton is working on it - the "it" being the alien.' Carter was already thinking that if Elsa Niebohr had joined the Corps she would have been its first female admiral at about the mid-twenties of her youth, not

forty-plus like the woman who did actually make it. Carter felt that here was a dynamo, like a smaller - and a whole lot more handsome - version of her late father.

She said: 'Can I talk direct to Vee Twelve now?'

'Sure. Clear enough on sub-etheric; small time lag.' He pressed a button on his desk. 'Awolo, fix Vee Twelve for a call from Miss Niebohr.' He said to her: 'It'll take about three minutes, I guess. Can I offer you a drink?'

'Scotch please, Admiral.'

He put four centimetres of neat golden fluid into the glass, took one himself. Carter was not worried with her arrival; his own admin was sound, he had in no way ruffled Koninburger; Fane, Uschl and Baksh were efficient medics. He thought that way because he knew he had a tendency to treat Fane with a certain amount of awe, and he didn't like what he felt. For Carter, miracles didn't happen. As for the small dark beauty in the visitor's chair, she was just 'the owner' come to look at her investment. All right and proper.

'How well up are you in the general lines upon which Koninburger is working, Admiral?'

'The general lines I understand; I've made a point of keeping up with that. But the big thing will be when those ideas, properly tested, have to be translated into a spacecraft capable of using the Koninburger principles. That I must see, from a safe distance, too.'

'So life could still be dangerous.'

'Sure. Everywhere.'

The desk com buzzed; Carter pressed a button, and a voice said: 'Contact with Vee Twelve established, sir.'

'Thanks.' Carter passed over the receiver, and rose to go, but she waved him down. Carter sat.

'Hello, Vee Twelve. Elsa Niebohr here. Is the Captain available?'

'One moment please...' There was a scuffling of sound and a few crackles, and a voice said formally: 'Captain Bruce, Miss Niebohr.'

Carter, who had heard the story of the abruptly terminated liaison between his visitor and Bruce, listened with interest shaded with amusement.

'Congratulations on getting the alien.'

Bruce was terse; distortion made his voice grate. 'We paid a high price. My second-in-command has not yet recovered consciousness.'

'Yes, I'm very sorry to hear that. Admiral Carter told me. But she is going to recover?'

'Two good medics say they don't know. It's that kind of situation. The worst.'

Carter sat at an angle where he could see Elsa Niebohr's face and that of Bruce upon the screen, but he was chiefly watching Niebohr. She was an enigma; Carter, direct as a bullet, did not like enigmas, but there she was, talking to a discarded lover, a woman concerned over the life of another woman. 'Would you like me to get in touch with Doctor Shigeti, on Earth, about her? He's the finest, they say. I could arrange for him to talk with Doctor Maseba.'

Hell, Carter thought, when you consider the cost of such a hookup...

'Thanks, but I have total confidence in George Maseba and Leela de Witt.'

'And in Doctor Creighton?'

'He is probing his alien. And damned slowly.'

That will be,' Elsa said, 'because that is how the job needs to be done.'

'I accept that. We can talk about such things when we make planetfall. Goodbye, Miss Niebohr.'

Carter saw anger whip across her face. She said: 'He doesn't change, anyway.'

'For which we can be grateful,' Carter said.

Elsa looked at a notebook. 'I've seen nearly everyone, now. Fane tells me that Koninburger is working happily, but there may be ructions ahead. Theoretical ructions. So far, his math has fitted together like a jigsaw. When he runs out of parts that fit, then may come the testing time.

But the illusion that K is still below ground on Earth is still working.'

'Which is extraordinary.'

'Which is what I pay for, Admiral.' She smiled. 'I'm glad I don't pay you. It's easier to talk to you.'

'About your successes in setting up this whole thing.'

'And about my stupidities.'

Carter felt more and more bewildered by her manner, until it occurred to him that she was getting a mild father- figure replacement by talking to him in this way. 'Your stupidity. That I would like to hear about. For instance?'

'For instance, that damned smelting plant I insisted on being shipped out. It won't be used for months, maybe years. Oh, I was going to go so fast!'

'Financially, a drop in the ocean for you.'

'Many more little drops like it, and I shall have to fire the whole board and run the Corporation myself.'

'I thought you ran it now,' Carter said.

'Appearances count.'

Carter chuckled. 'I can't see any business problem getting you down.'

'The moment of decision comes when the math and theory are complete, recorded and tested. Once that is done, other highly-trained technicians could take over and turn the subspace drive math into practice.'

Carter felt that uneasiness again. 'Aren't you treating this as though you think that Koninburger will crack? With Fane...'

'Fane is brilliant, at his job. But don't forget what Koninburger may be thinking. Everyone down below, anything up to three thousand metres down there. One day, no matter what Fane has done and can do, he will begin to ask "why?" - theme and variations.'

'But he knows. Above ground, just a few domes and huts.' Carter was now feeling disturbed, and he couldn't put his finger on the why and how. 'That one alien coming in Vee

Twelve is the only one we want to deal with, at the moment.'

She looked past Carter, thoughtful, deliberate. 'When I arrived, I said I had come to protect my investment. That was true. Do you think, Admiral, that ever before in human history, so much cash and so much hope has been placed on one man, one human brain, one possibly fallible human brain?'

Carter was solemn. "You're your father's daughter, all right. Are you regretting spending so much cash?'

'No.' She rose. 'I will go and see my chief scientist, with Fane in attendance.'

Koninburger regarded Elsa Niebohr as a courageous woman who put her faith and her money on him when World Senate chickened out. While true human warmth was not really part of his nature, for he was an obsessively objective man, he nevertheless contrived to show some grace and politeness to her. Also, he was pleased that she had been keeping up with his teaching to his senior operatives and with the math and the basic ideas upon which he was working. Now he sat in his deeply underground sitting room, face to face with this small, striking woman of so much power.

'Worm holes,' she said, 'somehow does bring the idea into focus. Everything has holes, even if it's polished smooth; space has worm holes, the holes have mass, and inside that subspace - there is no time, no distance. "Before", "next" and "after" have no meaning.'

Hans Koninburger showed a rare flash of enthusiasm. "Now, I never used those words to you! You've been studying - and far back in the past, at that!'

'Of course,' Elsa said, deliberately matter-of-fact. 'Call it "protecting the investment". Your first problem in practical work - I'm sorry, I don't mean to play down what you've done already - is the plotting of some of the empty paths through space. Is that right?'

'Subject to certain other conditions, yes.'

Fane, who had been sitting apart from them, put in a word. 'Subject, also, to Hans Uschl and myself thinking it safe for you to come out up to ground level. If you do,.you will have to stay mainly in the domes, with perhaps a venture outside in a heated suit, and with a breathing mask.'

'You see,' Koninburger smiled, 'how well they care for me. Yes; I have in my mind the basis of sending out a "pathfinder" to trace the holes - or one sequence of holes - in space. When once we can do that... ah.'

The guard outside the door of the place in which the alien was kept looked in greatest astonishment at the aggressive Warrant Officer. 'Not there - sir - what do you mean "not there"?'

WO Panos seemed inclined to take the guard, a small, springy Kachin man, by his coveralls and shake him. 'Did any of the medical staff take him out? Doctor Creighton? Or maybe a sick bay PO - or CPO Caiola? Eh?'

'Nobody's passed me.' The guard said resolutely. 'Impossible. But—'

'But what?'

'I was punched, I remember—'

'Explain yourself, man!'

'It was like someone punched my head - from the inside!'

'From the—!' Panos swallowed the invective which rose like a wave within him. He thumbed a wall-phone's button. 'Attention all ranks. The alien is loose. Duty officer please wake the Captain!'

Alarms clanged. Men and women slipped to their alert posts with silent efficiency. Two people remained asleep, Helen Lindstrom and Leela de Witt.

'This creature is not to be harmed. It's not a bug-eyed monster, it is a human being of a sort. It is also probably weaker than the average human female. You cannot speak to it, it cannot speak to you—'

Bruce spoke from the bridge. Creighton leaped up beside him, dishevelled, half-dressed. 'You mustn't hurt that creature... it's vital... If we lose it - if we lose Ba - if some fool ups with a pistol and shoots it, I'll kill the man who does it! It's - it's—'

Bruce snapped: 'Listen to my instructions, then see if you have anything to add. Lieutenant Quat, take your men and go carefully through your stores areas. Lieutenant Lee, look in all hangar vessels, from flycars to scouts - everything. Commander Kusnetzov, check through. There's not much hiding room with you. Lieutenant Albertini, check every radar installation. Lieutenant Siegel, ventilation and elevator shafts...' The list went on and on, with some admiration in Creighton's mind for a man who really did have the whole ship at his fingertips. When Bruce had finished his listing, Creighton said: 'That's fine, sir.'

'Now you speak quietly to it.'

Creighton felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. 'Me speak - to the alien?'

'Yeah. You said its name, didn't you? Ba?'

'Yes -I have managed to gather that. It's a tribal prefix—'

'So you aren't giving out complete results of your work!'

'What I have been able to do in that direction is minimal. The speech question is almost insuperable. With Czibulka I've tried to—'

First report in was from Radar Section. 'Section clear, sir.'

'Mr Panos, suit up, take another man with you, and walk ship.'

'At once, sir.'

Creighton said: 'But - that creature won't be outside! It can't be!'

Bruce gave him a cool stare. 'I have a liking,' he said, 'for checking impossibilities.'

Stores, Sanitary, Hydroponics, Astrogation... they and all the others reported in. Kusnetzov's downstairs department was last.

'I've stripped covers and had men crawling around but there's no alien here.'

Panos's voice came back, distorted by a suit radio. "Nothing outside here, sir. Five more minutes and we'll both be getting a touch of spacehead.'

'Come in.'

Bruce found Maseba by his side. As always, the medic's presence made him feel not quite so alone. 'Well, George?'

Maseba turned to watch Creighton hurry off to the elevator. 'It's strange.'

'Thanks for all the information.' The fact that he was pleased to see Maseba softened Bruce's sarcasm not at all.

'I meant the sentry.'

'Who is on a charge.'

'For Pete's sake—'

'Conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline, idle on parade, and a few other things.'

Maseba said: 'Oh, bloody fine. Well I've talked to the man. He says he thinks he was punched, inside his head - it's possible. There's not a mark or a bruise anywhere. I believe him. With a picked crew like ours, you mostly get the truth.'

'The truth is he fell down on the job. And that's enough for me.'

Bruce saw that Maseba was on the point of shouting. A wall-phone buzzed, Maseba answered it. 'Medical Officer.'

The voice answered. 'Caiola, sir. Will you please bring Captain Bruce down here to sick bay? And both of you come in very quietly, please, will you? I assure you it's necessary.'

'Very well.' Maseba replaced the receiver. Bruce was calm. 'Caiola's no fool. Whatever it is, we'll do as he says.'

'Thanks, Tom,' Maseba said.

The elevator took them down to sick bay. Quietly, they went in. Caiola came to meet them. 'Please, gentlemen, no sound.'

In silence, they followed. Leela de Witt was asleep in the  chair by the side of the bed, continuing her vigil of love and duty. On the opposite side of the bed there was another chair, and in it sat the alien.

Bruce had a gun at the ready almost without thinking.

'No!' Creighton hissed the word, seeming to have crept up behind them.

'Shhhh!' Caiola said.

'I believe—' Maseba began, and then he too fell silent.

To the Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander, to Lieutenant Creighton, and to Bruce, Commanding Officer, wary, truculent, there came a kind of peace. The alien sat holding both of Helen Lindstrom's hands in its own pink, six-fingered appendages, and seemed to be squeezing very gently. This was its only movement.

'Keep quiet,' Maseba whispered.

The minutes passed, the sick bay seemed an oasis in a desert of sound...

Eventually, the alien released its gentle hold on Helen's hands. Slowly it turned to see the human captors. It rose, went to them, and stood by Creighton, at the same time nodding and pointing to the still figure in the bed.

Once more, they waited. Bruce moved, and at once the alien nudged Creighton and pointed to Bruce.

Maseba said: 'Quiet, still.'

Ten minutes passed. Then Helen Lindstrom turned her head Slightly. She gave a long, sleepy murmur.

'God!' Bruce exclaimed. 'Do you think—'

"Wait, Tom.'

Once more she stirred, and gave a long sigh. Leela de Witt awoke, gave the watching group a startled glance, and turned to her patient.

And Helen Lindstrom opened her eyes.

Chapter 10

While we admit throughout the Universe a unity of plan, a unity of forces, and a unity of matter, we nonetheless must explain the individuality and the diversity which we cannot fail to trace everywhere. Side by side with the general connecting principle we see leaps and breaks of continuity.

MENDELEEV

The alien had been taken quietly by Creighton back to the place where it had been kept. Creighton did not know people were guessing about the situation of the alien relative to himself, or, for that matter, the converse. Czibulka, a small round man of thirty-five, was engrossed with the problem of extracting meanings from the alien. Creighton felt, rather than knew, that he was the one who had established the most general rapport with the alien, doing his best to treat the creature as another kind of human being; and a very intelligent one. Of that Creighton had no doubt; it could have got out by mentally punching that guard.

He settled down the alien by supplying it with water and two protein cakes, and went back to some of the joint studies made by Czibulka and himself. He paused from his reading of a study of the language which sought to set out accent and tone marks... He looked up to find the creature regarding him steadily. Creighton smiled, and, grotesquely, having no feeling behind the gesture, the alien made a muscular imitation.

Creighton, ready to strain his own voice into squeaks on

recording them, and replaying the tape at a higher speed, tried some conversation with the alien; it was one of the times when he was almost turned to sickness by the apparent non-understanding of the creature; Creighton knew that this was working him to the point of exhaustion, but he kept on; nothing seemed to get easier:

'Ba, how did you get out of here?'

'Walk.'

Creighton pounded at his own mind for the right words. 'How did you get past the sentry... guardian... man with gun... person keeping you in... here...?'

'Walk.'

'Did the man not try to stop you?'

‘Not try.'

'You simply walked out?'

'Walk out.'

Czibulka came in. 'Hello, hello, what's all this I hear? Our friend been misbehaving himself?'

Creighton was annoyed. When Czibulka spoke to him, it was always in imitation of Creighton's own very English voice. Czibulka was a man with a perfect ear for tone, inflexion and enunciation.

Creighton said, exasperated: 'Jan, can you carry on for a bit with him?'

'Of course old boy. Glad to. Think I'll dispense with the recording-and-replay routine for a bit. Speak direct.'

'You'll ruin your throat.'

'Not if I only do a little. What do we want to know?'

'How did he get out... but it's no good asking that. He just says he walked. What they'll want to know is how did he know of the second-in-command being in the state she was, and what exactly did he do to her or for her?'

'All that? I'll need danger money.'

'It's really only two questions.'

'Yes, yes of course old man. You're right. Let me see how my squeaks are.' He made some strangled noises in his throat. 'Yes, we can make it, I think: Ba.'

Thus addressed by his tribal prefix, the alien turned to Czibulka.

'Ba, how did you know of the one who was sick?'

'It called.'

Czibulka turned to Creighton. ' "It called." Now what do you make of that?'

'Spoke.'

'But -I mean - spoke - literally?'

"No. I don't think so. It may have heard her murmur, when she was unconscious.'

Czibulka looked at Creighton very attentively. 'There is another meaning to "called".'

'Yes.' Creighton was at full attention. 'So did she call with her mind or did she call with her voice?'

'You want the lot, don't you?'

'It's what Bruce will want to know.'

'All right, James. I'll try again... Ba. Was this voice heard with ears?'

'In the usual way.'

Czibulka was stumped. 'You mean - usual—'

'With head.'

'I got that!' Creighton said, excitedly, 'does it mean that it is a telepath?'

'If it were, wouldn't its chums have rescued it and left us as so much smouldering cinder?'

Creighton thought. 'It means - that it just felt her mind touch... perhaps it alone can do it... short distance. Or maybe, a soundless appeal for help?'

Czibulka tried again.

'A mind was seeking to arise,' the alien said.

'And you went to help it.'

'Yes.'

'Was this goodness... kindness... you accept the idea that you can help us?'

'In some degree.'

'So what did you do, when you saw the one in the bed, and the guardian of her sleeping in the chair beside the bed?' 'I do not understand sleep. We have no word. But the mind of the one in the bed was needing help... it was bound... it wanted to belong again. Thus I sat, and took the hands, and waited until my mind helped the human's.'

Czibulka told it to Creighton, and the latter was pleased. 'I shall, of course, tell Bruce that this was your work.'

The other grinned. 'Oh, yes, you tell him, by all means. He's under the impression anyway that I do sweet FA. And he's right.' Czibulka left.

Creighton sat, and Ba the alien sat, and they did not communicate. As he looked into the future, he could see himself travelling on down the dark tunnel, at the end of which there was only a slight glimmer, and that glimmer, Creighton thought with irony, might well be the torchlight of some poor sod who had got to the end of the tunnel, found it closed, and was trying to struggle back. It was a stupid, cartoon-like thought, but it made him shiver.

Someone knocked and dared to open before he - or she - heard a reply. It was Dockridge, grinning from ear to ear.

'Doc,' Bruce said, 'one of these days I shall throw something—'

'There's a nice surprise outside, sir.'

'I just love surprises, you time-wasting goon. Come on, bring it in.'

'This surprise,' Dockridge said with dignity, 'can walk in.'

Helen Lindstrom walked in.

'Goodbye, Doc,' Bruce said.

'Goodbye, sir and ma'am,' Dockridge said, and shut the door.

Bruce got up, took both her hands. 'Welcome back,' he said. He had not meant his voice to sound low and husky, but that was the way it came out.

'Oh,' she cried, 'I forgot.' She stepped back, threw up a smart salute, and it was returned. Then they both laughed.

'Sit down,' he said; they sat. 'Full duty?' 'Not yet, George says. But I can do a four-hour stint in twenty-four.'

'Good. All your tests OK?'

'Tests! George is a fanatic; devotion to duty. I never saw anything like it.'

'Did he put you up to date on the alien?'

'Yes. Pretty well.'

'And you know what it did for you.'

'Yes.'

'Make anything of it, from your point of view?'

'No. All I know is that I was in a blackness. Then I began to stir... in my mind... and there was a thought, rhythmical, like the beating of a drum. It said: "Rise up... rise up... rise up"... And then I think it changed to... "Day awaits you... day awaits you"... and then I woke up... That's really all.'

Bruce said: 'Right, Commander. You're back to light duties. Doctor's orders. And my orders are the same. Will you please make it your first duty to try to remember all you can about the inside of that alien ship.'

'I will.'

'Thank you. Dismiss.'

And barren salute was greeted by barren salute.

Carter looked through his big notebook. He and Elsa Niebohr were standing to the side of main gallery one, four hundred metres down. There was a small-gauge railway, used either for goods or personnel. Part of this section was filled with secondary computers. White-coated men and women moved about.

'And with Koninburger to guide, you reckon it can be done.'

'I am prepared to be present myself when the first practical probe experiments are carried out.'

'You're sure these geon paths exist?'

'Koninburger says so, Admiral. He says that John A.

Wheeler was right. He claims that there can be no other way for instant travel.'

"There is another theory, by a Professor Jadeen - Delhi, I think he's at - who says that with sufficient power man can create his own paths,' Carter said.

'My money's on Koninburger.'

The understatement of the year.' Carter walked forward to inspect a points assembly in the small railway line, saw that it was well-greased, and that there was little play in the moving parts. 'Well, Miss Niebohr, I must say I like your style. Your trust in your scientific leader is remarkable. Long may it endure.'

She started, very slightly, at the last sentence. 'What do you mean by that, Admiral?'

'Just general good wishes, I guess...' He came to her. "What's the matter? The illusion is complete, isn't it? There's Fane, there's Uschl, and Baksh the demon chequers player...'

The thrum of the machinery near them and below them seemed to fade into insignificance. One look at her set face told Carter, most generous and humane of men despite his bluster, that there was something in her reaction to his words that was terrible.

'Admiral. With me I brought star charts, most beautifully done, of the stars of this particular planet. When he comes up to surface to see for himself, he may well be deceived, still. Even in daylight, with all the camouflage laid on and sprayed on, it may still succeed, for long enough...'

'Long enough?'

'Long enough for men other than Koninburger to know where they're going.'

The World Admiral did not like Koninburger, but for his ability, and for his rights as a human being, Carter had respect. And still the World Admiral did not understand.

'Koninburger is going back to Earth?'

'Possibly.'

'For his health, you mean.'

'Hardly.'

Carter thought he understood, and his face clouded.

She said: 'I will not insult you by asking if you know what is a decaying orbit. But that is Koninburger's life- situation.'

'You mean, he's going to die, here?'

'What Fane did for Koninburger was good. But the very best efforts of world experts like Fane are only bodges, without truly understanding how complete is the imposed illusion. If you let Koninburger stay below, it will come to him, awfully, one day, that here is not the planet where he was born. When he goes topside he will see that vast mock- up out there, and he might, for a time, be - what shall I say? - re-convinced that he is where he should be.'

'And - you are going to let this go on?'

'Fane and Uschl will do their best. But, eventually, they will have to stand by watching nature take its course.'

'But if you sent him home now - had Fane fake an illness for him - then he could be saved!'

'That isn't part of the deal. I'm here to protect my investment - and Earth's investment too!' Her face was set. 'No: Eventually, this whole enterprise is going to render huge profits, and there's no one on Sol Three who can bellyache, because they turned it down in the name of democracy and ignorance! Once we have this, the true subspace travel, the Universe is our oyster - Excelsior's oyster. The Space Corps will want the new drive; they can pay for it.'

'And you'd let Koninburger die?'

She spoke in a low voice. 'I know what I want, always, and I know, always, how to get it. If some damn fool who can't think through a problem gets in the way, then that's just too bad, Admiral.'

She turned and walked away. Carter saw that there was nothing he could do. Fane was well paid by Elsa Niebohr... in fact, everyone who really counted was well paid; he,

World Admiral Junius Farragut Carter, SC, was about on the level with the kitchen hands and the garbage squad. Anger welling within him, he walked to the main passenger elevator, and was swept up to the surface, inside one of the domes. He went to his quarters, opened a new bottle of Scotch, and imbibed a quarter of it in the space of fifteen minutes. He sat the while, swearing to himself, and wondering, with increasing anxiety, if he had not outlived his usefulness.

Watched over by the faithful Uschl, Koninburger was preparing for bed. On this particular evening he had elected to go earlier, to sit in bed and listen to part of Die Walkure in comfort, the libretto in his hands. He had meant to listen to Acts One and Two, but at the end of Act One, he closed the libretto.

'Switch it off, my dear Hans.'

'Of course.' Uschl hastened to obey.

'Did you know that today was a great day in the history of the project?'

'How should I know, Herr Professor? My concern is medicine. If you come to bed like a sensible man, because you feel a little more tired than usual, then it is a good day for me.'

'For us.' Anderson Fane walked in. 'Well, considering where we are, I must say you look the picture of contentment. Professor. Are you content?'

Koninburger took ten seconds before he spoke. 'No. Firstly, because we are coming only to the end of the theoretical stage. The computers can do no more, for they, alas, poor restricted machines, can only do what man tells them. I have dictated my fortieth cassette, this one being on the mathematical structure of the whole universe, and of how I think that information may be used. Secondly...'

Fane was gentle, solicitous. 'Yes?'

'Sometimes, in the middle of a working day, I have a strange feeling. I feel rejected.'

'Come now,' Fane said, 'you, rejected? Why not reject the moon and stars as well, for the same reason?' With his eyes on Koninburger, he took out a small gold fob watch and, as though idly, began to swing it to and fro.

Fane carried on quietly. 'You, rejected? Never. It is something from your deep past, when you were a little boy in a fishing competition and you had a new rod and you so wanted to win that you cried when you didn't win. That's what it is, just that, arising in a new guise. A man of solid achievement like yourself is loved and respected; you know that here down below ground you can carry on your work as never before in all your life. Tell me that you are admired and respected, Professor.'

Koninburger spoke drowsily. 'I am admired and respected.'

'Tell me that you know you are the very hub of the enterprise.'

'I am the very hub of this enterprise.'

'And tell me that you are working deep in Earth's protecting depths, where you can come to no harm.'

'I am working deep in Earth's protecting..

'Deep in Earth's protecting depths—'

'Deep in Earth's protecting depths, where no harm can come to me.'

Fane came close to examine Koninburger's face. 'And in the morning, you will begin to plan the practical stages, with all your helpers, with all those people who know you and honour you...'

Koninburger was asleep.

Uschl asked a question by the expression on his face.

Fane said: 'Had to be done.'

'But I thought he was completely... I mean, I thought that what you had done on Earth, and all the - the er - boostings were all right?'

Anderson Fane looked serious. 'Hans, you are a very good man and a very good doctor. Any ordinary man, with any ordinary complaint, could trust himself to you absolutely.

There in that bed lies a very extraordinary patient. I told Miss Niebohr that I could only do my best. Did it never occur to you that I, too, was dealing with imponderables?'

For a moment he put a hand on Uschl's shoulder; he patted it, and left.

Chapter 11

I heard an old spaceman from Planet Sol Three,

Who said: 'All this bullshit is no good to me,

'Don't give me that stuff about "always leading",

'Help with my mate here, shattered and bleeding.

'He needs no praises, no medals on chest,

'Let's get him to sick bay, and they'll do the rest.

'If he's too far gone, let him be cut apart,

'The medics can use him - lungs, brain and heart.

'Preach me no honour and duty to Corps,

'Your honour's a lie, and your duty a whore.

'Don't talk to me sweetly of progress and need,

'Our progress is nil, when the master is greed.

'I'm only one rat in the human race,

'Just give me my discharge, and no more space.'

IVAN KAVANIN, Honoured Poet of Earth

From 'Songs of Doubt and Disillusion'

Language is highly fricative, sibilant, and there are at least six different tones for each syllable within a word. Thus a basic word frame of three syllables can have many meanings.

e.g. KEOTA basic can be -

no tone i.e.

KEOTA - 'person, thing'

flat

KEOTA - 'help, deliverance, succour, aid?

—

KEOTA- 'bad, of no value, inimical'

BUT - if the above are stresses upon syllables, meaning is also changed by syllable tone. If ' is high tone one, " is high tone two, ~ is middle tone one, x is middle tone two, ' is low tone one, : is low tone two, then it will be seen that the 'word? is vague of meaning until correctly stressed and toned. Examples:

KE'OTA... 'Of not full use, inefficient, of no worth'

KEO"TA. .. 'Pleasurable, happy, giving delight, satisfying'

Sheets and sheets of it came from Creighton and his charge. He touched the recorded trolley, imitating the speech. 'TUNESEN.' He pushed it backwards and forwards and said the word again. The alien's necessarily goggled eyes depersonalized the face, but certainly it was watching Creighton. 'TUNESEN.' He muttered to himself. 'Carrier of goods, wagon, trolley.' He ran back the tape, switched it to a higher speed, and let the tape spin through the heads. The alien and the smaller oscillograph heard the word. The alien lifted one skinny finger of its right hand. Creighton muttered. 'That's another one right. Now, let's try some verbs. Do speech. He gives. We give, you give, they give. Here goes.' He put the recorder at 9.5 centimetres/sec, and set it turning. 'PAEE-KRR-TICT, TA-EE-KRR-TICT, TO-EE- KRR-TICT, NA-EE-KRR-TICTA, SA-EE-KRR-TICTA, SO-EE- KRR-TICTA.' He wound back the tape, set it going at twice the speed, and watched the alien. The creature wagged a single forefinger in the upright position, as before.

Hours later - he kept no account of time - Maseba came in to remind him that Bruce wanted to see the work being done. Thinking grimly to himself that Czibulka had gone

to bed, and that was where he, Creighton, was entitled to be- as well, the ETL medic was not in a gracious mood.

Maseba said: 'Doctor, the Captain is ready.'

Creighton said coldly: 'Well, I am not. If that is made plain to the Captain, that I conduct this interview under unsolved difficulties on my part, and under duress from the presence of non-understanding minds, then I will do what I can.'

'You might learn something,' Maseba said.

'About the Captain? I can't be bothered.'

'I meant that you might learn something about the alien which you didn't know before.'

'I'll believe that when it happens.'

Bruce arrived, and greeted both Maseba and Creighton with impartial curtness. He sat down. 'Doctor, I understand that you have not nearly completed your researches.'

'There is enough material in this creature's mind to occupy me for at least another six months. I have only just begun in terms of true scientific value.'

'I need to ask some questions.'

'I cannot guarantee any answers.'

'Don't fence with me.'

'I am not fencing. I am the final arbiter of what can be asked, and what can't.'

Bruce's face had hard lines made harder where the dim light caught. 'I'll take the alien's refusal. Doctor, not yours.'

'I will not be pressured—'

'You're not being pressured, mister. You're being asked.'

'Commander Bruce, this alien now knows enough of your speech to understand somewhat.'

Bruce, typically, went into the attack. 'Where is your home planet?' Creighton, tight-lipped, operated the recorder.

'By a red sun.'

'Be more precise.' Bruce's gaze was fixed upon the neo- human face.

'It is not permitted.' 'By whom is it not permitted?'

'By our law. Obedience to the law is vital. There are many red suns; I may not direct you. I would die.'

'Is death important to you?'

'It depends upon the status.'

"What is your status?'

'Low. I am not important.'

'But you were in charge of the ship which our crew boarded.'

There are many ships.' It was eerie to see the lips moving, and yet there was only an occasional squeak that Bruce and Maseba could hear directly. 'I am not important.'

'Is it your opinion that Dr Creighton has discovered much about you?'

'He knows about my body. He works well.'

Creighton said: 'I sent you the report on the main physical differences, Captain. No red and white corpuscles, perfect hormone balance, omniphilactic injections, the blood made by the spleen, it and the liver being larger than ours.'

'Yes. I read it.' Bruce asked: 'What is your weaponry?'

Creighton had trouble with the translation. He asked, in reality: 'For what reason do you kill, and with what do you kill?'

'We use the beam.'

"What is the beam?'

'It is of many kinds.'

'Do you have one?'

'No.'

'How large is the apparatus?'

'It depends upon what has to be destroyed.'

'A being, one person?'

'A hand beam.'

To destroy a planet?'

'A great beam.'

'Such as is carried in your large ships?'

The largest beam can be carried by our smallest ships.'

"What is the nature of this beam?' 'It is not permitted to tell.'

Bruce said: 'Suppose we lean on the swine a little?'

Creighton's face tightened. 'The alien is what it is, just as we are what we are. Earth moralities are for Earth people.'

'Ask it,' Bruce said, 'what it has learned about us.'

Creighton thought this curious. Still, there was interest in seeing what the creature would say. He put the question. 'What I have learned,' the alien said, 'is that there is no reason to change our present attitude to other beings that we meet in space.'

Bruce and Maseba exchanged glances.

Creighton said: 'This is something new. It has never before said anything about other races.'

Bruce tried again. 'What powers does its race possess which are not shared by ourselves, apart from this self-fertilization routine?'

The alien's answer was quick. 'Our powers of rational thinking are great; yours are clogged with considerations which do not touch us.'

Bruce asked Creighton: 'Have you done much work on this, creature's brain, synapses and so on?'

'I have encephalograms which show that the alien's system contains more natural electricity than ours.'

'And you have done nothing more in this direction? Have you, for example, tried to use the keyboard there for the alien to work out any mathematics?'

'Only of a rudimentary nature.'

'Ask if it has a good knowledge of mathematics, physics and so on.'

'I do not think—'

'I do think, Doctor. Ask.'

All they got from the alien was the reiteration that it was a lowly creature.

'Ask it if it understands the system of transportation by the use of subspace. Does it regard this as a simple matter?' Creighton, again feeling uneasy, put the question. Oh, yes, the alien could manage to understand that.

'Will it work with us on such a thing?'

Creighton got a swift 'no'. Bruce said: 'Ask it how it would like to be in a brightly lit room without its goggles on. Would that persuade the brute to tell us—'

'No!' Creighton was angered 'No, I will not ask that!'

'Ask it,' Bruce said.

'This is - would be a prostitution of science!'

'Call it that if you want. Tell this creature that if it does not cooperate with us, then we shall apply a little arm- twisting as encouragement.'

Creighton spoke to the alien, which placed the tips of the fingers of each hand on its collarbone, and its lips moved. Creighton could hardly disguise the triumph in his voice. 'The alien says that if this is attempted, then like all its race it can will itself to death before we can get any information out of it. It says that it makes the gesture of resignation, and that it would like to know if we want it dead or alive.'

Bruce got up slowly, looking at the alien. Then he left. Maseba followed.

Creighton spoke to his charge. 'Ba, do you know me for a—' and he realized that the language had no word for "friend". 'Do you know me for a worthy person?'

'Yes, Creighton.'

Tell me more about the conquests of your race.'

Ba told him. If the creature were capable of enthusiasm, then this is where it showed. The alien blocked all ways to any assessment of the whereabouts of the home planet, but apart from that, it was comparatively forthcoming.

'And what about Sol Three, my home planet? You have observed us?'

'Many times.'

'What do you think of us?'

'Opinion is much divided.'

'How?'

'I cannot say. But it may be necessary for us to participate in the life of your planet.'

'Yes?' Now they were near something which Creighton

had hardly admitted to himself; before this moment. He asked: 'If such is your people's intention, then you will need someone who has intelligence enough to understand you, someone whom you could trust in mediation, and so on?'

'We should need such a person.'

'Like me?' Creighton held his breath.

'Like you. You would be suitable.'

Creighton had heard no sound, but he was suddenly and instantly awake. Moving his head the smallest necessary fraction, he saw that the alien, instead of studying the book of Earth language at which he had been most assiduous, was crouched at the bench where the typewriter-math keyboard was. It had its hands clasped to its forehead, and the machine was not in its usual position close to the wall. Quietly Creighton raised on one elbow, but the alien heard at once, and turned round.

Creighton got out of bed. 'Ba, what are you doing?'

The alien looked above Creighton, which was how it usually avoided eye-to-eye confrontations.

'Show me what you were holding to your head.'

Ba extended its hands.

'The leads from the machine? What good are they?' Creighton felt that he could guess the answer.

'I learn.'

'I know what you learn, Ba.'

'I had thought you would. These leads connect with the ship's computer.'

'And they connect with all the other information in the main computer. You can read electronically stored material?' Despite himself, Creighton quivered with excitement.

'Yes. When I have a good connection. Are you still worthy person to me?'

Creighton pushed home his advantage. He thought of that roughneck Bruce, and he spoke as emphatically as was

possible with the complicated tonalities of the language. 'Yes, I am still a worthy person to you, Ba. You need me, I think. Do you want to take over this ship?'

'Not now. I want to learn for when we come to the planet Balomain Four, which we call Babadan.'

Then we can act together, Ba?'

'Yes, we will act so.'

Creighton thought how lucky he had been, to have chosen this particular time to resume sleeping in the same room as the alien. He was still deep in the semantic jungle of the other's speech. The work was endless. He realized that, from the time Helen Lindstrom had recovered by the alien's help, he had not re-established their liaison because he had been too busy.

He left the alien's room and went into the sick bay office to scan duty lists. He saw that she was on duty.

Lindstrom was on the bridge, sitting in the command chair, the repeater board to one side, the duty squad below her, at their stations. She felt well again, but there was something present in her mind and body now which was not there before her dangerous escapade. She could think as well, her reflexes were as quick as ever, she had the same firm grasp upon all aspects of Corps work, but she was not as she used to be. Resilience of spirit was not as strong as once it was. It occurred to her that she needed her man, and James Creighton was working, like one obsessed, on the alien and everything concerning it. She understood that; she admired him for his devotion to duty, but she figured it might be good for both of them if they got together again, and soon.

They should be in orbit round Balomain Four in forty hours. She hoped for the best from Koninburger, and she wanted veiy much to see Junius Carter, because she had enjoyed working with him when Blue Mountain Project occupied their lives. She thought that all the math would be finished by now. Fascinating... but for the fact that Elsa Niebohr was there. Niebohr represented to Helen Lindstrom nothing but a concentration of evil and ruthless power. Niebohr was not a loser, not in any way, and Lindstrom did not doubt that that applied to Project Elkan also. She looked at her own present state, tried to be objective, and failed. But perhaps most of her depression came from one simple fact: yesterday was her birthday: she was twenty- nine.

She was jerked from her thoughts by an announcement which coincided with a flashing purple light. 'Deceleration for Balomain Four begins in fifteen minutes.'

That was CPO Ashnagabi.

'Acknowledged,' she said. 'Begin gentle awakening.' That had been Maseba's idea. When there was danger - alert stations danger - then you hurled into wakefulness all sleepers and off-duty personnel with those dreadful clanging bells. But when it was not a danger wake, then 'have a prettier sound to do the awakening'. Corps ship commanders had laughed at the idea - and six months later all Corps ships had the system, and commercial fleets had copied.

So, hundreds of warblers began their slowly increasing volume of sound...

The purple lights went out, to be replaced by amber, and the announcement 'Deceleration begins in ten minutes'.

She heard a footstep behind her, and at once vacated the command chair.

Bruce sat. 'No snags?'

'No,' she answered, and at once Bruce forgot her presence as he took command of Vee Twelve. She watched the repeater board, but her mind was not upon it, no matter how hard she tried.

Twenty-nine, yesterday. And no one, but no one, had wished her 'many happy returns'.

Chapter 12

Necessity is not only the mother of invention; it is also the mother of discovery.

PROFESSOR HANS KONINBURGER

Koninburger could not pinpoint the reason for his disturbance. The only comparison he could find was the way he felt when he was about to go on and address the UNO assembly of scientists. But he had no such ordeal in front of him now...

Once more, score in hand, he tried to turn his whole attention to the Prokoviev piano concerto No 4, the sound of which flowed round him as though he were in an acoustically perfect concert hall... and after he had turned four pages, reading the music as it came to him from the loudspeakers, he left off turning, and his eyes saw nothing as his mind wandered...

He needed fresh air... He went to the air indicator; gases needed by man registered as being present in exact proportion, along with the humidity scale reading. He turned and sat in the chair again, not following the score, but lying back, eyes closed, letting the music envelop him. Perhaps it had been too harassing a day; what he felt now was the residual emotion. He let his mind check over the rows of machines, past the banks of computers, each there to do its tiny part in the problems which he, Koninburger, had set out, sub-dividing his calculations, to which he alone knew the complete plan, he and the forty-odd cassettes of tape to

which he had committed his picture of the structure of past, present and future. And in the future plans there lay, in one cassette, the manner in which the geon paths and their variations might be plotted. He smiled to himself; it was not often he indulged in self praise, but in this instance he might be excused.

Perhaps this might be it, perhaps this might settle the indefinable yearning which seemed to be creeping over him. If he listened to his own voice on those last two tapes upon which the plans for the future were reasoned out, it might calm him.

Once more, he changed his mind. 'What you need, Hans, is a fresh human contact,' he murmured to himself. 'A fresh... yes. Other people grow stale on too much acquaintance. .. How my top men must dislike me. It is the overriding sense of duty which prevails, of course, but...' He picked up the receiver of the vidphone. 'Operator.'

'Sir?'

'Put me through to Mr Chalovsky, please.'

'Ch—' The operator, though instructed to be ready for such calls, was nevertheless startled, for something less than a second. Then discipline and training showed. He said: 'Professor, Mr Chalovsky is sleeping. I don't think I should wake him. He works almost as hard as you do. I can, of course, leave a message for him to read when he wakes. Would that do?'

The duty officer, a former Corps man named Douglas, listened on a spare earpiece, his eyes bright.

'No. Not really. I felt I wanted - all of a sudden, I wanted—'

'Sir?'                                                                    '

'I wanted to talk to a practical man who knows spaceships very well, someone who - who - who has been on the spaceways and feels as well as knows what this whole thing is about... someone who can, through his experience, understand how I feel on this possibly dangerous threshold..

The pale face on the screen lapsed into a temporary vacuity. The operator saw that the duty officer, keeping out of the range of the vid scanner, had slid forward a piece of paper, which bore three words. The operator relaxed. He said: 'Sir, I don't think we shall be able to get Mr Chalovsky; but we could locate Captain Bruce, for you, and have him meet you in the morning...?

The duty officer, out of scanner range, nodded emphatically.

Koninburger sighed. 'Bruce. Commander - no - Captain Bruce, now. A fine officer. Yes. Yes, it would be very satisfactory to talk to him. Yes. Thank you, operator. A wise suggestion. Yes. In the morning.' He managed a faint smile. 'Yes. I think I shall be able to rest, now, when the good Dr Uschl has performed his ministrations. Thank you.' And Koninburger broke contact. The operator expelled air, gulped with relief and said: That was a narrow one. But how can we get Captain Bruce... I mean, with Vee Twelve only in orbit, now, by the time he gets down here he won't fancy missing his sleep, will he?'

The ex-Corps man shook his head. 'Sonny boy, you've got a hell of a lot to learn about the Corps in general and Bruce in particular. He'll do forty hours' duty at a stretch. He's also not tolerant of anyone who can't do likewise. Give him a buzz, and I'll talk to him.'

'Babadan,' the alien said.

They were using the laborious but throat-saving speed up and run down method of conversation with the tape machine.

'Yes.' Creighton always watched the alien's face, though it was a face which never gave anything away, never registered any emotions. He was not in the least daunted; rather was he uplifted by the knowledge that he, of all Earth's scientists, was making some progress in the vast assignment represented by the pink, placid creature before him.

'Ba, how am I like your people? Am I like them at all?'

'You are like. You work hard, but often you work where there is no reason. You will soon come to the end of your discovery of me, because you know only me.'

'Perhaps,' Creighton said, 'if I were to visit your home planet...? Would that help?'

'That would be of use.'

'In order that we may begin to understand each other?' Creighton nodded; the alien, who had picked up the affirmative gesture, nodded also.

'I am still a worthy person to you, Ba?'

'Yes, you are still worthy, Creighton.' Unmoving, he asked Creighton a question. 'When we land on Babadan, which you call Balomain Four, will they allow me to walk freely on the planet surface, to see and understand what is going on? You realize that I know something of the work being done there, already.'

It was a reminder to Creighton that this creature could listen to computers and any other kind of signal through the circuits of the ship. It was a fact which made him uneasy, until he thought of what his true duty was - to find out about this alien; everything, including the Captain, whom Creighton neither liked nor respected, came a long way second to that...

Ba said: This person for whom you have great regard is awaiting you. This Niebohr person. A female thing, as you have explained... curious..

'You know the Niebohr person is there?'

'I know. I know that you want this person.'

Tes.'

This person wants you.'

'I hope that the person does.'

'I think so.'

Creighton seemed to feel a certain unsteadiness within him.

'Who is first in your mind, Creighton?'

'You know that. I may want the Niebohr person—'

'In this curious physical way—'

'Yes, Ba. But you I need. When the time for great decisions comes, I shall be with you. Let there be no doubt about that.'

A voice spoke, slightly distorted. It said: 'Drill for planet- fall begins in ten minutes from now.'

Elsa Niebohr was talking to Dr Anderson Fane. As usual, she was winning, seated in the office of her private ship, the Loudon.

'Doctor Fane, the promises we have made for your services will be carried out; we owe you another million credits.'

Fane was still stumbling, trying to get his bearings. 'But - if what you say is true, I have - bungled the job on Koninburger!'

"Open that case beside you.'

Fane did so. 'Cassettes - about forty, I'd say. Well?'

Those cassettes are Koninburger's personal account of the work done here. Add to that what there is in the computer banks, and you will see why, in our opinion, you have succeeded.'

Fane sighed and shook his head.

'In your daily report, you tell of increased restlessness in Koninburger, now that he has virtually reached the end of his task from the theory point of view; he has, in fact, gone beyond theory in some instances. We have all we need of Koninburger, just in time.' And once again she enjoyed seeing those who could not see as far as herself struggle to understand - and fail.

Fane said: 'To me, there seems to be only one interpretation to put upon what you have said. Despite our agreement and contract, you were expecting me to fail!'

'Bull's eye.'

She wanted to laugh at his expression.

'You were chosen even though you would fail eventually. But you were known as a hard and patient worker, and we felt that you would manage to keep Koninburger and his

GNP in order for a considerable time. As you know, his form of the condition is Catling's syndrome, which cannot be cured. Believing this, my father chose you to do the next best thing.'

She saw emotions chase across Fane's face. Anger was there, bewilderment, sadness... and the sadness remained.

'Knowing all this about Koninburger, and about myself—'

'We spied upon you both, very efficiently. And we decided that the risk was worth taking. We were right.'

'It doesn't matter, then,' Fane said with bitterness, 'if Koninburger, one of the master spirits of our age, will die here, slowly, shaking with terror, curled up in a foetal position, desiring only the womb, and peace, and finding neither?'

'Dr Fane. I am in business, just about the biggest single business in the whole of the explored galaxy. For running that business I have two qualifications only; one, the ability to see what is wanted, two, the ability to ensure that we get what we want. Do you have any further questions?'

Fane got slowly to his feet. Another man cut down to size; it had been a good day - or night, whatever it was outside.

Fane said: 'I would like to tell you something about yourself, Miss Niebohr. Your driving force is your hatred of men; you hated your father, and your brothers, and now you are in a state in which you must continue to conquer men, as you see it, either with sex or with commercial might. You are obsessed, through and through, and just as you live by this fact, one day you will die by it.'

She would not descend to anger, though what he had said angered her greatly. She said: 'No doubt you will take your second million!'

'Yes,' he replied, 'I'll take it At least it will always remind me of what I truly am.'

Bruce did not hesitate when he got the message. He decided on a dawn touchdown and, once on the inhospitable surface of Balomain Four, left Lindstrom in charge of securement, shutdown and doming.

The elevator took him down to Koninburger's level, and a small railcar transported him along the smoothly tunnelled way, where the white-blue lights cleated above made the rock surfaces take infinitely varied patterns. As he quitted the railcar, a door opened, and Dr Baksh was there to greet him.

'Ah, Captain. Good of you. Make sure you catch up with your sleep. He's in reet good form, knowing you agreed to come at once.'

Bruce was not sure about the word 'reet' as pronounced by Baksh; maybe it meant 'right'. He said: 'First things first.'

Baksh took him in, offered bourbon which was accepted. Baksh said: 'He works very hard, as you probably know. It's a measure of his progress in this enterprise that he now needs to talk to a practical spaceman.'

That's my brief?' Bruce asked.

'Precisely. Whatever he says, try to pick on any practical difficulty.' Baksh paused. 'I know that you, Captain Bruce, are no "yes man".'

Koninburger came in, tall, pale, white-haired and slightly stooping. Bruce could not help but reflect that a man's life wrote itself upon his face.

'My dear Bruce, how good of you to come at once! I will take you to my private workroom. The good Dr Baksh will be within call. Isn't it strange? Always to have a doctor within call does deadly things to a man's ego. But I try to stay humble...'

They went through a door, walked along a shining alloy corridor, where another door opened to Koninburger's thumb pattern. Bruce did not quite know what to expect. Consequently, when he saw that it contained only a bench upon which stood a small computer, with several large wall screens and a control console, he was somewhat surprised. The place was comfortably furnished. Koninburger

motioned Bruce to a seat, sat himself down, and favoured his visitor with a fixed smile. 'Now, Captain,' he said, 'tell me what you expect from me.'

"You mean - what do I imagine you're doing here?'

'Yes. Listen. For the time being you are more than just your skilful self; you represent spaceship captains everywhere. What do you want?'

'Parity of power with the aliens.'

'Captain, you have experienced at least one kind of alien. Whether the one that you have imprisoned in your ship is of the race which has blasted colonial planets is not certain.'

'Creighton is pretty sure that it is.'

'Yes. But let us cast enmities aside - enmities between other races in space and ourselves. Give me an objective examination, Captain Bruce. I shall enjoy it.'

'Have you completed the math?'

'Barely.'

Then you will know how right or wrong the Wheeler "geon" theory is.'

'We know that it is correct.'

That's magnificent!'

Koninburger raised a pale hand. *We know - on paper. Long, long strips of paper. But of course, I have been preparing for this work of ours for close on twenty years. It is, maybe, the reason I was born - but perhaps you find that too much to swallow.'

'If it works, that's all that matters.'

'Good. Look at us, Bruce. We are men from the same planet and race, yet we might be from different worlds. But we agree.' He rose, walked to a dark screen. A switch, and the thing began to pulse faintly. 'If we find that Wheeler was right, then our next job is to create a survey vehicle which is traceable in subspace.'

Bruce was silent for ten seconds. Then he said: 'It's a staggering thought. Surveying just a tenth of this little galaxy might take man a thousand years.'

'It might. Or it might well be a ten-year job - no more.'

The routes that we find will have to be classified—'

'No,' Koninburger said. 'What you are doing is to suggest that we have to find every one. We must trace those that we need.'

'And suppose one subspace route bifurcates, taking some poor bloody Earth ship instantly in the wrong direction? You could have men lost in time, not merely in space - and to be lost in space is bad enough.'

'Yet the paths must be investigated, when the time comes.' He seemed to stir within, and his face became more mobile and enthusiastic as he took a letter from a folder. 'Look at this. Twelve final-year Sandpoint cadets have offered themselves as pilots for the first survey ships. They are prepared to die for Earth.'

Bruce took the letter; it was in two halves, the one in ideographs and the other in the English translation. He nodded, impressed. 'And every one Japanese.'

'Yes.' Koninburger took back the letter, replaced it with care in the folder. 'Happily we shall be doing without pilots for the first attempts.'

Bruce said, realizing something that was staring him in the face: 'Then - according to the way you are working, there really is no danger to Earth from this work?'

"None. Yet If we can trace the geon paths with small machines which constantly inform the parent bases of their positions, and I do not see why not, then it will be simple, but perhaps laborious. Indeed some of the work can be done from the ground, at the beginning at least.' He turned back to the screen, turned a dial. A clear picture of the stars over Earth's northern hemisphere glowed into life. *Now, let us suppose that you are in our solar system, and you want to see what you have to work on. It should be like - this.'

He turned another dial. A soft lilac mist spread across and through the picture, and it grew in intensity, until the stars dimmed and apertures grew from nothing, and showed themselves.

Bruce was fascinated, delighted - and humble. That's really how it should be?'

'I have enough confidence in myself to say that that is how it will be. One of my engineers devised a filter system so that the holes in space should show themselves just like that.'

Bruce said: 'There appears to be a hole blotting out Orion. Does that mean—'

'Ah. That is where I managed to be honest; there's a great puzzle. I could have faked it so that everything in the garden seems beautiful. It is not; you know far better than I the harshness and cruelty of space, it does not give up its secrets easily. But if - if we can begin true survey without risking human life, then all we shall lose will be a few thousand credits each time we send out a survey bug which does not return.'

'Bug?'

'That's what I call them. Here's a model, full size.'

It was like a long-finned bazooka bomb, seventy centimetres long by fifteen at its thickest point; a bulbous rear end made Bruce think of a miniature reactor. He said: 'So you are really quite advanced with the work.'

'We are quite advanced in hope, Captain Bruce. But I do not underestimate the difficulties which we shall most probably discover when, for example, we send the first bug into a hole in space, and maybe it disappears, or blows up, or even - foolish though it may sound - bounces back. And we must also rate the strong possibility that the alien who has so far ignored our attempts at retaliation may be taking a strong interest in our work. We know so little about them... Captain Bruce, have you any idea of the real resources and wealth of the Excelsior Corporation?'

Bruce said cynically: 'They don't pay tax any more. They just ask world government how much it needs.'

'Ah. Yes. There's many a true word spoken in jest. Now, in this little cupboard here, I have forty cassettes of my own droning voice giving a complete picture of the whole of our..

The cupboard was empty, save for a white card. Koninburger picked it up, read it, and quite impassively, handed it to Bruce. It read: 'Dear Professor Koninburger: This may seem a little ruthless, but I must protect my investment. Sincerely, Elsa Niebohr.'

Bruce read it and grimaced.

Koninburger said: 'Ex Excelsior semper aliquid novi.'

'She should not have done that,' Bruce said.

Koninburger shrugged. 'She has it on tapes, I have it in my mind. In any case, I am in her employ.'

Ten domes stood in the starved, icy wind of night. Eight were occupied by personnel, both Corps and civilian; the other two, vast structures which dwarfed the rest, stood a little apart. All domes were interconnected by transparent passages.

Both large domes were occupied; one was filled with the personal ship of Elsa Niebohr. The very middle of the oblately spheroidal ship was the private apartment of the owner, an owner who took both work and pleasure with a fierce gusto, who needed a succession of triumphs to please and maintain her. In the other dome squatted Vee Twelve.

Here, in her luxurious setting, there was another circular bed, and upon it were James Creighton and the lady owner herself. Now they were relaxed, and drinking wine.

'James, you are rather wonderful.'

Creighton sat up and clasped his hands round his knees. 'I've always thought so. To what aspect of my brilliance are you referri ng?'

She laughed. 'Well - three times in an hour. That's not bad.'

'I was hoping that you would say that it was rather good.' She mimicked. 'Oh, very well, then. Rather good.'

He said: 'I'll bet that this is the only ship so equipped.'

'I'm fond of my creature comforts, James.' 'I had noticed.'

'You've worked hard on that alien.'

'I work hard habitually.'

'I've noticed that too, and thank you.'

In the subdued lighting of her room, she saw him in profile. A big blond man, slim without being skinny, muscular without being overtly so. More than ever, now, she was determined to bag this one, firstly, to work for Excelsior Corporation, secondly... Why shouldn't he marry her?

'James...' 'Mmmm...?'

She was close to his side; all it needed was for her to slip a thigh over him, and he would rise again in passion. But she did not do this. She said: 'When it's safely back on Earth, won't your intensity of the study of the alien be shared out between a group of specialists? I mean - you won't be doing all the work yourself.'

'Earth knows we have an alien, of course. I have no doubt that Hurwitz will order the specimen to be taken back.'

'In Vee Twelve V

'Seems reasonable.'

'Why not the Loudon?' (It was she who chose that name. Those who did not understand her choice looked it up, and grimaced when they found the source.)

She set out to tease and entice him. 'If I were to make the offer, and the President agreed, then you could come back to Earth with me. Then you could look after us both.'

'Both?'

'The alien and myself. No - myself and the alien.'

He chuckled. 'I believe you'd try it on.'

'I would, I'm a girl who does her homework.'

All at once, Creighton laughed out loud. 'Oh, yes, try it on, by all means! We're still booked for another nine months in space, with five planets to call at! Oh, how bloody funny!'

'Bruce?'

'Yes, indeed my lovely. Bruce. He hates my guts.'

'And he can't fuck for little green apples.'

'What? Eh?' The laughter died, and Creighton wore a quizzical smile. 'Oh, you've tried him.'

Tried and found wanting. He left me for his duty, right in the middle of the performance.'

'Well I'm damned.'

'James, my sweet, do consider working for Excelsior.'

"There's my discharge; I'm on a three-year commission with the Corps, the least a doctor can do, and then only in special cases.'

'Of which you are one.'

'Indeed.'

'We could get round that.'

'I'm sure, my love, that you could get round anything or anybody.'

'You do a little of that, too.'

'Such as?'

'Bedding Lindstrom.'

'She asked me, you may like to know.'

'Did she now? Well, now I'm asking you, James.'

Elsa loved to play cat and mouse; especially did she like fooling the mouse and making it believe that it was the cat.

'You're asking me to get out of the Corps, and become Excelsior's Medical Superintendent at a yearly salary which is enough to build a spaceship, presumably.'

'I can get you out of the Corps. And I can give you the job. And me, if you like.'

Creighton was serious, now, she could see. That last item is one hell of an inducement.'

'Not forgetting that I like a change of scenery from time to time.'.

'Me too.'

'Married or not?'

'It might give me some little status. Won't someone start calling me "Mr Elsa Niebohr"?'

'Do you realize that already you have half-accepted my offer?'

'Sharp girl.'

'So what about the second half? Surely you know that you yourself are so distinguished that any subservience to me would be unthinkable. Or - at least - undetectable.'

Creighton's passion was down and his intellect up. 'Now just what do you mean by that?'

'How do you think I control Excelsior?'

'By expert delegation coupled with ruthless overall supervision.'

She liked his answer. She liked all of him more and more. 'That's a pretty good answer, James. Sp, take the job, eh? Chance of a lifetime.'

'Yes. Except for the undetectable bit. I'd like that explained.'

Now for it, she thought; if he takes this calmly, then he's one in a million. He's the man we need, and the one I want. She said: 'Could you give me a detailed account of your activities on the night of May 17th and 18th last?'

He did not show any emotion; for this, she admired him.

'I was riding you home. How could I forget that?'

'Before, James dear. How did you occupy the time between your rejection of my first offer of a job in the afternoon and your return to me at Excelsior building around midnight?'

He said nothing. He shook his head in mild despair, as though, she thought, he took her for some average woman; Elsa Niebohr, physiology apart, was nothing like the average woman. 'James. You spent the early part of the evening with some witless female of whom you got rid. You went to Jean-Claud Martin's hotel room, in disguise, and you killed him, to get your name at the top of the list for a short service commission doctor on Vee Twelve. Right?'

Leading Crewman Hans Muller, a thick, tousle-haired man from Hamburg, was one of the few crew members in the whole vast bulk of the Corps ship. It was a boring job, just walking the whole length and breadth of Vee Twelve, which was a mere half dozen switches off total shutdown. Taking the tour very steadily, it needed three hours and eleven minutes (Earth time) to complete one patrol well enough to satisfy PO Patel, in charge of the ship party. You couldn't fool Patel; he knew how long a proper walk-through should be. And there was no question of any patrol crewman stopping for a smoke in the course of his rounds; Patel searched every man for cigarettes or cigars. One bright spark, almost a year ago, who had cached cigarettes in various parts of the ship so as to collect en route, had been caught at it by one of the cigarettes being booby trapped, so that it stained his hand with a stream of green dye. He got himself a month's extra duties on refuse-and-sanitary detail, and a red entry on his dossier. Muller, a cigar man himself, always played it straight.

In hydroponics, he checked temperatures and liquid food levels, permitting himself one large, pear-shaped tomato from a great cross-bred vine which was staked right up to the three-metre ceiling, with hundreds of ripe and near-ripe fruit. Then, sucking it appreciatively, he took the elevator down to the next floor, which was sick bay. For a few moments he looked down the shining corridor. There would be a sick berth attendant on duty there, so why should he bother to go inside? Then he remembered that CPO Caiola might be there, and decided that he had better go right down and be seen inside the place.

In the warm, quiet sick bay, he found CPO Dockridge reading a book, lying comfortably in bed, his left leg lightly caged.

'Hello, Doc. Didn't know you were here.'

Dockridge looked glum. 'This leg. Bloody thing started to hurt. Tried to stick it, couldn't. Went to Maseba. No sympathy. He said to have it off. Bastard.'

Muller's eyes looked down to the far end, where a section was segmented off. 'What's that at the end?'

That's where Charlie Alien lives.'

'Oh?' Muller was interested.

'And you can't go in and say howdo, either. The inside door to his hutch is locked, and so's the outside, with the guard on it as usual.'

'What guard?' Muller's whole body stiffened.

'Stands outside, in the corridor.'

'There's no guard there,' Muller said.

'Go and have a look, fathead.'

Muller went outside. The corridor was empty. He moved cautiously, and came to the door. No guard, as he had said. He approached the door, opened it. In the dull red light, he could make out no figure on or in the bed. He switched on the overhead light. At his feet lay a crewman whose name he could not remember. The body lay flat on its back, and the open, staring eyes were those of a dead man.

How the corpse came to be inside the alien's place, Muller could not guess, any more than he could figure out how the guard had been made to open the door. But his duty was plain. He ran out and found the nearest alarm and mike. He thumbed the button, urgent, and a little scared. 'Leading Crewman Muller speaking. The guard is dead, and the alien has escaped!'

Creighton seemed quite steady. 'When did you last have anyone eliminated?'

"About six months ago.'

'Who was it?'

'It is of no importance to you, James. What is important is that, if you are caught, tried and convicted, then that wonderful brain of yours will cease to be a wonderful brain; all its glorious power will be reduced to a near-vegetable existence.'

She saw his shoulders sag; that was the true James Creighton ! All that had to be done was to threaten him with the reconditioning process which was carried out on the subject after proven murder. The greatest fear within him, was that one day his brain power might wane.

She glowed with triumph. She had him. She used her silkiest tones. 'Darling James. I needn't have told you that. You and I are the only two people who know.'

'What about the agent who dug out the information? He must have been a shrewd fellow. Is he still about? I'm thinking of blackmail; not yours, his.'

'He is no longer in our service.' She brought herself close to him. 'My sweet, that will be the last time I shall ever mention it. Don't you see, I have to look after Excelsior, just as you have to look after the alien? I think I truly love you; please, don't hesitate. How can you worry about the alien and what it means compared to what I mean?'

The alien represents my work; strangely, it represents part of me. Difficult to explain... No, wait. I can explain. Despite the fact I'm supposed to be sleeping in Vee Twelve, in the same room as the alien, I came to you. Bruce is a madman on duty and discipline, but I still came to you. Well... that's as near as I can get to an explanation.'

'It's enough, James. It tells me all I want to know, darling.' She slipped her body over his, and at once felt his rising heat.

Suddenly, an intercom speaker came to life. A man's alarmed voice spoke. 'Miss Niebohr there's the Commander from Vee Twelve—'

The sharp voice of Lindstrom cut in. Tou are defying Space Corps Authority in a triple A emergency! Get out of the way!' The words were followed by the unmistakable •phut' of a stun charge. Creighton slipped off the bed and switched on his communicator, which should have been left on anyway.

'Dr Creighton, are you there?' came the voice of the second-in-command.

'Yes.'

Then get your cock out and your clothes on!' she rapped. Tour blasted alien killed his guard and now he's loose. Move man, move!'

Hans Koninburger, once again, felt the urge to go to the surface. If he met Fane, or Baksh, or the devoted, apologetic little Uschl, they would not approve of his going up to surface. He appreciated that they wanted to protect him, but he also knew that, if it came to the point, they dared not forbid him to go. He had no doubt that they would come with him, one of them at least.

Dressed in parka, thick overboots, and with a bright red woolly cap, he rose to the surface in one of the four passenger elevators. No one took any special notice of him. This little 'break for freedom' made him happy.

The first dome into which he came by means of the elevator was largely occupied by the elevator's machinery. Passing through to another dome, he was pleased to see that this contained recreation huts and sleeping quarters. He found that his clothing was very warm; he had forgotten that the domes would be heated. In the light from within he could see the Loudon and Vee Twelve in their own huge domes. How magnificent a sight; but how more magnificent when all his own work would be put into practice and, annihilating space and time, man was truly free to go where he would...

For some minutes he stood in rapt meditation along these lines, until a disturbance of sorts brought his attention back to the humans in the domes. There was some scurrying about, quiet, not obtrusive, but certainly urgent. A passing PO called to him: 'Hey, take yourself a rifle and breathing mask and get outside, buddy! That alien's not in the domes, so maybe he went walkabout; move!'

This other world which Koninburger had never known, this area of sweat and danger and hard physical work, was now thrust at him. Breathing masks? Something to do with the cold, no doubt. Then where... Men ran past him, struggling on lined coveralls, picking up rifles and masks at the brightly illuminated dome lock. A spasm of fear disturbed Koninburger. He wanted none of this; he thought of his snug quarters deep below ground, and he had a great desire to return to them. He headed for the elevator, leaped between its doors, and sobbed with relief when the machine began to plunge downwards. He got out at his level, scurried down the corridor, and found his door. He collapsed into a chair and lay there panting and feeling a warm protectiveness stealing over him...

He did not know how much later it was when he opened his eyes. He was still in the chair, untidy, overwarm. He stripped off the warm clothing.

He was not alone.

There was the strange figure in front of him, goggled, dressed in a white coat such as hundreds of the workers of the project wore.

Koninburger attempted to speak rationally. 'Who are you?'

The voice which replied astonished and alarmed him. Koninburger did not instantly divine that these high notes were the lowest it could manage.

'I came down,' it said, 'to set in motion reactions in all the machines dependent on pile power. Now I find you.'

Chapter 13

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Julius Caesar

Lindstrom and her party were checking the domes at ground level. An all-male squad was roaming the bone-chilling outside darkness of Balomain Four. Bruce himself had four men, each armed with a Meissner rifle. He was on the point of checking the underground system, where the warning had been relayed, when Creighton found him.

Creighton saw quiet savagery in the Captain's face. 'You took your time!' Bruce said. 'I know but—'

Bruce gripped him by the lapel of his uniform. 'Listen, is there anything that alien can do - that you know it can do - that you haven't told us about?'

'It can punch a man inside his head, numb his brain—' 'That way, it can kill. The guard on sick bay was a victim. Now, expert, think! Where's that pink bastard liable to be? What's its ambition?'

Creighton, in the space of a second, had the scene impressed deeply upon his mind. The swift urgency of movement in other domes, the eerie lighting, the grim expressions on the crewmen's faces... 'Well?' rapped Bruce.

Creighton knew that he had to get to Ba first, and, if

necessary, shield the alien with his own body.

'For God's sake, Creighton, will you answer! Is it below ground?'

'It's - likely,' Creighton said. He suddenly felt an enormous pressure on his mind. 'If Ba is going to go below - you see, we don't know how long it's been out of its room... If it knows anything about the project at all - like from when it went into Lindstrom's mind and brought her back to consciousness - then it might well go below...'

'Elevators!' Bruce snapped. He ran with his party to the four great cages. On one glowed an 'out of order' light. "Right, use all three, split up - first level. We'll check down from there!'

The cages speeded down, stopped with a jolt. Men hurled themselves out. The door almost opposite the shafts, marked 'Generators One' was ajar.

This way!'

Inside the generator room, three human figures lay spread- eagled on the floor. Ten dials had a red segment; on all the segment glowed angrily.

Bruce snapped. 'Pull these red-topped levers. Fast!'

It took ten seconds to drop the piles of each generator a thousand metres below the lowest level of Project Elkan, and each pile was capped, plugged - and they were safe.

Bruce consulted a wall chart. It showed all the generator systems. He detailed his men. 'You, level three, room seventeen. You level four, room six, you, level eight, room one, you, level nine, room three. Any dial showing red, pull the red-topped lever. Move!'

The pink-fleshed creature with the goggles said to Koninburger: 'You are the one. You are the real danger to our people. Let me tell you first, all your records down here are wiped clean, by my mind power. And I have discovered your weakness. Now I tell you. You are not on your own planet. You are far, far from where you think you are. You are far from your Earth. That will kill you.'

Koninburger watched the creature pass him to the door. The chief man on Balomain Four opened his mouth, wide. Strangled sounds came from it. Then he began to weep, and to curl up in the chair. He trembled; he was condemned.

More and more armed men made their way into the workings, each ready to kill on sight. More importantly, technicians of all grades returned to see if there had been any sabotage on the computers. It soon became plain that the alien had relied on the self-contained reactors going critical and splitting the area as they blew. But the search went on, every shaft, every spoil tub, every which way in the workings; nothing was missed. And the alien was not there.

Bruce said to Panos: 'You be in charge of this squad. There's something I must do.' 'Sir!' Panos acknowledged.

Bruce found his way to Koninburger's quarters. The man was lying curled up, his eyes tightly closed, his mouth open, his body shivering, and spittle oozing from his lips. Bruce shuddered. He figured he knew what sort of death the frail genius was dying. He hoisted Koninburger over his shoulder, and made for the elevator. At ground level, he could see lights in the surrounding hills. He dumped the hapless scientist in Admiral Carter's quarters, this being the nearest place, and begged the Admiral to find Baksh or Maseba to see if there was anything that could be done, and Carter went at once on the errand.

Venturer Twelve was on shutdown 'E' which meant that the whole great vessel was almost completely out of action. Creighton had made his way to the bridge without difficulty; one elevator was still working. His heart was pounding. The understanding that he had with Ba - that he was sure he had with Ba - was that when Ba chose to go, he, Creighton, would be with the alien. Starlight alone illuminated the bridge. A figure padded across the metal floor. Below where the Commander had his seat and his repeater board, a dim figure moved.

'Ba,' Creighton said.

The alien turned. 'Creighton,' it squeaked.

Creighton came forward. 'You are going?'

It was a fantastically unreal sound, this conversation, the one squeaking high and finding it difficult, the other going as low as possible. But it worked.

'I go.'

'You can go, in this ship?'

'Yes. I think my way through each circuit, many times.'

'You can make the antigrav start, and control the engines, you can bridge the shutdowns?'

'Of course.'

'And I am coming too.'

In the starlight, they faced each other. 'Did I say so?'

Creighton gasped. 'Yes, you said so. You said that if your people needed an interpreter, a go-between, when they conquer Earth, then I would be the right man to rule Earth! All I've ever wanted, from the time I began to study your life form, was to join you. Only your race, with its superior intellect, is good enough for me! I can be useful to you!'

No sound. If the creature knew laughter, it did not show it.

'Ba. Don't you hear me? I want to come with you, to your people!'

In comparatively measured tones, it said: 'You do not know what you are saying. My people consider me to be good for very little, being of low intellect and unstable mind. That was why they agreed to let me do something useful, and act as a decoy for your cursed ship!' The alien ripped off a dial, took the leads in his hand. "Now, I bridge all the gaps, and I can leave the ground in this ship, taking the dome with me!'

Then the alien stood tense, leads in hand, and eight thousand, nine hundred and seventy-three fuse boxes, all over the ship, blew like so many muffled Chinese crackers.

A second after, before either the alien or Creighton could move, a powerful torchlight shone down upon them from the Commander's chair.

'Well,' Bruce's voice was heard to say, 'I want to enjoy killing this pink, goggled bastard!'

Creighton yelled. 'No, no, you must not!'

'My gun's levelled,' Bruce said, from the darkness, and Creighton shivered. Everything he had planned for...

"No, you mustn't shoot!'

'Ask your pink friend how it attacked those two sentries, apart from any others!'

Ba squeaked and Creighton translated: 'I punch them with my mind!'

Then you've done punching,' Bruce said, and fired.

He missed; a needle from Creighton's pocket gun hit his rifle and zoomed away, like an angry bee.

'You too, then,' Bruce said, and shot Creighton in his left eye, from which the blood gushed as though from a mountain freshet; in the next second, the alien got a charge full at its head, and collapsed on the floor of the bridge.

Bruce remained where he was for half a minute; he stood his rifle in the nearest corner. Far away, someone was yelling; in six different parts of the ship emergency generators began to hum. A few lights came on. One appeared over Bruce's vantage point. He stood and lit a cigar, and then returned to his leaning with both hands on the rail, looking down. He felt no emotion over having killed Creighton, any more than he cared for the life of the alien. Bruce took it personally, and did what he saw as his duty at the same time.

World Admiral Carter arrived, along with Maseba and Lindstrom.

'Tom.'

'Yes, Admiral?'

'Was this killing necessary?'

Maseba went to the two still forms.

'I figure it was,' Bruce said, 'and I command the ship.'

Lindstrom stood apart from them.

These two had a plan of some sort?'

'Creighton thought that he was going to escape when the alien escaped, that he would join 'em, as he couldn't beat 'em.'

Maseba looked up, startled.

'Yeah?'

'Charlie Alien wasn't having any. All it got was a few thousand blown fuses.'

Maseba got up. His face was grave. 'So, all we have is a dead supermedic and an alien, and we don't even know if the alien was really a Kilroy.'

'All right, George,' Bruce said, 'just you tell me what you'd do if one guy was out to kill you with a needier and the other was going to give you a death punch in the middle of your head. Any suggestions better than mine?'

'No. But—'

'But what?' Bruce's manner was arrogant; he could have been enjoying it.

Things should never - I mean, this sort of thing... well, we ought to be better organized. Like Koninburger, who'll soon be dead—'

'That Niebohr bitch knew he would die. But she gambled on his being able to do his work up to the point where lesser men could carry on; and her gamble came off.' His voice rasped. 'For Pete's sake, George, people are disposable, didn't you know that?'

Lindstrom had no feeling for the dead alien but she could not bear to look at Creighton's smashed and bloody head.

Panos arrived, sweating, and relaxed when he saw the dead.

Maseba said to Bruce: 'Yeah. Disposable. But some are more disposable than others. It's lucky for all of us that there are hard nuts like you, Tom.'

Then don't complain. Get that shit off my bridge, and send a GD detail to clean up. Those two have been nothing but bloody nuisances ever since they came aboard.'

Under her breath, Lindstrom, unable to contain the words, muttered to Panos: 'Has he no feelings?'

'He's right,' Panos said; 'one hundred per cent.'

Carter called: 'Tom, I back you fully on this.'

Maseba spoke to the Admiral. 'You, sir, will please go to your quarters, where I will give you the first of a series of sedations for your transplant. Your heart will arrive by drone tomorrow morning.'

Carter scratched his fuzzy pate, looked from the dead bodies to the blackness of Maseba's face, then at Lindstrom and Panos, and finally at Bruce.

'Damn funny time to say it,' he rumbled, 'but while there's life, there's hope.' He turned to go. 'I'm on my way, George.'

Dan Morgan and John Kippax (John Hynam)

John Hynam's very recently acquired Mini veered across the white line into the path of an oncoming lorry at Werrington, just a few miles outside Peterborough, on the afternoon of 17 July 1974. The driver of the lorry was fortunately unharmed, but John was killed instantaneously. He left a wife, Phyl, who is in hospital and a daughter, Jennifer, who last week gave birth to his first grandson, an event which he was awaiting with eager anticipation.

Our friendship and collaboration stretch back over so many years that even now, after attending his cremation, it is difficult for me to avoid the feeling that he may be on the other end of the line every time the telephone rings. John had a larger-than- life physical and psychic presence. Likeable, eccentric, egocentric, kind, brusque, take your pick from the thesaurus to describe him, he was all of these and more. A man of tremendous enthusiasms, he died as he lived, at full speed.

At present I am confined to the UK, having once more taken over the full-time management of my menswear business. Almeria seems a very long way on this rainy Sunday afternoon, and my time for writing is nonexistent My commitments over the past year or so have been such that the fourth novel in the 'Stars' series, Where No Stars Guide, was with our mutual agreement written by John alone. The fifth, which I look forward to working on in 1975, will unfortunately be another solo effort, although I know that I shall feel the spirit of John very close to me when I once again enter the world of Tom Bruce, Helen Lindstrom and Henry Fong - not to mention Admiral Junius Farragut Carter, who was John's own wryly conceived self-caricature.

Dan Morgan Spalding, 4 August 1974

End of Where No Stars Guide

Table of Contents

A prologue and a link

Chapter I

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Dan Morgan and John Kippax (John Hynam)

End of Where No Stars Guide