The Red Planet (8 page)

However, apart from complaining yet again of Whitaker’s strange manner and his persistent, almost sullen silence, Frank could tell us very little, although he did say that the construction engineer had seemed to take a quite remarkable interest in anything that came through on the radio, and added: “He was always asking if he could take my radio watch.” “Did you let him?”

“No, of course not; it’s against regulations, except in an emergency. Besides, I thought it rather an odd request from a fellow who was always telling me that ‘orders must be obeyed without question at all times’.”

“Seems to be his favourite phrase,” said Jet to the rest of us. “But when he did get to the radio,” he asked Frank, “was there anything odd about the way he carried on?”

“Well, I remember one occasion--I came out of the cargo hatch after a routine check and found him tuned into Control and listening to the messages being passed between this ship and base.”

“Oh? Had he been ordered to listen in on Control’s frequency?”

“No. He was supposed to be on the ship-to-ship wavelength. And the other odd thing about it was that he’d recorded everything Control had said.”

“Only Control’s transmissions, not ours?”

“That’s right, Jet.”

“You tackled him about it, of course?”

“Yes, but he said you’d called him up and asked him to keep check watch on Control as reception wasn’t too good and you didn’t want to risk not hearing anything vital.”

“Well, it is possible,” said Jet, “but we’ll check up. Can you let me have the actual date?”

“When I get back to my ship I can.”

“Good. Then that’s all, Rogers--and thank you very much. What you’ve just told me may well prove very useful.”

Half an hour after he got back to his own ship, Frank came through and gave Jet the date he had requested. At once I checked back in the log and I must admit that what I found there was no surprise to me. I told Jet and a few moments later heard him say: “Hullo, Frank--can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ve looked up the log. Number Four was on check watch.”

“I thought that might be the case, sir,” came back Frank’s voice; “and I took the matter a little farther.”

“Oh. How?”

“I checked back on the recorder to that date, too.”

“Well?”

“The recordings of Control’s messages during that transmission are missing.”

“You mean that Whitaker didn’t record them after all?”

“Oh yes, he did, sir, but the tape has been cut and that particular section removed.”

“Has it? Well, that proves a lot. Nice work, Frank--and thanks.”

“Thank you, sir.” There was a click as Rogers disconnected his transmitter.

It was quite clear now what had happened. We had, indeed, heard Control--but not from Earth. What we had heard was the recorded voice of Control relayed to us by Whitaker from Freighter No 6. He had recorded Control’s voice while he was in Number Two and carried the tapes on him. Had Jet not transferred him to Number Six, it would no doubt be Freighter Number Two which was missing now.

Had he known all along that the ionised gas lay ahead of us and that when we passed through it communication between the Fleet would be impossible, thus affording him the chance to abscond with No 6? Or had he merely taken an opportunist’s chance to make off with her? And, either way, who was Whitaker and what was he up to? Why was there so much mystery about his identity and why did he wish to prevent the Fleet reaching Mars which, we could only conclude, was his intention?

We talked it over for a couple of hours but came no nearer reaching a solution. Every ship was put on a rota to keep watch on Control’s frequency---to report to the Discovery the moment anything was heard, whether the call was thought to be a spurious one from the missing Number Six or a genuine one from Control itself. But, in spite of the constant watches, no contact was made with anybody outside the Fleet.

Another two weeks went by, two uneventful weeks during which we covered another ten million miles, bringing our total since takeoff to one hundred and twenty-nine million. We were rapidly approaching the half way mark.

The Fleet still kept perfect formation, except for the gap between Freighters Five and Seven that should have been occupied by Number Six. We were travelling at something over thirty thousand miles an hour, but to all appearances the ships still hung motionless in the star-studded, velvet black sky.

For nineteen days after the mysterious call from Whitaker nothing untoward was noted in the log and then Lemmy, who, for the sake of a change, had taken over radar watch from Mitch for a spell, had something to report.

“There’s something out in front of us, Mitch,” said the Cockney. “I’m getting a signal on the screen.”

“What is it?”

“How should I know? But it isn’t very large. Minute as sizes go out here.”

When Jet was told of Lemmy’s find he ordered all ships to keep watch and make regular reports. Before long we were able to place the mysterious object at no more than four thousand miles ahead of us. Further calculations told us that we were overtaking it at roughly a thousand miles an hour which would put its speed at approximately twenty-nine thousand. However, we had no hope of making even a moderately accurate guess at the identity of the object until we got closer.

When the gap had narrowed to around two thousand miles, Mitch declared that he thought he could detect the object through the telescope. He wasn’t sure, he said, because what he could see was not much larger than a pinpoint and, with all the stars in the background, what he was seeing could well be a star, too. But ten minutes later he was convinced that he had got it, for his ‘pin-point’ had grown slightly in size.

Jet called over to me to ask if I’d picked up anything on the televiewer, but I had to admit that I hadn’t. By now Jet and Mitch were taking turns at the telescope. The object was getting steadily larger and just about an hour after

Mitch had first picked up the image Jet declared that it was definitely globe-shaped.

It was about then that I managed to detect the object on the televiewer. It was exactly as Jet had said; globe-shaped, and the sun was lighting it up on one side. It was like a tiny planet. Maybe that’s what it was--or an asteroid at least.

Soon all the ships were reporting that the object was globular, although nobody cared to make any guess at its size as yet. I heard Lemmy, who had just received the reports in from the freighters, telling Frank Rogers not to let the diameter of the thing worry him; in another hour he would probably be able to put a tape measure round it.

Quite suddenly there was an exclamation from Mitch over at the telescope. “Strewth!” he yelled, “I know what this is. It’s a ship--a space ship!”

“Eh?” said Lemmy in surprise.

“Yes,” said Mitch. “It’s Number Six! The reason it looks globular in shape is that its crew cabin is facing us and the rest of the structure is blocked out.”

“Let me get at that telescope,” demanded Jet. He peered into it steadily for a few minutes. At last he said: “Mitch is right. She’s still very small but no other object in the heavens could look like that. And we’re overtaking her rapidly. In an hour or so we’ll be passing her.”

“I’ll say we will,” said Mitch, “at a thousand miles an hour.”

“Not if we slow down,” said Jet. “We could drop down to her speed and coast alongside her.”

“What--the whole Fleet?” protested the engineer. “Think of the fuel consumption.”

“No,” said Jet, “not the whole Fleet. Just us--the
Dis
covery.” Then, as Mitch looked at him blankly, he added, almost pleadingly: “Look, Mitch. Whitaker is aboard that ship. I want to know why he went speeding off on his own, and why he sent us that stupid message that was supposed to be from Control. Above all, I want to know what’s happened to Peterson.”

“All right,” said Mitch. “If that’s what you say we do, we do it.”

Leaving the Fleet in the care of Frank Rogers, the pilot of Freighter Number Two, Jet gave us our orders for turning the Discovery over, which was necessary before we could bring the motor into play and slow the ship down. It was an extremely tricky manoeuvre but we managed it and soon we were coasting alongside the wayward freighter. We looked at her image on the televiewer but nothing we saw gave us any clue as to what drama might be taking place aboard her.

“All right, Doc,” Jet said to me at last, “put your suit on.”

“Eh?” said Lemmy. “Now wait a minute, Jet. You don’t intend going over there, do you? Not before you know everything’s all right in that ship?”

“What other choice have we, Lemmy?”

“But the door isn’t even on this side. Before you reach it you’ll have to pass out of our sight.”

“The personal radios will be on. You can talk to us.”

“Well, if you say so,” Lemmy agreed reluctantly. “But I tell you, mate, I don’t like it. It may be a trick just to get you in there.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Jet told him. “Doc,” he said to me as I finished fastening my suit, “let’s go.”

“Hatch opening,” said Lemmy resignedly, and pressed the control.

There was a click, a hiss of air and the circular door which led to the airlock slowly opened.

Our manoeuvre of slowing down the Discovery and bringing her alongside Number Six had been carried out so well that less than fifty yards separated the two ships. It was, consequently, an easy matter for Jet and I to drift over to the freighter and secure ourselves to it. To reach the main door, however, it was necessary for us to walk round the hull. Jet led the way.

We climbed over the ship and down the other side while Mitch gave us a commentary on how we looked from the Discovery. Of course, as we neared the far side we were lost to Mitch’s view and he announced the fact the moment we disappeared. Then came an exclamation of surprise from Jet.

“Good heavens, Doc,” I heard him say over the radio, “the main door’s open!”

“What?” said the startled voice of Mitch in my ear-piece.

Jet repeated what he had said and then waited for me to arrive alongside him. Together we slowly made our awkward way down towards the door. It was open all right and the light inside the airlock was on.

“Can you find the remote control switches, Doc?” Jet asked me as I followed him into the tiny chamber.

“Yes, I’ve got them,” I told him.

“Well, see if they’re functioning.”

I pressed the button and could feel the vibration as the door slowly closed behind us.

“Well,” observed Jet, “at least the power packs in this ship are in working order.”

As soon as the door was shut I pressed the air contact and the lock filled up. We watched the little gauge near the control panel steadily rise with the air pressure. “OK, Doc,” said Jet, when it had reached maximum, “open the hatch.”

The circular door above our heads slowly folded back and we were bathed in a beam of light that shone down from the cabin above.

Jet and I looked at each other. We knew all too well that the noise of the hatch opening must have been heard by anyone in the freighter cabin; but nobody came to greet us. “Let’s go up there, Doc,” said Jet at last.

“Watch your step, cobber.” It was Mitch’s voice coming over the radio. He could, of course, hear every word Jet and I were saying.

Once in the tiny cabin we looked around us. As far as we could tell, the place was empty. There was no sign of Peterson or Whitaker. It was uncanny.

“But they must be here somewhere,” said Jet.

“Not necessarily,” I told him. “The main door was open. They might have abandoned ship.”

“But why? Unless they wanted to commit suicide.”

“Having Whitaker as a crew mate,” I reminded him, “might have driven Peterson to do just that.”

“Then where is Whitaker? He should be here at least.”

“Yes, I guess so,” I admitted.

“Hullo, look at this!” said Jet suddenly. He pointed to a number of empty food containers most of which were strewn all over the table, although one or two were still floating in mid-air.

“What a mess!”

“Check up on the oxygen supply and air conditioning. I’ll check the main control panel.”

After a few minutes I was able to say that everything seemed to be in order in my department, but Jet reported the main fuel tanks empty.

“They must have used it up when they put on a spurt to get away from the rest of the Fleet,” I suggested.

“Yes, and somebody must also have slowed the ship down again,” said Jet, “otherwise we would never have caught up on her. And I’d say that somebody was Whitaker.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but what was Peterson doing meanwhile?”

“Heaven knows. Let’s get over to the radio panel and take a look at the log.”

There we found a further mess; recording tape was strewn all over the floor. “Try and get it back on to the spool, Doc,” Jet said. “Later we’ll play it back.”

While I was sorting out the tape, which was quite a complicated business as it was terribly tangled, Jet called up the Discovery on the ship-to-ship system. Mitch’s voice replied immediately, indicating that at least Number Six’s radio was working well.

“What’s going on over there, Jet?” Mitch asked.

“Everything’s in chaos,” Jet told him. “Half-eaten meals on the table, recording tape all over the floor--and no sign of the crew.”

“Do you think they’ve abandoned ship?”

“If they have they must have been stark, raving mad, both of them,” replied Jet. “I’ll call you later, Mitch. OK?”

“OK,” said Mitch, “I’ll keep a listening watch.”

Jet moved away from the radio to where I was still trying to disentangle the tape. “Looks like a long job,” he said.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“All right,” he said, “while you’re sorting that lot out I’ll do a bit of investigating on my own. I’ll look in the personal lockers first. See if they hold any clues.” But Jet had no sooner opened the door of Peterson’s locker when he let out an exclamation of surprise. “Hey, Doc. Peterson’s suit --it’s gone!”

I moved over to Jet’s side of the cabin, a long piece of tape in my hand, to see for myself. Sure enough the locker which should have contained Peterson’s suit was empty.