Текст книги "The Daleth Effect"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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“We read you loud and clear, Kylling. You are on course, though your acceleration is slightly more than optimum. Suggest a five percent reduction.”

“Roger. Will conform. Are you tracking us?”

“Positive.”

“Will you send turnover signal?”

“Positive.”

“Over and out.” He killed the power. “Did you hear that? Things couldn’t be better.”

“I have cut the acceleration by the five percent,” Arnie said. “Yes, things could not be better.”

“Would anyone like a Carlsberg?” Ove asked. “Someone has stuffed a whole case back here.” He passed a can to Nils, but Arnie declined.

“Finish them quickly,” he said. “We are not far from turnover, and I cannot guarantee that things will not get shaken up a bit. I could reduce the thrust to zero before I turned the ship, but that would put us in free fall for awhile and I would like to avoid that if I could. Aside from our personal feelings, the equipment just isn’t designed for it. Instead, I shall attempt to rotate the ship one hundred eighty degrees while maintaining full thrust, at which point we will begin to decelerate.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Nils said, squinting through the periscope and making a precise adjustment. “But what about our course? Is that what we use this gas pipe in the deck for? The one that Henning was moaning about because it needed a hole in his pressure hull?”

“That is correct. There is a wide-angle lens system here, with an optical gunsight fitted into it.”

“The kind used on fighter planes to fire the guns?”

“Precisely. You will keep the star centered as before. I envisage no problems.”

“No, no problems at all.” Nils looked around at the jury-rigged and hurriedly converted sub and shook his head in wonder. “Will one of you take the con for me for a minute? I have to go to the head… The beer, you know.”

Turnover went smoothly, and they would not have known they were rotating if they hadn’t watched the sunlight move across the deck and up the bulkhead. A few loose objects rattled, and a pencil rolled across the desk and fell.

Time moved swiftly. The sun glared and there was some discussion of solar storms and Van Allen radiation. These were no serious menace since the pressure hull of the submarine was a solid metal barrier, incredibly thicker than that of any rocket ever launched.

“Have you thought about talking to the cosmonauts?” Ove asked. He stood in the doorway of the engine compartment where he could watch the fusion generator and talk with the others at the same time.

“They are all pilots,” Nils said. “So they should speak English.” Ove disagreed.

“Only if they have flown out of the country. Inside the Soviet Union Aeroflot uses Russian. Only on international flights is English required for radio control. I put in six months there, at Moscow University, so I can talk to them if I have to. I was hoping that one of you was more fluent.”

“Hebrew, English, Yiddish, or German,” Amie said. “That’s all.”

“Just English, Swedish, and French,” Nils told them. “It looks like it is up to you, Ove.”

Like most Europeans with college education they took it for granted that one spoke at least one language other than his own. Like Scandinavians, two or three other languages were more likely. They assumed that the cosmonauts would speak something they could understand.

The computer kept track of their progress and, when the four hours were neaiing their end, they were informed that they could turn on their radio altimeter because they were nearing the point where it would be effective. Its maximum range was a hundred and fifty kilometers.

“Getting a fringe reading,” Nils called, excited. “The Moon is down there all right.” Since midpoint they had not seen the satellite which was beneath their keel.

“Let me know when we are about a hundred kilometers above the surface,” Arnie said. “I’ll roll the ship then so we can see through the side ports.”

There was a growing tension now as the spacegoing submarine hurtled down toward the Moon, still out of sight below them.

“The altimeter is unwinding pretty fast,” Nils said, his controlled pilot’s voice showing none of the tension he felt.

“I’ll raise the deceleration up to two G’s,” Arnie said. “Stand by.”

It was a strange sensation, as though they were suddenly growing heavier, with their arms pulled down and their chins sinking to their chests: their chairs creaked and their breathing labored. Nils moved his hand to the controls, and it felt as though weights hung from his arm. He weighed over four hundred pounds now. “Rate of drop slowing,” he said. “Coming up on a hundred kilometers. Rate of drop slowing to near zero.”

“I’m going to hover at this altitude while we look for the target area,” Arnie said. Thankfully. He was too obviously aware of the thudding of his heart as it labored to pump blood in the doubled gravity. As he adjusted the controls weight fell away, to one gravity, and past that, until it felt as though they would float free. Hovering now, they were in the grip of the Moon’s gravitic field, a mere one-sixth of that of the Earth. “Rotating,” he said.

Loose objects rolled across the deck and clattered against the wall as they tilted over; they clung to the arms of their chairs. White light flooded in through the port.

uIh; du Almaegtige!” Nils whispered. There it was. Filling the sky. Less than seventy miles below them. Cratered, streaked, pitted, dead and airless, another world. The Moon.

“Then we’ve done it,” Ove said. “Done it!” he shouted with rising excitement. “By God we’ve crossed space in this tub and we’ve reached the Moon.” He unhooked his belt and stood, staggering as he tried to walk in the lessened gravity. Sliding, half falling, he slammed into the bulkhead, unheeding, as he braced himself to look out of the port.

“Just look at that, will you! Copernicus, the Sea of Storms, now where would the Sea of Tranquility be? To the east, in that direction.” He shaded his eyes against the reflected glare. “We can’t see it yet, but it has to be that way. Over the curve of the horizon.”

Silent as a falling leaf Blaeksprutten tilted back to the horizontal, then rotated about an invisible axis. They had to lean back to balance themselves as the bow swung down and the Moon reappeared, this time directly ahead.

“Is that enough of an angle for you to see to navigate by?” Arnie asked.

“Fine. There’s worse visibility from an airliner.”

“Then I shall hold this attitude and this height and switch forward and lateral control to your position.”

“On the way.” Nils hummed happily to himself as he pressed gently on his control wheel.

* * *

The three cosmonauts stood to attention as best they could in the cramped module with limited floor space: Zlotnikova had his nose pressed practically against the colonel’s hairy shoulder. The last notes of “The Internationale” died away and the radio speaker hissed gently with static.

“At ease,” Nartov ordered, and the other two dropped into their bunks while he picked up the microphone and switched it on. “In the name of my fellow cosmonauts, I thank you. They stand behind me, and agree with me, when in this moment of victory, I say that you, fellow citizens of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, should not grieve. This is a victory for us all; for the Party Chairman, Members of the Presidium, workers in the factories where parts of the rocket and capsule were manufactured, to be assembled by…”

Lieutenant Zlotnikova’s attention wandered: he had never been one for either making speeches or listening to them. Stolidly, he had listened to thousands upon thousands of hours of speeches during his twenty-eight years on Earth. And on the Moon. They were an accepted evil, like snow in the winter and drought in the summer. They were there, whether one liked it or not, and nothing could be done about them. Best to ignore them and suffer them, which was where a fatalistic, Slavic state of mind helped. He was a fighter pilot, one of the best, and a cosmonaut, one of the few. Attaining these goals was worth any sacrifice. Listening to speeches was only a minor bother. Even death was not too high a price to pay. He had no regrets; the game was worth the candle. But he just wished it could be done with a few less speeches. The colonel’s voice droned on and he glanced out of the viewport, then turned quickly away since at least an appearance of courtesy was called for. But the colonel had his back turned, with his right fist clenched in a salute and marking time to the strong rhythm of his words. It must be a good speech. At least the colonel was enjoying it. Zlotnikova turned back to the port—then tensed abruptly at the slowly moving speck of light high above. A meteor? Moving so slowly?

“…and how many died in battle to preserve the freedom of our great land? The Red Army never hesitated to embrace death for the greater good, peace, freedom, liberty, and victory. Should Soviet cosmonauts shirk responsibilities, or ignore the realities of—angrily he brushed away the bothersome hand that was tapping him on the shoulder. “…the realities of space flight, of the complexity…”

“Colonel!”

“—the complexity of the program, the great machines, the responsibilities…” Bothering him in the middle of this speech—was the bastard mad? “…to all the Soviet workers who made possible…”

Colonel Nartov wheeled about to glare and silence the lieutenant. But. his gaze followed Zlotnikova’s pointing finger to the port, through the thick glass, across the cratered, airless moonscape to the small submarine which was slowly settling down out of the star-flecked sky.

The colonel coughed, gasped, cleared his throat, and looked at the microphone in his hand with something resembling horror. “I will complete this call later,” he said abruptly, and switched off. “What the hell is that?” he roared.

For obvious reasons, neither of the other men answered. They were shocked, silent, and the only sound was the whispering of their last bit of depleted atmosphere coming through the grill, the mutter from the radio of distant music as someone back on Earth started the band playing again to cover the untimely silence from the Moon.

Slowly the submarine settled, no more than fifty meters from their capsule, hovering daintily the last few centimeters above the gravel before easing itself down. There were some strands of very dehydrated seaweed plastered to its keel, thin streaks of rust at the stern.

“Danish?” Shavkun gasped, pointing to the flag painted on the small conning tower. “That is Danish, isn’t it?” Zlotnikova nodded, silently, then realized that his jaw was gaping open and closed it wife a sharp click. The radio rustled and squealed, and a voice came in over the music in very loud, very bad, Russian.

“Hello Vostok IV, can you read me? This is Blaeks-prutten, and I have landed near you. Can you read me? Over.”

Colonel Nartov looked at the microphone in his hand and started to turn it on. He stopped and shook his head, trying to rally his thoughts, then reached for the radio controls. Only after he had cut the output power to a trickle did he switch on the transmitter. For some automatic defensive reason, he did not wish Moscow to hear this conversation.

“This is Vostok IV. Colonel Nartov. Who is that speaking? Who are you? What are you doing here—” The colonel cut himself off abruptly, feeling that he was about to start babbling.

Aboard Blaeksprutten, Ove listened and nodded. “Contact established,” he told the others. “Better put that curtain up now while I get them over here.” He switched the radio on. “Govoreetye ve po AngleeskeeT* he asked.

“Yes, I speak English.”

“Very good, Colonel,” Ove said, changing with some relief to that language. “I am pleased to tell you that we are here to bring you back to Earth. In your broadcast a few minutes ago you said that all three of you are all right. Is that true?”

“Of course, but…”

“That’s fine. If you would get into your spacesuits…”

“Yes, but you must tell me…”

“First things first, if you please, Colonel. Do you think you could put on your suit and step over here for a minute? I would come myself, but unhappily we don’t have any space gear. If you don’t mind?”

“I am on my way.” There was a certain positiveness in the way the message ended.

“The colonel didn’t sound so happy for a man whose life had just been saved,” Nils said, threading the line through the grommets in the large tarpaulin that was spread out on the deck. It was gray and weatherstained, with a certain memory of fish lingering about it, perhaps from being stored near the marine life specimens in the hold of the Vitus Bering.

“He’s happy enough, I imagine,” Ove said, going to help the others with the clumsy canvas. “But I guess it will take a little getting used to. He was in the middle of a very dramatic sort of deathbed speech when we interrupted.”

They threaded the lines through ringbolts in the ceiling and hauled it up. It made a wrinkled barrier the width of the small cabin, cutting off sight of the Daleth unit and the fusion generator.

“Better not tie down this corner,” Ove said. “I have to get past it to reach the engine compartment.”

“It doesn’t seem a very effective barrier,” Nils said.

“It will do,” Arnie told him. “These men are officers and presumably gentlemen—and we are saving their lives. I do not think they will cause any trouble.”

“No, I guess not…” Nils looked out of the port. “Say, their lock is opening—and here comes someone. Probably the colonel.”

Colonel Nartov still had not adjusted to the changed circumstances. He had put on his spacesuit with automatic motions, ignoring the excited speculation of the other two cosmonauts, then stood calmly while they checked and sealed it. Now, jumping the last few feet to the surface of the Moon, he took a grip on himself. This was really happening. They were not going to die. He would see Moscow, his wife and family, again, and that was a pleasant thought. This strange craft had come to the Moon so it could undoubtedly return to Earth. Details would be explained later. Bringing his men back alive was his first concern. Head up, he strode toward the submarine, the dust and pebbles kicked up by his thick-soled boots falling back instantly to the airless surface.

A man was visible in the round port above, wearing a peaked cap of some kind, pointing downward with his finger and nodding his head. What on Earth—or the Moon—could it mean?

When the colonel came closer he saw that a thick-lidded box had been hurriedly welded to the hull. It was labeled телефон in black Cyrillic characters. He loosened the large thumb screw that held the cover into place, then swung it open and took out the telephone handset that was on a bracket inside. When he pressed it hard against his helmet the vibrations of his voice carried through well enough, and he could understand the man on the other end.

“Can you hear me, Colonel?”

“Yes.” The cord was long enough so that when he stepped back he could see the man with another telephone through the port above.

“Good, I’m Captain Nils Hansen, Danish Air Force, Senior Danish Captain with SAS. I’ll introduce the others when you come aboard. Can you reach the deck above you?”

The colonel squinted upward against the glare. “Not now. But we can attach a rope, working together, or something. The gravity is very light.”

“// shouldn’t be hard. Once on deck you will find that there is a hatch on top of the conning tower, unsealed. The conning tower is just big enough to hold three men, with crowding, and you will all have to come in at once since it is not a proper airlock. Get in, seal the top hatch just as tightly as you can, then knock three times on the deck. We’ll let the air in then. Can you do this?”

“Of course.”

“Can you bring whatever oxygen you have left? We don’t want to run short on the return trip. We should have enough, but it doesn’t hurt to have some extra”

“We will do that. We have a last cylinder that we have just tapped.”

“One final thing before you go. We have some—secret equipment aboard, out of sight behind a screen. We would like to ask you to avoid going near it.”

“You have my word,” the colonel said, drawing himself up. “And my officers will give you their word as well.^,, He looked at the big-jawed, smiling man through the thick port and, for the first time, the reality of this last-minute reprieve struck home to him. “I would like to thank you, for all of us, for what you are doing. You have saved our lives.”

“We are glad to be here, and very happy that we could do it. Now…”

“We will be back. In very few minutes.”

When he returned to the capsule, the colonel could see the two faces watching him through the port, close together, pressed to the glass like children at the window of a candy store. He almost smiled, but stopped himself in time.

“Get your suits on,” he said when he had cycled through the lock. “We are going home. Those Danes are taking us.” He switched on the radio and picked up the microphone in order to silence their stammered questions. The distant band, now playing “Meadowland,” moaned and died as his call went out.

“Yes, Vostok TV, we hear you. Is there any difficulty? Your last message was interrupted. Over.”

The colonel frowned, then switched on.

“This is Colonel Nartov. This is a final message. I am switching off and closing communication now.”

“Colonel, please, we know how you feel All Russia is with you in spirit. But the General wishes —”

“Tell the General that I will contact him later. Not by radio.” He took a deep breath and kept his thumb on the switch. “I have his Kremlin telephone number. I will call him from Denmark.” He switched off quickly and killed the power. Should he have said more? What could he have said that would have made any sense? Other countries would be listening.

“Oh hell,” he snapped at his two wide-eyed companions. “Major, get the log books, film, records, samples, put them into a box. Lieutenant, close the oxygen cylinder and unship it so we can take it with us. We’ll go on suit oxygen now. Any questions?” There was only silence, so he snapped his faceplate closed.

“Here they come,” Nils called out a few minutes later. “The last one just climbed down, and they have closed the airlock. They are bundled down with a lot of junk, records and such I imagine, one of them even has a camera. Say—he’s taking pictures of us!”

“Let them,” Ove said. “They can’t learn a thing from the photographs. You know, we should have some specimens too. Before they climb aboard get the colonel on the phone again. Tell him we want some rocks and dirt, something to take home.”

“Specimens brought back by the First Danish Lunar Expedition. Good idea, since we can’t go outside ourselves. How is it going?”

“Fine,” Ove said, opening a bottle of akvavit and placing it beside the little glasses on the map table. “We should have thought to bring some vodka, but I bet we’ll hear no complaints about this snaps/’ He opened one of the smorrebrod containers that the cook had packed that morning, and slid out the open-faced sandwiches inside. “The herring is still fresh, they’ll like that, and there’s liver paste here as well.”

“I’ll eat it myself if they don’t get here pretty soon,” Nils said, eying the food hungrily. “Here they come.”

He waved cheerfully through the port at the three laden figures trudging across the lunar plain.

12

Copenhagen

The Minister of Foreign Affairs shuffled through the notes he had made during the conference with the Prime Minister, finally finding the quote he wanted.

“Read back the last sentence, will you please?” he said.

“The Prime Minister does appreciate your exceedingly kind communication, and…” His secretary flipped the page in her steno book and waited, pencil poised.

“And has asked me to thank you for the good wishes you expressed. He feels that it was very gracious of you to offer access to all of your advanced technologies in space engineering and rocketry, in addition to the use of your extended network of tracking stations around the globe. However, since we have little or nothing that we could contribute to a rocketry program, we feel that it would be unfair of us to enter into any agreements at this time. That’s all. The usual salutations and close. Would you read the whole thing back to me?”

He swung his chair around and looked out of the window while she read. It was dark, the streets empty with the rush-hour crowds long gone. Seven o’clock. Too late for dinner. He would have to stop for something before he went home. He nodded his head as the pontifical weight of the words rolled out. All in order, just right. Thanks a lot but no thanks. The Soviets would happily turn over all their billions of rubles of useless rocket hardware in exchange for a peek at the Daleth drive. They weren’t getting it. Neither were the Americans, though they seemed to have a stronger case; ties of brotherhood, NATO partners, and the sharing of defense secrets among partners. It had been something to watch the American ambassador getting redder and redder as the Prime Minister ticked off on his fingers ten American major defense projects that the Danes knew nothing at all about. The whole world wanted a cut from the cake.

“That’s fine,” he said when the girl stopped.

“Should I type it up now, sir?”

“Not on your life. First thing in the morning, and have it on my desk when I get in. Now get home before your family forgets what you look like.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She click-clicked out, her high heels sounding clearly across the outer office in the silence of the empty ministry building. The door slammed. He yawned and stretched, then began to stuff papers into his briefcase. He sealed it and, before he put his coat on, phoned down for his car. The very last thing, he checked the file cabinets to see that they were all locked, and gave the lock on his safe an extra spin. That was enough. He set his big black hat squarely on his head, picked up his briefcase and left. It had been a long day and he was tired; he walked with a heavy, measured pace.

The slow footsteps passed by outside the door and Horst Schmidt shifted in the darkness. His knees were stiff and sore, while his legs burned like fire from standing still so long. He was getting a little old for this kind of thing. But it paid so well. In fact he looked forward to being paid exceedingly well for this night’s work. He lifted his arm and examined the glowing face of his watch. 7:15. They should all be gone by now. The two sets of footsteps he had heard were the only ones in over a half an hour. Perhaps he should wait longer, but his legs wouldn’t let him. Over three hours standing in this damn supply closet. He took up his thick briefcase and felt for the lock, turned it silently and opened the door a crack, blinking at the sudden light. The hall was empty when he looked out.

No security these Danes, no security at all. He closed the door behind him and walked, swiftly and soundlessly on his gum soles, to the office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs. The door was unlocked! They almost invited one in. A name—taken from the phone book—and an imaginary appointment had gotten him by the concierge at the front door. They had not even asked for a card, though he had one ready, but had settled simply for the false name he gave. Danes! The Minister’s private office was unlocked as well—and the door did not even have a bolt on the inside. He opened his briefcase and, feeling in the darkness, took out a wooden wedge which he jammed into the crack between the door and the frame.

There were two thin, but completely opaque, plastic sheets in his case, and he draped these over the door and window, sealing them down with sticking tape. Only then did he turn on the powerful torch. The files first, there were sure to be a lot of interesting items in the files. The Daleth drive was of course the main interest, but there were plenty of other things he would like to know, information that could be fed to his employers, bit by bit, to assure a steady income. Spreading out his tools, he selected a chrome steel jimmy with a razor-sharp end. One twist of this opened the file cabinet as though it were a sardine can. With quick precision he flipped through the folders. A little pile of paper grew on the table next to him.

The safe would be a little more difficult—but not very. An antique. He studied it for a few moments, pulling the wrinkles out of his thin gloves as he considered the quickest way to open it.

Because of the soundproofing on it the drill was bulkier than most. But it was geared down and powerful. His bits were diamond tipped. He slapped a handful of clay onto the lock and pushed the bit into it: this would absorb most of the drilling sound. There was just the thinnest whine and vibration when he switched it on. It took only moments to hole through the steel plate.

What came next could be dangerous, but Schmidt was very experienced in taking care of his own skin. With Teutonic neatness he put all of his tools back into the case before taking off his gloves and laying them on the top of the safe. Then, with infinite caution, he tugged on the string around his neck and pulled, up out of his shirt collar, the tiny bottle that was suspended from the string. The rubber cork was jammed in tightly and he had to use his teeth to prize it loose. Gently, ever so gently, he poured the contents of the bottle, drop by drop, into the little dam he had made in the clay, so it could run down inside the mechanism of the lock. When it was half empty he stopped and resealed the bottle, then carried it to the far end of the room. He used his handkerchief to wipe the glass free of all fingerprints, then rested the bottle on the wadded-up handkerchief on the floor, tucked neatly into the corner of the floor. The handkerchief had been purchased earlier in the day from an automatic machine.

He sighed, relaxing a bit, when he stood up. He had made it himself, so he knew that it was good nitroglycerine. But it was unreliable stuff at best, ana n nice to be around. He put his gloves back on.

There was a rug on the office floor, but it was tacked down and would be too much trouble to try and lift. However the shelves were filled with books; thick tomes, annual reports, weighty, important things. Just what he needed. With silent haste he stripped the shelves, piling the books in a pyramid against the door and sides of the safe. He had left an opening in front of the lock. The very last thing, he slid the tiny metal tube of a detonator into the hole and unrolled the wire across the room. Then he sealed the open space with the thickest of the books.

“Langsam… langsam…” he muttered, and crouched behind the desk. The building was silent. There was a small outlet that he had built into the case of the flashlight. The two-pronged plug on the end of the wire fitted neatly into it. Schmidt bent lower and jammed in the plug.

The explosion was a muffled blow that shook the floor. The pile of books began to topple, and he ran to catch them. He stopped most of them, but Annual Fisheries Report 1948—1949 landed with a resounding thud. Smoke curled up and the lock mechanism was a twisted ruin. With careful speed he began moving the books so the safe door could be opened—then froze as heavy footsteps sounded in the outer office. They came closer, right up to the door, and the handle turned.

“Who is in there? Why is this door locked?”

Schmidt put down the books he was holding and turned off the flashlight, then moved to the door. The tape pulled away soundlessly and the plastic sheet rustled as it fell to the floor. He waited until the knob turned again—then reached out and pulled the locking wedge free.

The door burst open with dramatic suddenness and the large form of the night watchman stumbled through, gun in hand. Before he could bring it up there were two coughing reports and he kept on going, forward, down to sprawl full length on the floor.

Schmidt put the muzzle of the silenced revolver against the back of the man’s coat, over his heart, and pulled the trigger a third time. The figure jerked convulsively and was still.

After checking the outer office and hall to make sure the watchman had been alone, Schmidt closed the doors and went back to work. He hummed happily as the safe door swung open and he searched through it, ignoring completely the dead man on the floor beside him.