The Invincible (3 page)

This is what the whole continent looks like, he thought. He remembered the view from above: crater after crater with their serrated rims. The only noticeable movement came from floating cloud banks that dragged their shadows across the endless desert dunes.

“Any radioactivity?” he asked without turning around.

“Zero, zero, two,” replied Jordan while slowly getting off his knees. His face looked flushed, his eyes shiny. The mask distorted his voice.

That’s negligible, Rohan thought. That couldn’t have done anything to the
Condor’s
crew. Besides, they’d know better than to commit any gross negligence. Even if they hadn’t carried out the routine stereotype examination, the automatic controls would have sounded the alarm,

“Atmosphere?”

“Nitrogen seventy-eight per cent, argon two per cent, carbon dioxide zero, methane four per cent, the rest is oxygen.”

“Oxygen sixteen per cent? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Any radioactivity in the air?”

“Practically none.”

That much oxygen. Strange. Rohan was surprised. He stepped over to the robot who held out a cassette containing all the figures for Rohan’s inspection.

Maybe they tried to go without oxygen tanks. He dismissed the thought as absurd. Occasionally a crew member would take off his mask against orders and die of poisoning. Maybe one or two men, but no more than that.

“Are you through with everything?” he wanted to know.

“Yes.”

“Then get back to the ship.”

“How about you, Navigator?”

“I’ll stay a while longer. Just go back now, all of you!” He grew impatient in his desire to be alone. Blank swung the strap over his shoulder. The strap held all the containers together that now dangled down his back. Jordan handed the probe to the robot. The men waded clumsily through the deep sand, the Arctane waddling behind them like a man in disguise.

Rohan walked some distance until he could see the broad openings of the energy-field emitters sticking out of the sand. In a sudden surge of childish mischief he grabbed a handful of sand and threw it against the spot where the invisible wall was supposed to be. Not that he needed any confirmation; he just obeyed a playful impulse. The sand arched through the air, then trickled down in a straight line as if it had hit an invisible glass vault. Rohan’s fingers were itching to tear off his mask. How well he knew that sensation: spit out the plastimouthpiece, jerk loose the safety straps, then pump his chest full of air, sucking it deeply into his lungs…

I’m getting emotional, he thought, as he slowly made his way back to the ship. The elevator was waiting for him, empty, the platform nestled softly in the sand. Within a few minutes the wind had already deposited a fine layer of dust upon the entire structure.

In the main corridor of the fifth deck he glanced at the information panel. The commander was in the forward cabin. He made his way up there.

“To sum it up, it’s quite idyllic out there,” was Horpach’s comment after listening to the navigator’s report. “No radioactivity, no spores, fungi, viruses … nothing except this oxygen. Be sure you have some cultures made of those samples.”

“That’s already being taken care of in the lab. Perhaps life has developed on some other continent of this planet.” Rohan’s voice lacked conviction.

“I’d rather doubt that. Not too much solar irradiation beyond the equatorial zone. Didn’t you notice how thick the polar icecaps seemed to be? They must be some five to six miles deep. More likely we’d find life in the ocean. Maybe some algae or seaweeds. I wonder why no living forms ever left the water and adapted to dry land?”

“We’ll have to take a closer look at that ocean,” said Rohan.

“It’s too soon to ask our people for definite data; but the planet seems to be quite old. It must have been around for a good billion years. Even the sun must once have seen better days. Lost all its lustre. It’s almost a red dwarf star. Puzzling that there is no life on land. Perhaps some special evolutionary characteristic that cannot exist outside of water … that would explain the presence of oxygen, but not the mysterious disappearance of the
Condor
.”

“Maybe there are aquatic life forms down on the ocean bed, some kind of hidden civilization at the bottom of the sea,” ventured Rohan.

The two men examined a huge map of the planet. It had been drawn in Mercator projection about a century earlier, according to the data obtained by automatic probes. The map was inexact, showing only the outlines of the most important continents and oceans, the approximate extent of the polar caps and the largest craters. A red dot marked their landing site, below the eighth parallel of the northern latitude. Horpach swept aside the map impatiently,

“How can you believe such nonsense!” he snapped at the navigator. “Tressor was just as smart as we are. He would never have capitulated to a bunch of fish from the ocean. Besides, let’s assume any intelligent life had evolved in the sea, it would surely have established a foothold on dry land. They could always have used protective suits filled with ocean water. Rubbish. Total nonsense,” he grumbled, not because Rohan’s suggestion was entirely without any merit. His thoughts had already raced ahead to something else.

“We’ll stay here for a while,” he concluded. He touched the lower rim of the map, which rolled up with a softly rustling noise, then disappeared on one of the horizontal shelves of the big map case. “We’ll just wait and see.”

“And if nothing happens?” Rohan inquired cautiously. “Won’t we start looking for them?”

“Be reasonable, Rohan! Such a—” The astrogator tried to find a suitable phrase. But the right word would not come. He replaced it by a disdainful wave of his right hand.

“This planet is as big as Mars. How can we possibly send out search parties for them? How can we hope to find the
Condor
?”

“The soil does contain a lot of iron,” Rohan admitted reluctantly. An analysis of the soil had indeed shown a considerable admixture of iron oxides, so that ferro-induction values would be useless under these circumstances. Rohan did not know what else to say. He was quite convinced that the Commander would find a solution somehow. After all, they could not return home empty-handed. He gazed at Horpach’s heavy eyebrows with their white bristling hairs, and he waited.

“To be frank with you, I’m not so sure that these forty-eight hours we are supposed to wait will help us in any way; but these are the regulations we have to obey,” suddenly confessed the astrogator. “Sit down, Rohan! You bother my conscience. This Regis III is the most idiotic place in the universe. Sheer idiocy to have sent the
Condor
here in the first place. I can’t imagine why they did it. But that’s neither here nor there. We just have to face the facts of the situation.”

Horpach fell silent. He was in a bad mood, which usually made him quite talkative and liable to become almost confidential. This was fraught with danger, though, for he might cut short such brief periods of intimacy with some nasty remark.

“Let’s come to the point. We must act; we can’t wait. All right then. Place several photographic probes into orbit around the equator. Make sure the orbit will be circular and not too far out. Let’s say about forty miles.”

“But that would still be inside the ionosphere,” objected Rohan. “They’d burn up after a few times around the globe.”

“So what? Let them burn up! As long as they get in a lot of photos. I’d even suggest not going beyond thirty-five miles. They’ll probably burn up after the tenth orbit. But we can’t send them any higher than that and still get usable shots. Do you have any idea what a rocket looks like seen from sixty miles altitude, even with the best tele-lens? The head of a pin would be as big as a huge mountain next to it. Start right away… Rohan!”

The navigator was halfway out of the door when he turned to see Horpach throw a paper on the table. It was the report with the results of the routine stereotype analysis.

“What is that supposed to mean? What kind of lunacy is that? Who made out that report?”

“The automatic analyzer. What’s the matter?” asked Rohan making an effort to suppress the anger that was slowly rising in him. Now he’s got to get on my back, he thought walking forward with deliberate slowness.

“Read that! Here, you see!”

“Methane: four per cent,” Rohan read out loud. “Four per cent!” he exclaimed in a startled voice.

“Four per cent methane, that’s what it says here. And sixteen per cent oxygen. Do you realize what that means? An explosive mixture. Can you explain why the whole atmosphere didn’t explode when we landed with diborane as a propellant?”

“Incredible—I can’t understand it,” stammered Rohan. He hurried over to the control panel, pushed the button of the suction tube which would deliver a sample of the outside atmosphere. While Horpach paced the floor impatiently in ominous silence, Rohan intently observed the analyzers.

“Well, any change?”

“No, the same analysis as before: methane four per cent, oxygen sixteen per cent,” replied Rohan. Although he failed to understand this result, he experienced a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that the astrogator could not put the blame on him.

“Let me see that, will you,” urged Horpach. “Methane: four per cent. Damn it, you’re right. All right, then. Put the probes into orbit and then come over to the small lab. What do we have our experts for? Let them rack their brains a bit.”

Rohan took the elevator down, called two rocket experts to join him in the small briefing area, where he gave them the astrogator’s orders. Then he returned to the second storey. Here were the laboratories and cabins of the experts. He passed several narrow doors, each marked by a name plate bearing nothing but initials: Ch. I., Ch. Ph., Ch. T., Ch. B. The door of the small lab stood wide open. He could hear the monotonous voices of the experts. Now and then they were interrupted by the astrogator’s deep bass. Rohan stopped at the threshold. All the “chiefs” were assembled in this room: the engineers, biologists, physicists, physicians, and the technologists from the engine room. The astrogator sat at the farthest end next to the portable computer. Moderon, holding his swarthy hands folded in front of him, was speaking. “I’m no gas expert. In any event, we are not dealing here with ordinary methane. The energy of the chemical bonds is different, even if it is only a difference of one-hundredth. It will react with oxygen only in the presence of some catalytic agent, and then only with great difficulty.”

“Where does this methane come from?” inquired Horpach, twiddling his thumbs.

“Its carbon is of organic origin, of course. There is not much of it, but beyond any doubt—”

“Are there any isotopes? How old are they? How old is this methane?”

“Anywhere from 2 to 15 million years.”

“You certainly left yourself a nice amount of leeway!”

“We only had half an hour. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Quastler! What’s the origin of this methane, what do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

Horpach’s glance made the round of his experts. He looked close to losing his temper; but suddenly he smiled.

“Gentlemen! After all, you are the experts. We have been working together for quite some time now. Let me have your opinion now, please. What do you suggest we should do, where shall we begin?”

No one was willing to answer, except for the biologist Joppe, one of the few who were not afraid of the astrogator. He gazed calmly at the commander: “This is not an ordinary planet of the class Subdelta 92. Otherwise the
Condor
would never have vanished. Since they also had experts on board, neither any better nor any worse than we have here, we can safely assume that their knowledge was insufficient to prevent the catastrophe. This leaves us with the only possible solution: We must continue to proceed with the third step routine and examine the mainland and the oceans of Regis III. To begin with, I’d suggest collecting some core samples for geological analysis. At the same time we should obtain various water specimens from the ocean. Anything else would be speculation, a luxury we cannot permit ourselves in our present situation.”

“Very well.” Horpach pressed his lips together into a thin line. “No problem getting core samples of the ground within the energy field. Dr. Norwik can take care of that task.” The chief geologist nodded his consent. “As far as the ocean is concerned—what’s the distance from here to the shore, Rohan?”

“About 120 miles,” answered the navigator. He was not in the least surprised that the commander was aware of his presence, although he could not possibly see him.

“That’s a bit too far. But anyhow, take as many people along as you think you’ll need. Fitzpatrick, one of the oceanographers, a few marine biologists, and six energo-robots from the reserve stock. Drive to the shore. Work only inside the protective energy screen. No joy rides on the ocean, no diving attempts. Be careful with the energo-robots, we don’t have any to spare. Got it? Well, you can go ahead then. Wait, one more thing: is the atmosphere suitable for breathing?”

The physicians consulted each other in a barely audible whisper.

“Essentially, yes,” Stormont answered finally. His voice did not sound very convincing.

“What do you mean, ‘essentially’? Is the air breathable or not?”

“The high percentage of methane will eventually have some effect on the men. As soon as their blood reaches saturation point, we can expect certain disturbances in the brain. They’ll become unconscious within one hour of exposure, or perhaps it’ll take several hours.”

“How about using a methane absorber?”

“Not practical. We would need too many—you’d have to change them constantly. Besides, the oxygen content of the air is too low. I’m in favor of taking along oxygen tanks.”

“How about you others? Do you agree?”

Witte and Eldjarn nodded their consent.

Horpach rose from his chair. “That’s it, then. Let’s get started. Rohan! What’s the matter with the probes?”

“They are ready for takeoff. May I put them into orbit before we leave on our expedition?”

“Yes.”