All Judgment Fled (7 page)

 

 

"What is happening out there, dammit?"
said the colonel furiously,
momentarily forgetting the networks and their views on the sort of language
suitable for family audiences.
"What are you two playing at?"

 

 

Walters looked at McCullough before replying, then he said, "This was
an idea we discussed during the trip out. Very simply, it involves us
leaning over backward in doing all the right things -- at least, we hope
they are the right things. Here we are assuming that the reactions and
motivations of the aliens are similar to our own where defense mechanisms
and self-preservation are concerned.

 

 

"In the present situation," he went on, "we are entering their ship
surreptitiously. It might even be argued that we are breaking and entering
or effecting an illegal entry in that we haven't been invited to come
in. The flares and radio signals during our approach may not have been
noticed -- they were not watching or listening, or maybe they are very
alien and do not have eyes or ears. But the opening and closing of the
airlock should register in a fashion understandable to them somewhere
in their control center.

 

 

"What we mean is, a burglar doesn't open and close a door, or even a
window, several times before entering . . ."

 

 

"Very well, I take the point. But if a stranger slammed my front
door several times to let me know he was there, I might feel, well,
irritated . . ."

 

 

While they were talking, McCullough investigated the open lock, shining
his torch around the rim so as to show any possible observer that it was
simply a source of light and not a weapon, before directing the beam
into the lock chamber. It was unlikely that anyone would be waiting
for them inside the lock; their situation might be more analagous to
the coal cellar manhole than the front door, but McCullough wanted to
establish habits of viewing each simple, innocent act as it might appear
to nonhuman eyes and mentalities.

 

 

He gripped the rim of the seal with one hand and carefully moved his head
and shoulders into the opening. Even though there was no interior lighting,
his torch gave him a good view of the lock chamber except where the
inward-opening seal blocked his vision on one side.

 

 

The basic color scheme was pale gray or pale blue-gray. Walls, ceiling
and floor -- it was impossible to tell which was which -- were covered
with disciplined masses of plumbing, grapples and what looked like
lashing points for heavy stores, all color coded in vivid greens, blues
and reds. The lock chamber was large, about thirty feet wide and ten
deep. Set into each wall were seals four or five times the area of the
one McCullough was using, and in the center of each there was a small
transparent panel. He knew they were transparent because his flash showed
tantalizing glimpses of other brightly painted shapes on the other side.
From what he could see, this area of the Ship was in darkness.

 

 

McCullough could imagine the chamber as a transfer point for containers
of food and equipment, lashed down to render them immobile until they
were distributed about the Ship. Heavy equipment drifting loose in the
weightless condition could be a menace to alien life and limb as well as
human. But the disposition of lashing points and their support brackets
suggested a lack of gravitational influence, whether natural, artificial
or due to acceleration, being allowed for in the design. Which might
mean that the interior of the Ship remained permanently in the weightless
condition even during periods of powered flight.

 

 

Something more advanced than rocket propulsion was used on
this
Ship.
But it all looked so -- so unsophisticated . . .

 

 

McCullough became aware of a hand gripping his ankle and drawing him
slowly out of the lock entrance, and Walters saying, "What's the matter,
didn't you hear what I said?"

 

 

"When my helmet antenna was inside," said McCullough, "your voice faded
to nothing. Some sort of screening effect, I suppose."

 

 

"Yes. And that is the next step, the colonel says. Checking communications
between the lock interior and the P-ships."

 

 

A few minutes later the pilot entered the lock chamber and closed the
seal behind him. From inside he could not make himself heard or receive
the colonel's signal until he brought his antenna into contact with the
metal of the hull, when two-way communication was possible although with
a greatly diminished signal strength.

 

 

Walter reopened the seal and when McCullough joined him inside, he closed
it again.

 

 

Morrison did not sound happy over what they were doing. At the risk
of disappointing the countless millions of eager listeners at home,
he stated several times that his men needed rest -- the next stage of
the investigation was crucial and he wanted them to be fully alert. It
had been almost thirty-two hours since any of them had had a proper
rest period. He suspected that the two men on the Ship were becoming
too tired even to talk . . .

 

 

"Sarcastic so-and-so," said Walters, momentarily breaking antenna contact
with the nearby bulkhead. A tremendous, eye-watering, jaw-wrenching yawn
put a great dark hole in his face and he went on, "I wasn't even tired
until he reminded me! But you had better talk to him. I want to trace
this cable loom running along the inside face of the chamber. The wiring
seems too fine to carry much juice so it may be part of the internal
communications or lighting system.

 

 

"Tell the colonel what I'm doing, along with anything else which occurs
to you . . ."

 

 

McCullough did so, beginning with a minutely detailed description of the
chamber and the view through its five internal windows and going on to make
the first, tentative conclusions regarding the Ship and its builders.

 

 

The cable looms, conduits and plumbing were color coded in a garish variety
of shades, some of them bearing permutations of other colored spots,
bands or stripes. A human electronics engineer would have felt almost
at home here, McCullough thought.

 

 

Fore, aft and on the floor and ceiling the chamber's transparent panels,
so far as it was possible to see with a flashlight, showed a similar
arrangement in the adjacent compartments. Apparently the chamber was set
between the ship's outer and inner hull, in the space which contained
the vessel's power, control and sensory equipment. The lock chamber,
which must be one of many, would give access to the inter-hull space for
purposes of repair or maintenance. The inboard-facing window gave a view
which contained least of all to see -- merely a section of corridor,
eight feet square and of unknown length, whose four sides were covered
with large- mesh netting pulled taut.

 

 

The visible mechanical and structural features gave an overall impression of
crudeness. There was no sign of lightening holes or cut-outs in any of the
support brackets or structural members, no indication that considerations
of weight or power-mass ratios had entered into the designers' calculations
. . .

 

 

. . . It is too soon to make any hard and fast assumptions about them,"
McCullough went on. "We
know
that they do not have fingers, and
may have a two-digit pincer arrangement. Probably their visual range
and sensitivity is similar to ours, judging by the color intensities
used on cable identification. The, to us, crude and unnecessarily robust
construction of minor structural details indicates a lack of concern over
weight and the power required to get it moving. The corridor netting
suggests that they are not advanced enough to possess an artificial
gravity system, and the total absence of light and movement shows that
the Ship is orbiting in a power-down condition . . .
Walters!
"

 

 

In the corridor outside the chamber, the lights had come on.

 

 

"Sorry, that was me," said Walters sheepishly. "I've discovered what a
light switch looks like -- but I must have guessed wrong." The light in
the corridor went off and on several times, then suddenly the lock chamber
lighting came on. He added, "Better tell the colonel about this, too."

 

 

McCullough informed the colonel that Walters had found the light switches,
had experimented with them and that the Ship's illumination was a bright,
bluish-white emanating from tubes which they had mistaken for sections of
plumbing. There was still no reaction from the alien crew, and McCullough
was beginning to wonder if the Ship had a crew.

 

 

"You two seem to have a weakness for slamming doors and switching
lights on! However, this wraps it up for the time being. We need rest.
Return to P-Two -- we have a lot to think about before we do anything
else on that ship. Say so if you understand."

 

 

"Understood, sir," said Walters. "But we would like a sample of Ship's
air before we leave. Five minutes should do it."

 

 

McCullough was beginning to feel irritable and very tired and he did
want the chance to analyze as soon as possible whatever atmosphere it
was that the aliens breathed. But the thought kept recurring to him
that he was not being very cautious about this, that he was breaking
even his own rules, and that fatigue was a little like drunkenness in
that it made people take chances.

 

 

Walters opened the corridor seal and the alien air roared into the lock
chamber. Their suits lost their taut, puffy appearance and hung loosely
against their bodies. Ship pressure seemed to be a pound or two per
square inch higher than suit pressure, McCullough thought as he took
the sample. The pilot was moving toward the open seal.

 

 

"I'm only going to take a look," said Walters.

 

 

McCullough joined him.

 

 

There was only one source of light in the corridor, the one switched on
by Walters, so that both ends disappeared into blackness. But suddenly
McCullough felt the wall netting vibrate and --
something
--
was shooting toward them along the corridor . . .

 

 

McCullough flung himself back, but Walters, who had a leg and arm outside
the rim at the time, fumbled and was slower getting in. The doctor had
a glimpse of something rushing past the opening, something which looked
a little like a heavy, leathery starfish, then Walters reached the lock
actuator and the seal slammed closed.

 

 

The pilot remained floating with one hand gripping the actuator lever
and the other resting ludicrously on his hip. His face was white and
sweating and his eyes were squeezed shut.

 

 

"It can't get in, now -- we're safe -- " began McCullough, then stopped.

 

 

Walters was not safe. There was a large, triangular tear in the fabric
of his suit at the right hip. The undergarment showed through it, also
a section of the air-conditioning system looking strangely like a bared
artery, although the leg itself did not appear to be injured.

 

 

The pilot was trying to hold the tear closed with his hand. But it was
too big, the edges were too ragged and the pressure difference was too
great to keep the alien atmosphere from forcing its way into his suit.

 

 

He began to cough.

 

 

 

 

chapter eight

 

 

More than anything else he had ever wanted in his whole life, McCullough
wanted out. Never before had the cramped and stinking confines of the
command module seemed so desirable and secure. And P-Two was drifting
less than a hundred yards away, with Berryman on watch ready to help him
inside and take him away from this suddenly frightful place. All he had
to do was operate one childishly simple lever.

 

 

It would mean evacuating the chamber, of course. Walters would die of
explosive decompression. But the pilot was strangling to death in an
alien atmosphere anyway and the other might be quicker and more merciful .

 

 

Except that Berryman might not want to leave without Walters, and
explosive decompression was not a nice way to die, and in his student
days McCullough had been pretty thoroughly conditioned against mercy
killing . . .

 

 

"Doctor," said Walters between coughs, "do you have -- a band-aid on you?"

 

 

"What?" said McCullough, then added with feeling, "Dammit, I'm
stupid
!"

 

 

A length of adhesive with its washable plastic backing would not hold the
tear together in vacuo, but with pressure almost equal between chamber
and suit interior it would act as a barrier to the entry of the alien
air all around them -- for a time, at least. Quickly McCullough took a
dressing from his kit and pressed the edges of the tear together while
Walters rubbed on the tape.

 

 

When they were finished McCullough said, "How do you feel? Any pain in
the chest? Nausea? Impairment of vision . . . ?"

 

 

Walters shook his head. Almost strangling himself with his effort not to
cough, he said, "The -- the smell is like ammonia -- or formaldehyde.
Strong and sharp but not -- a stinking smell. But you'd better tell
the colonel."

 

 

McCullough nodded and laid his antenna against the metal wall.

 

 

The colonel interrupted him only once to ask what the pilot had been
doing out in the corridor, then he told McCullough to continue with his
report without trying to make excuses for Walters' stupidity. The doctor
did so, spending less time on the incident itself than on the problems
it had raised.