Earthbound (Winston Science Fiction Book 1) (11 page)

“Oh, sure. It was fine.”

“Cooked it myself, son. Sure did. Notice how dark it gets around these parts nights when there ain’t no moon.

“Very dark,” Pete agreed, staring into the gathering gloom outside his window.

“How long you lived in these parts?” the old turnkey demanded. Then, not waiting for an answer, “Myself, I been living here all my life. That’s sixty years, son. Do you like this place?” And, again before Pete could reply, “Me, I like it fine. Only trouble is, the Spaceport brought too many outsiders. Y’know, I was just a kid, but I c’n remember the days of the old proving grounds an’ the early rockets. We come a long way, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Pete agreed.

“Course, a flight out to Mars or some such place is just a bit of routine nowadays, but still . . .”

“Have you ever been out there?” Pete wanted to know.

“Me? Son, you’re lookin’ at the wrong turnkey! ‘Cept for a trip to Las Vegas once, I never left New Mexico. This is a right nice stretch of Earth we have here; I ain’t seen no need to leave it.”

Pause. Then “Son, did you hear something?”

Pete listened. “Why, yes! Yes, I did. Sort of like a hissing sound.”

“That’s what I meant!”, the turnkey shouted triumphantly. “First I thought my ears were playing tricks. They do that now an’ again, y’know. But you heard it too.”

It came again, a slow hissing, like air escaping from a leak in an inflated balloon.

“You feel all right, son?”

“Yes. At least, I think so. I’m a little tired.” Pete stretched languidly, found himself yawning.

“Me too. Funny, ‘cause I had plenty of sleep last night. Guess I’m getting old.” The old man staggered off down the corridor. “Think I’ll turn on the phonograph. Music’s liable to keep me awake.”

Soon the music was blaring forth, an old record, very tinny. Pete yawned again, blinked his eyes. He stretched out on his bunk was dimly aware of the turnkey stumbling back toward his cell.

“Didn’t help, I’m afraid. More tired than ever . . .”

With an effort, Pete opened his eyes. The turnkey had fallen to the floor, was breathing regularly. As if from far away, the music ebbed and flowed in Pete’s ear. Something had happened to the old phonograph; the needle was stuck —

De de dum — de de dum — de de dum
—

Pete heard footsteps in the corridor outside. He wanted to open his eyes again, wanted to see who was approaching. But his lids were like lead. He heard voices talking in a great empty gulf, heard the loud jingling of keys. With much squeaking of hinges, the cell door opened. But by that time Pete was fast asleep. . . .

Night at a small airfield outside White Sands. A big jet plane idled nearby. Toward it walked a good looking man in a neat business suit, an older man, gnarled, with a craggy face, a powerful, stocky man, a tall, impossibly thin man. The stocky man carried something over his shoulder. It was a sack, almost shapeless,, but it could have held a human form within it.

The gnarled man with the craggy face talked to an official of the small airport, gave him a large sum of money. Then, together with his three companions and their mysterious bundle, he entered the jet plane.

Soon it had roared across the landing strip, its jets flashing fire. In another moment it soared up into the inky sky and streaked away toward the southern horizon.

Several miles below and behind the plane, an alarm siren shrilled its message at the White Sands prison.

Chapter 11 — Beyond the Land of Fire

Pete awoke to the hissing, and it took him a while to realize it was not the same sound which had put him asleep. This noise he knew — the release of oxygen in a pressurized cabin.

“Ah! I see you’re awake.”

“Mr. Fairchild!”

“Don’t be surprised. You’ll know us all,” Mr. Fairchild assured him. “Sleeping inside are Sam Smith and Clarence Roth, whom you’ve met. That figure huddled uncertainly over the controls is your friend Ganymede Gus. You see, you are among friends.”

Pete looked around at the curving walls of the cabin. “Don’t tell me we’re in space?”

“Hardly, young man. We’re flying south at the speed of sound, at an elevation of forty thousand feet. Gus!”

“Yeah, boss?”‘

“Where are we now, Gus?”

“Well, near as I can make out from the instruments, we’re just about over the Equator. Four, five hours to go before we reach Ushuaia.”

“Ushuaia?” Pete asked. “Where’s that?”

Mr. Fairchild smiled. “That will come later. I’m sure you have some other questions first.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. How did I get out of jail?”

“That’s easy. We released a harmless gas into the White Sands jailhouse. It’s harmless, yes, but it quite effectively puts people to sleep. The rest was simple. Sam has broad shoulders and strong muscles; Sam carried you out.”

“I didn’t want to escape!” Pete stormed. “That makes me a fugitive. I was ready to face whatever they had in store for me, but all you’ll do is make it worse. Why can’t you guys mind your own business?”

“Peter! This
is
our business. That is precisely why we released you. In the first place, under persuasion of the authorities, you might have decided to say certain things which would have been infinitely embarrassing for us. You can’t deny the logic of that.”

“I won’t try. But don’t tell me you’re going to all this trouble, taking me some place south of the Equator, just to make sure I won’t talk. It doesn’t make sense and you know it.”

“Indeed I do. I have a logical mind, my boy, and, as you indicate, that would not be particularly logical. No, we’re going south for another purpose entirely.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t say I was ready to tell you. But why not? After all, you’ll be a part of it, an important part as you shall presently see. First, however, let me thank you for the latest orbit information you relayed to us.”

“Don’t thank me,” Pete said coldly. “I changed that orbit and made sure it wouldn’t do you any good.”

Mr. Fairchild shook his head sadly. “That is most unfortunate. It still seems, then, that we cannot altogether trust you. However, it didn’t matter. As things turned out, we had no time to use the information you gave us. But what you say is irksome — does it mean we’ll have to keep you in sight at all times?”

“You can figure that one out!”

“I’m happy to say it isn’t necessary. And please don’t play the bitter, misunderstood individual, Peter. It doesn’t fit your personality at all. I can see you doing big things, great things, not sniveling off in a corner and crying that no one understands you.”

“The only trouble with that is your idea of great things doesn’t match mine, or anyone else’s.”

“Never mind. You’ve indicated confusion as to why we head south. When you consider it logically, the answer is quite simple. Our endeavors must of necessity have two phases, and the first one you have already seen. By one means or another we have managed to hijack half a dozen spaceships in the last six months. Had we been permitted to continue our operations, you could have been of considerable help. But it occurred to me that we had not yet reaped the benefits of what we had done. Therefore, this trip south.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Several pirate vessels are waiting out in space with — ah, confiscated merchandise. Presently, they are hiding in the asteroids, but that can’t go on forever. Further, we receive no profits unless those ships are brought to Earth, unless we can sell our produce.

“Hence this trip south. Today Earth is a civilized planet, Peter. Man’s culture has reached everywhere. It has pushed back the final barriers; it has claimed the African jungle, irrigated the great Sahara and Gobi Deserts, swept into the vast Brazilian wilderness known as the Matto Grosso. One area alone remains unclaimed, one place on all the Earth where a man can operate in comparative secrecy. Do you know what that place is, Peter?”‘

“Why, I suppose it’s the Antarctic continent!”

“Precisely! We can call our ships back to Earth and bring them down in Antarctica. After that, a slow trickle of goods north will assure us a steady profit, and before too long we’ll be ready for new trade. Meanwhile, we must first conclude the second phase of our operations. Namely, we must call the pirate vessels to an Antarctic rendezvous with us.

“And that is where you come in. Currently, it is winter in the Southern Hemisphere. Late winter, to be sure, but at best, the Antarctic continent will have only a few hours of twilight each day. Fierce blizzards will hide the sky, visual landings will be all but impossible. As an orbiteer, you are a radar expert. Very well, you shall guide our ships into base by radar.”

“But you can’t bring ships down at the bottom of the world in winter!” Pete protested.

“Yes, you can, provided you take the proper precautions. We have a base ready for us several hundred miles from the South Pole, complete with every radar device you can use, Peter. It will be a dangerous job, but it can be done. Consider it as a challenge if you like. But one way or another, you will do it!”

“Rio!” Ganymede Gus called back from his controls. “According to the instruments, we’re over Rio now.”

“Good.” Mr. Fairchild rubbed his hands together. It won’t be long before we land at Ushuaia. We buy the clothing we’ll need; we refuel; and then we’re off for Antarctica.”

In spite of himself, Pete was interested. By now he had resigned himself — he couldn’t go to space. But Mr. Fairchild was right: Earth’s civilization had pushed back all the frontiers, with one exception. Antarctica. There a wild, unknown wilderness still held man out, still kept its icebound secrets. They were traveling into the unknown, and in a way, it was like blasting off for the far planets....

“What’s this Ushua . . .” Pete wanted to know.

“Ushuaia? That’s the southernmost capital in the world, Peter. It’s the capital and only real city of Tierra del Fuego. Do you know Spanish?”

“A little.”

“Tierra del Fuego is an Argentine province, and its name means ‘Land of Fire.’ Though why they call it ‘Land of Fire’ when it’s a frigid, frozen little island — that I cannot understand.”

“I can,” Pete told him. “We studied that in geography. Tierra del Fuego gets its name because of the southern aurora, the ‘fire in the sky.’ ”

“Could be,” Mr. Fairchild nodded. “However, I’m inclined to think it’s wishful thinking on the part of the Indians who live there and must suffer with the intense cold.”

Hours later, Ganymede Gus brought their jet plane down to a bumpy landing at Ushuaia’s one airport. It was tricky going, for the field was covered with ice and high-piled drifts of snow, and a blinding blizzard howled in from the south.

Here stood Tierra del Fuego, last outpost of land in the southern ocean short of the Antarctic continent itself. And here the Indians lived timelessly in their mean hovels of ice and wood and frozen clay. You could almost sense the proximity of Antarctica, although actually thousands of miles of winter-gray ocean separated it from Tierra del Fuego. But civilization had made only small inroads. Oil lamps flickered and pulsed in the gloom outside, what looked like obsolete, propeller-type aircraft were covered by shrouds of canvas and snow; several dim figures bundled in thick, ancient furs struggled through the storm toward their jet plane.

Eagerly, Ganymede Gus opened the door, but a blast of frigid wind hurled him stumbling across the cabin. A gust of wind caught the door and threw it out all the way, banging it furiously against the fuselage.

“Close that!” Mr. Fairchild roared over the wind. “We’ll freeze!”

The three fur-bundled figures tumbled inside the ship while Pete leaned out into the cold with Gus and pulled the door back against the power of the wind. After a few moments they had it shut again, and soon the plane’s power plant had restored a snug warmth to the cabin.

“That’s much better,” Mr. Fairchild observed. “Now, do any of you men speak English?”

“English, yes!” one of the fur-bundled figures cried, throwing his hood back and letting it fall on his shoulders. The man looked like an Eskimo, Pete thought — but since this was the far south and not the north, he was an Indian of Tierra del Fuego.

“Must talk English today,” he said, grinning broadly. “All over world people must talk English to do business with men who travel. Speak English dandy.”

“Fine,” Mr. Fairchild muttered, while the two other Indians stared fascinated at the complicated control board. “My name is Fairchild. I believe we are expected.”

“Sure, kid,” said the Indian, bowing profusely. He did it all quite seriously. Evidently he thought the word “kid” signified someone of high esteem.

“We’ll need fuel,” Mr. Fairchild continued, “for which we’ll pay you, and we’ll need some of those light arctic suits, you know, the insulated kind that weigh only a couple of pounds.”

“Don’t understand.”

“Clothing — for cold weather. We’re going south.”

“South? Bad. Very cold.”

“We know that; that is why we want insulated clothing.”

“Fur coat?” the Indian demanded brightly.

“No! Insulated, insulated!”

“No understand. Only thing for warm here is fur coat. You crazy to go south.”

Pete said, “Probably, they don’t have that insulated stuff down here, Mr. Fairchild. You’ll have to settle for furs.”

“But they’re not so good! They weigh more, maybe five times as much, and they don’t keep you as warm.”

“That or nothing,” Pete persisted.

“Well, I suppose you’re right. We could have stopped for proper equipment back in the States, except that we were in a hurry to get you out of the country, Peter. Fur coats, then.” He turned to the Indian. “We’ll need five outfits, complete with boots, snowshoes, everything. All right?”

“Sure, kid.”

“And we’ll need food concentrates, vitamin and mineral capsules,
H
and
K
-bars —”

“Don’t understand.”

“Oh, Lord!” Mr. Fairchild moaned. “They don’t have that, either. We’ll need food. You know — eat, eat! For many months.”

“Oh! food! Dried blubber, smoked whale steak, walrus liver, dried beefsteak from Pampas —”