231. There's ajoke--not at all funny, I'll admit--that concerns itself with just thissituation. It ends with the opening lines of the GS Memorial Service.
* * * * *
The last skull work I did was to familiarize myself with the personaldossiers of each of 231's crew, paying particular attention to psychreports. It's a part of my job that I've never liked. But I recognizethe necessity.
The crew seemed fairly typical. The average was relativelyinexperienced, the sort you'd expect on the type of assignment that wasoften used as advanced training. I managed to single out severalpossibles--men who might crack, depending upon the gravity of thesituation. The captain-designate wasn't one of them; nor was thesurvey-team co-ordinator.
GSS 231 was on station--big and reflective and innocently ominous, heldmethodically by robopilot in an orbit that matched exactly the rotationof Epsilon-Terra--precisely over the largest land mass.
Moya conned us in like a dream, paralleled, rectified, grappled, andmated locks.
I showed up in Astrogation in a full-pressure suit, carrying the helmet.
The crew gawked, and somebody snickered.
"You think it's silly, do you?" Moya snapped.
"Better flush your side as soon as I get clear," I advised.
Moya nodded, lowered and secured the helmet, checked lines, and rappedO.K.
An hour later, I still didn't feel silly. I had the helmet open now. Isat in front of the communications console.
Moya responded as if he had been waiting with his finger on the stud. Ididn't have to specify taping; all star ship radio traffic isautomatically recorded.
"Level O.K.?" I asked.
"Yes, man; what's the story?"
"Inner lock and all compartments: air pressure, density, temperature,and purity optimum; all intrinsic gear optimum; three shuttler berthsvacant; hold shows standard environmental equipment for one team gone;messenger racks full, no programming apparent; absolutely no sign ofcrew; repeat--"
"I got it; have you checked the log?"
"Who's doing this, you or me?"
I figured they could edit Moya's comment.
The log was strictly routine--space plan had been followed exactly;arrival had been on schedule; survey team had been dispatched withminimum delay, had reported grounding and camp establishment withoutincident, had relayed particulars of commencement of operation--untilthe last entry. It was eerie listening to the emotionless voice of 231'sskipper: "Sub-entry one. Date: same. Time: 2205 Zulu. No contact withbase camp. Surface front negates visual. Am holding dispatch of M 1.Will wait until next scheduled report time before action."
There was no sub-entry two.
I broke the recorder seal, reversed and played back the comm tapes.There wasn't much. Distance obviates any talky-talky from ship to baseonce the Solar System has been cleared. What I learned was simply asubstantiation of what I'd already surmised. I cut off when I heard afamiliar voice say: "250 from 231."
* * * * *
Moya helped me strip off the pressure suit. No matter what the physiomanuals say, there's room for improvement. Nothing beats your own skin.
He trailed me into the gear compartment.
I returned the suit to its clips and began sorting through the welter ofwhat the well-dressed spacer wears for a bug rig somewhere near my size.The tag is not completely adequate. It's a light-weight outfit, withintrinsic filters and auds, designed to be worn under conditions thatinvolve the suspected presence of dangerous bacteria or harmful gases.Its efficacy does not extend beyond the limits of reasonable atmosphere.
"Now don't start jumping to conclusions," I told Moya. "All I know isthat whatever happened happened quickly and down below."
From the weapons' chest, I selected a little W&R 50 and the biggest clipI could find. "Fifties" aren't much for range, but they areunconditionally guaranteed to make a creature the size of a Triceratopsthink twice before heading in your direction again, and, once you strapone on, you never feel the weight. That's why, even though they areofficially obsolete, you can generally find a brace in most star shiparsenals.
"Remind me to report the maintenance gang of this hunk for stockingunauthorized weaponry."
"You would, too," Moya said.
On the way back to the lock, I told him:
"Let's save time by not making a duplicate recording. I'll transmitadditional information and intent going down. There's one shuttler leftin 231, so I'll use it. If I find I need something that isn't in theshuttler, I'll fetch myself. Under no circumstances are you or any ofyour boys to leave this ship without my say-so."
"What happens if--?"
"You've had thirty years of deep space, Tony; am I supposed to tell youyour job? Go by the book. Either launch another messenger and sit tightfor instructions, or get out and risk a board inquiry, depending."
"You can rot down there for all of me."
"Thanks a pile. Make certain your crew understands. I wouldn't want anyof them getting their pretty hands dirty."
But I didn't feel so cocky going down. I hadn't the least idea of whatto expect. Sure, I'd gleaned something from the comm tapes: theunsuccessful attempts to contact the survey team at base camp; thehappy-go-lucky report from the kid sent in shuttler II to investigate,saying that the camp was deserted but everything looked fine, just fine;the unsuccessful attempts to recontact him; and then a blank except formy own voice. Apparently, the skipper had followed with the rest of thecon crew. I could even guess why he had failed to make additionalentries in the log, or not transmitted from the camp in lieu thereof. Hefigured it was something he could work out himself, and he didn't wantanything on record to show that he had broken regulations. He wanted tokeep the errors of personnel under his command--and his own--in thefamily. He figured, after the situation was resolved, that he could makecover entries and nobody's slate would be soiled.
* * * * *
The camp was at the edge of a plain marked "Hesitation" on the chart.
I plucked a scrap of verse out of my mind:
_On the Plains of Hesitation Bleach the bones of countless millions Who, when victory was dawning Sat down to rest And resting, died._
I wondered how prophetic that was going to be.
I grounded within yards of the other three shuttlers. They were parkedneatly parallel. Their orderliness made my scalp prickle, and I wassweating long before I got into the bug suit, squeezed out of the tinylock, and set foot on Epsilon-Terra.
The sky was blue, naked except for a tracing of tenuous clouds.
I could see neither of the star ships.
I wonder if you can imagine how it feels to be on a planet so far awayfrom the Solar System that the term "trillions of miles" is totallyinadequate? If you can grasp even a bit of it, then add the complicationof a small but insistent voice inside your head that keeps telling youthat no matter where or how far you go, you're not--
Let's just say it gives your sweat an odor and your mouth a taste andmakes you want to look over your shoulder all the time.
I walked the hundred yards to the white plastidome, avoiding the fewbulbous plants and tussocks of short yellow grass that dotted the dryplain.
Through the aud cells of the suit's hood, I could hear the light buzzingof insects that served only to heighten the overbearing quiet of thearea.
The port was closed. Inside, everything was correct, except for thelittle dirt brought in on boot soles during erection and subsequentgoings and comings.
There was a packet of nutratabs, lying open on an empty crate that hadbeen pressed into service as a table. Some one had fortified himselfbefore trekking off into the nearby bush. There was much equipment stillsealed in cartons. Bunks were made up. Tucked under the blanket of onewas a little book with stylus attached. All pages were blank except thefirst. The entry read: "TC in a sweat to get going. Rain potential. Norest for the weary. This seems to be a nice spot though. Am kind ofeager mysel
f to take a look at some of the vegetation hereabouts. Haveseveral ideas along the lines of Thompson's prelim research concerningextraction of--"
I replaced it under the blanket. I was ready to give odds that each ofthe previous finders had done the same: the kid that had arrived inshuttler II, and probably 231's skipper; and each from the samemotive--_He'll be back; after all, a diary is a personal thing._
I went back outside, shut the port, and made a complete circuit of thecamp. I looked into each of the three shuttlers. I found nothing thatcould offer the least positive clue to the fate of the twelve men from231.
I returned to shuttler IV, beamed Moya, and filled him in, forcingmyself to be cheery.
"How's everything upstairs?"
"Right now we're having a little zero-gee