Читать книгу The Science-Fantasy Megapack - E. C. Tubb - Страница 9

FINAL CONTACT, by Sydney J. Bounds

The wild dog came slipping and sliding across the ice towards him. It showed as no more than a gray shadow in the starlight. A growl from deep in its throat alerted him as its jaws opened like a trap.

Crane stopped, shook the glove from his right hand and raised his rifle. The dog was gaunt from starvation, but it would provide some meat. Saliva moistened his mouth in anticipation.

The dog’s hind paws found a grip on a patch of frozen soil, and it sprang. Crane’s rifle was only a .22 sports model so he forced himself to wait till it was on top of the barrel before pulling the trigger.

Its body, hard as rock, hit him and knocked him backwards. His feet went from under him and the dog went over his head. Lying flat on his back on the ice, Crane swiveled around, holding his rifle ready for a second shot. It was unnecessary.

He pulled his gloves back on and scrambled to his feet. Unsheathing his knife, he cut away fur and sliced flesh from the bone. He thrust it into his mouth and gobbled greedily. It was tough and stringy, but the blood was warming and he felt new strength surge through his tired and half-frozen body. He ate till he began to feel sick, and then started to drag the remains of the corpse back towards his cave.

It would taste better cooked, and he could risk a fire inside the cave.

Another day of life, he thought—and saw shadowy figures loom through the starlight. Hunters, tracking the wild dog, had heard his gunshot and found him.…

* * * *

World Television covered the debate. Despite the sensational aspect of the subject—radio astronomers confirmed the discovery of a galactic civilization and the fact that a starship was already on its way to Earth—the debate had so far been routine speculation. What would happen if—?

Until it got down to personalities. Until Martin Baker shouted, “You’re a coward, Crane!” Then viewing figures soared.

Walter Crane, red-faced, stuck to his point. “I care about the survival of our people, and this alien ship poses a threat.”

Baker laughed. “Care for yourself, more likely! I am concerned with the progress and achievement of the human race. Nothing, and no-one, must be allowed to interfere with that.”

Crane watched the physicist as he addressed the Assembly with a bigoted enthusiasm.

“I am asking for a ship to meet our galactic colleagues, to make physical contact as soon as possible. We must not delay, but grasp this opportunity to benefit the whole of humanity. Galactic science could advance our knowledge by a century overnight.”

Baker’s voice and penetrating gaze carried the zeal of a religious fanatic.

Fear crawled along Crane’s spine. He sensed that he’d lost the debate, but still he had to fight back.

“Perhaps I am a coward, as the Honorable Member suggests, if that means I fear the unknown. An alien civilization is an unknown quantity. I worry that his ‘galactic colleagues’ may be intent on conquest. At the very least, they may be so advanced that their culture will overwhelm and replace our own.”

“Ridiculous! A galactic war is out of the question because the supply lines would be far too long. Besides, we have nuclear missiles, laser beams, biological and chemical weapons. There can be no possibility of conquest, none whatever. We need the scientific breakthrough they can provide. The galaxy will open up to us like a flower blossoming.”

As Crane anticipated, the debate went in Baker’s favor. It was a landslide victory—the votes only needed to be counted for the record—and he got the go-ahead to lead a contact mission aboard a military spaceship, the only ship ready to leave almost at once.

After his defeat, Crane left the House and called on his friend Judson to ask for help in stopping Baker.

* * * *

Crane kept moving. He moved carefully because the rope bound around his boots had frayed and the surface was treacherous. He moved slowly to avoid sweating; water turning to ice on his body was always a major hazard.

For the first few minutes he traveled in an arc leading away from the cave, afraid of leading the hunters to his hideaway. Living on an island limited his options.

He dare not cross the ice-bridge to the mainland where groups of survivors fought bitterly over anything edible. The ocean was far too dangerous to risk. The boundary where ice met the as yet unfrozen deep could give way without warning, as he had discovered when he tried fishing. He could hear the dull growling of new ice grinding against the old.

His breath was a cloud of vapor in the gloom. He turned and glimpsed the dim figures of the hunters. He removed his glove and fired a warning shot in their direction, then headed for his cave. Inside, he could light a fire and eat to get his strength back. If they rushed him, he could pick them off by firelight.

He hoped they’d give up and leave. He had seen they were only armed with spears, but he didn’t really believe that would stop them. They were black, and blamed the whites for the unnatural dark and cold—and he represented food.

He dragged the corpse of the dog by the hind-leg and carried the rifle in his free hand. In a land of permanent winter he had only the stars to guide him.

Wrapped in a fur coat that had once belonged to a rich woman, Crane headed directly for his hideout. The shadowy figures of the hunters hung back at a respectful distance, but they still followed him.…

* * * *

Howard Judson was an old friend from college days. Now he held a high-ranking position in the space arm of the military.

Crane sat in a deep armchair in a room lined with bookcases. Evening sunlight streamed through the window and tinted the curtains with a warm orange glow. He sipped an expensive brandy.

Judson, broad of beam and craggy with it, relaxed with a cigar.

“Of course I agree with you, Walter. Aliens can’t be trusted, ever. We know nothing of their weapons or their motivation. Baker is a fool. I want this contact stopped just as much as you.”

He tapped ash from his cigar into a chunky piece of pottery.

“We should put our armed forces on red alert and be prepared for anything. You and I, Walter, are on the same side—but how far are you prepared to go?”

“As far as necessary.”

Hudson made a thin smile and asked quietly, “As far as murder?”

For a moment, Crane recoiled. His friendship with Judson had suffered many strained moments in its time. Outsiders considered it a strange friendship because he was a pacifist and Judson a career soldier.

“How would killing Baker stop the contact?” he asked. “Someone else would go.”

“Not Baker alone. A nuclear device aboard the ship, timed to go off in space.”

“But the crew—”

“The crew would die.”

Crane struggled briefly against the idea, but his ideals lost to his fear of an alien threat.

He said, sanctimoniously, “The few must be sacrificed to save the many.”

Judson crushed out his cigar with every sign of satisfaction. “Good! I would be too obvious—but you, a V.I.P., could get away with it. It’s a simple job to set the timer on a nuclear device and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“But smuggling the thing aboard—”

“You forget, Walter, the only ship available at short notice is a military ship. Naturally it carries nuclear weapons. I’ll see you get five minutes alone. But you must apply for permission to inspect the ship before blast-off.”

“I’ll do it,” Crane said impulsively.

* * * *

Crane felt his bones ache; he was colder than he’d ever been in his life, and afraid. The black hunters paced along behind him, just out of gunshot range—but they stayed there, waiting their chance. One mistake on his part could prove fatal.

Traveling by starlight strained his eyes. He had to avoid obstacles, decide whether a darker shadow hid some new danger or not. Only faint outlines showed in a world without color.

The frayed rope around his left boot snapped and the smooth soles slipped and skidded. He dropped both the dog and his rifle in an attempt to break his fall. His leg twisted beneath him.

When he tried to rise, pain whiplashed up his leg. He’d landed heavily and turned his ankle. Sprained it? Broken it? Sweat froze on his face as he tried to stand.

The hunters closed rapidly. A thrown spear tugged at his fur. He fumbled off a glove, reached for his rifle and fired once, then a second time. He hadn’t many bullets left, but they weren’t to know that. They retreated.

Crane ignored the pain in his leg and tried to judge how close he was to the cave. Not far now. He could crawl. He would have to crawl. He gathered up the spear; one less weapon for the enemy. He didn’t want to leave the dog’s carcass, but it might give him the extra time he needed to reach safety.

He began crawling on hands and knees, his injured leg dragging behind him, the rifle in one hand and the spear in the other. After a few minutes, he paused to look back.

The hunters had pounced on the frozen body of the dog, tearing its flesh with their teeth. He crawled on.

They finished the dog and moved silently after him.…

* * * *

Walter Crane sat alone in his apartment, nursing a bottle and watching the television. The big satellite telescope held the Earth ship firmly in focus, following its path through space.

Crane waited numbly for news. The ship did not explode but traveled on to meet the alien ship. He drank steadily, despairing. What had he done wrong?

He was sure he’d set the timing device as Judson had instructed. Sure! His application had been granted, and certainly Judson must have had a hand in that. It had been simple, as his friend chatted with the ship’s officers, to excuse himself to go to the head.

But—now—Martin Baker was on the point of contacting the aliens, a contact that could prove to be the end of human civilization.

Live pictures were beamed down from the satellite and World Television carried a commentary as the two ships closed the gap between them.

“A momentous meeting,” the announcer said. “They are matching velocity ready for an exchange of—”

The searing flash of a nuclear explosion filled the screen. Crane was temporarily blinded. When he could see again, there was only scattered debris. Both Earth’s military spaceship and the alien had been vaporized.

The commentator chattered breathlessly before turning to one of the experts for guidance.

“Vice-Admiral Judson, what do you imagine has happened?”

Judson’s face filled the screen as he leaned forward in his chair.

“I’m inclined to say the aliens made a mistake. Obviously they attempted to destroy our ship, but something went wrong. This should be a warning to all of us. We must arm and prepare for war.”

Crane switched off. Judson had double-crossed him. After he’d left the ship, Judson had reset the timer to detonate much later. And he would get the blame.

Crane sat motionless, in shock. He told himself that his objective had been attained; there could be no contact now with the aliens. He felt relief, then guilt at the death of the crew. And, finally, sadness at a lifetime’s friendship ending in betrayal.

Eventually, his survival instinct asserted itself. There was bound to be an enquiry, and Judson had covered himself. He packed hastily and left by the first aircraft traveling south. He ended up on a tropical island billed as a paradise.

* * * *

It was no longer a paradise.

When Crane reached the cave and crawled inside, his face was a mask of ice. Already he regretted leaving the dog as his belly rumbled. He fumbled with gloves and matches and numb fingers. His teeth rattled in his head, but he got a fire going with the sticks laboriously gathered and hoarded.

Outside, gray shadows moved towards the entrance. They squatted a short way off, waiting. Crane loosed off a single shot to warn then to keep their distance.

Smoke filled the cave and made his eyes water. As warmth seeped through his body, he tried to get his boot off. Pain shot up his leg. Gently now! He knew that if he fainted, he’d never wake again.

He realized that his foot was too swollen to have any chance of getting the boot off. He would have to cut it free. He hesitated; boots were essential. But he had to know the worst.

With the warmth of the fire came the smell from his fur and wool. He got out his knife and carefully sliced away the leather till he could ease it away from his woolen sock. And saw bone jutting through dirty flesh and a clot of frozen blood.

He cried, knowing this was the end. He was going to die in this cave.

He built up the fire with his remaining sticks, and reached for paper and pencil. He began to write an account of what had happened. Somebody—a man?—might find it one day and be warned.…

* * * *

“Life on an island a few degrees north of the equator is pleasantly relaxing. Worries vanish. There is no pressure. The heat prevents any but the most casual activity. For much of the time I lazed in the shade and drank lime and iced water. I had enough money for the simple life, and no one bothered me. Possibly those in authority agreed with my action and turned a blind eye.

“I swam in the sea, ate and drank, sometimes took a leisurely stroll, and slept. I realized I was drifting, but it didn’t bother me. I suppose I had just given up.

“It was almost twelve months before the galactics’ second ship was detected. I followed the news on TV, but somehow it didn’t affect me the way the news of the first one had. I was that far gone. I assumed we would claim it was an accident and talk reparations.

“We waited for radio contact but this ship made no attempt to communicate, and ignored our broadcasts. Experts talked knowledgeably about robot probes. Then it turned away from its Earth trajectory and headed directly towards the sun. There were brief hours of panic while engineers spoke of systems failure. The alien fired one missile into the sun and headed back the way it had come.

“And the sun went out.

“There were riots in the cities. New religions sprang up, and governments collapsed. Human activity became meaningless.

“Earth was dark now the moon had no light to reflect. It grew cold. Snow fell and the glaciers marched south. Nuclear power stations were buried beneath the ice and human civilization was overwhelmed. Millions froze to death. Thousands tried to reach the equatorial regions. Wars flared as the inhabitants repelled them.

“‘London under twenty feet of ice’, the last commentator announced before the power failed.

“My tropical paradise became dark and cold, and survival was all that mattered. I was lucky to be on an island and away from the worst of the gangs that fought each other. I robbed a store to get a rifle and ammunition, climbing boots and matches. My fur coat came from the corpse of a wealthy visitor.

“I found a cave along the coast and hid out, eating birds and rats, even insects—though they gave me stomach pains. I survived by hunting. Dog, I found, was the best eating.…”

* * * *

The fire was dying as the last of the wood burned away. Crane’s chilblains itched and the patch of frostbite on his face numbed the chill as he sucked a piece of ice. He had no food. His ankle stopped hurting as he gradually froze.

The hunters moved in, and Crane fired one last bullet.

* * * *

The hunters spotted a dull glimmer among the embers in the cave and fanned it to life. They fed the pages of writing to the flames as the fire blazed up. Then they collected food for cooking.