Читать книгу Wanderers of the Wolf-Moon - Nelson S. Bond - Страница 7

Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in Greg Malcolm’s memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks’ warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identified as emanating from Mrs. Andrews’ throat... He was conscious of feeling, suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a ship out of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power to allay... He recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly, with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining dome down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beams in the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiff cradled there.

He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening around him, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterested spectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews toward the door of the dome...of her pushing back against him with all the weight of her body...of her irate voice, “Cuddles! I forgot him!” Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her as they charged on down the corridor.

J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, “The officers?” and his own unfelt assurance. “They can take care of themselves. It’s a general ’bandon ship.” Enid Andrews stumbling over the hem of a filmy peignoir...himself bending to lift her boldly and bodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excited body hot beneath them... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying, “’Tina!”...and Hannigan’s reply, “Your maid? I woke her. She’s in the life-skiff.” Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middle of the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, sure nausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.

Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed the port behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling of weightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed and his mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of their escape.

Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking from a nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize. A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. A world peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son and daughter; Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O’Doul, the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did not know). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.

Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens. What he saw then he might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veil had wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of a distant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree.

Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked toward a mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutal terrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that last dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame that tried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.

For an instant Greg’s eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought they glimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree; a mote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not be sure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence and speed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance against the ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud of flame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....

And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens, shaken.

Hannigan said, “It’s over?” and Greg nodded.

Hannigan said, “The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were they caught?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see for sure.”

“You must have seen. Are we the only ones?”

“I couldn’t see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of other huddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. “I’ll take over now, Malcolm.”

* * * *

It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendingly at first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of the small ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilization and civilization’s wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized until this moment that for a while...for a short, eager, pulse-quickening while...on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destinies of ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that it was for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was for this brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greater than knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, had studied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That he might be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—

And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm, mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And the man at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman, trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....

“Very well, sir,” he said. And he turned over the controls.

What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happened to Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty. However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency, once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on the life-skiff. At the instant Breadon’s hand seized the controls the skiff jerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing motors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment that lost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been drifting easily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.

The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understood the operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. And that neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon’s hand leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm’s—and across both their bodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.

In the scramble someone’s sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. The motors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Greg cried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed; one of the women bleated fearfully.

Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but his own. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly, in the illumined perilens, how near to swift death that moment of uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had been high in the stratosphere of this unknown planet...or satellite or whatever it might be...was now flashing toward hard ground at lightning speed.

* * * *

Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun his head, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, the maid, Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in her nether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.

Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon’s hands performed that miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here...a lever there...a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face twisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled taut and bloodless away from his teeth. “Hold tight, folks! We’re going to bounce—”

Then they struck!

But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for, and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shivered and groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again, settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forward something snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aft was the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. But they were safe.

Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escaped Greg’s lungs in a long sigh. “Nice work, Mr. Breadon!” he cried. “Oh, nice work!”

But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.

“It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you’d kept your damned hands off the controls! Now see what you’ve done? Smashed up our skiff! Our only—”

“He didn’t do it!” piped the shrill voice of Tommy O’Doul. “You done it yourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch.”

“Quiet!” Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilled the youngster’s defense with a swift, ungentle slap. “And you, Malcolm—after this, do as you’re told, and don’t try to assume responsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let’s get out and see how bad the damage is.”

Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silenced the cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He’s overwrought, he reasoned. We’re all excited and on edge. We’ve been to Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we’ll all be back to normal.

He said quietly, “Very well, Mr. Breadon.” And he climbed from the broken skiff.

* * * *

Hannigan said, “Looks bad, don’t it?”

“Very,” said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping like a fin from the stern of the skiff. “Not hopeless, though. There should be an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—”

“You ought to of poked him,” said Hannigan.

“What? Oh, you mean—?”

“Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.”

“His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident,” said Greg. “It could have happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Considering everything. Anyhow—” Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced, efficient secretary. “Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremely precarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man’s nervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—”

“Umbrage!” snorted Sparks. “Bickering! They’re big words. I ain’t sure I know what they mean. I ain’t exactly sure they mean anything.” He glanced at Greg oddly. “You’re a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back there on the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to the boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a movie hero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you the spur without a squawk—”

Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almost stubbornly, “Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.”

“Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?”

Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which they were separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved to make a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, more or less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures toward removing certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight and uncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.

The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, was that everyone wanted “something” to be done, but no two could agree as to just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any bursting desire to participate in actual physical labor.

J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled, was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open port of the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O’Doul who—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload of edibles.

Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to the complaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do had suffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews (who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) and Miss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-opener immediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy’s ’ittle pet was so hungry)!

Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave the warmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink, while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps was shouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture his divided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpieces of confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crew should immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistent equipment, Breadon did not venture to say.

“You see what I mean?” demanded Sparks disgustedly.

* * * *

Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot, while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means an ideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed by shallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly on their greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them. These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, might well become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.

He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northern hills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—

He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There was but one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. The apparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, argued his judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through an atmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting with disaster.

“Titan,” he said. “Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.”

Sparks’ gaze, following Greg’s upward, contracted in an expression of dismay.

“Dirty cow! You mean that’s where we are?”

“I believe so. There’s Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us as large as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm. Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturnian tractile constant, would give us a strong pull.”

Sparks wailed, “But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comes to Titan! There ain’t no mines here, no colonies, no—” He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. “And, hey—this place is dangerous! There are—”

“I know it,” said Greg swiftly, quietly. “Shut up, Sparks. No use telling the others. If they don’t guess it themselves, what they don’t know won’t alarm them. We’ve got to do something, though. Get ourselves organized into a defensive community. That’s the only way—”

Ralph Breadon’s sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. “Well, Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!”

And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented the order. “Yes, Malcolm, let’s get going! No time for day-dreaming, my man. We want action!”

Sparks said, “Maybe you’ll get it now, fatty!” under his breath, and looked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, moved forward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Hannigan groaned and followed him.