" said Dauge. The giant bumble-bee was silent for a
second, then buzzed again. Dauge rose to his knees and buried his face in
the periscope frame. "Look!" he shouted.
Yurkovsky crawled to his periscope.
"Just look at that!" Dauge shouted again.
A multitude of huge iridescent spheres were sailing upwards out of the
yellowish-pink abyss like so many soap-bubbles. It was a sight of rare
beauty. The spheres, all of different sizes, were rising with a low rumbling
sound that swelled as they shot past the ship and out of sight. Dauge
clutched at the drum of the range-finder. One of the spheres, looking
especially huge and pulsating, was passing quite close to them, and, for a
moment, the bay reverberated to an unbearably low, sort of nagging rumble
and rocked a little.
"Hey, you in the observatory," Bykov was heard on the intercom. "What's
that outside?"
"Phenomena," Yurkovsky said, bending his head to the mike.
"What phenomena?" asked Bykov.
"Bubbles of some kind," Yurkovsky explained.
"That much I understand myself," Bykov muttered and cut off.
"This is no longer metallic hydrogen," Yurkovsky said when the last
bubbles were gone.
"There," said Dauge. "Diameters of six hundred, ten hundred and three
thousand five hundred yards-provided of course there's been no distortion of
perspective. That's all I've been able to manage. What could it be?"
Two more bubbles shot past them in the pinkish void outside. A bass
rumble swelled and died away.
"That's the planet's mechanism in action," said Yurkovsky. "But we'll
never learn its workings...."
"Bubbles in gas," said Dauge. "Not gas really- "it's as dense as
petrol."
He turned and saw Mollard sitting in the doorway, his head pressed
against the jamb. All the skin on his face seemed to have sagged to his chin
under the pull of gravity. His forehead was white and his neck ripe-cherry.
"It's me," he said. Then he turned on his stomach and crawled to his
place at the breech. The planetologists looked at him in silence, then Dauge
got up, took two cushions-one of his and one of Yurkovsky's-and made Mollard
more comfortable. Nobody said a word.
"Very dull," Mollard said finally. "I can't be alone. I want to talk."
"Delighted to see you, Charles," Dauge said sincerely. "We too find it
dull and are talking all the time."
Mollard wanted to sit up but thought better of it and remained lying,
breathing heavily, his eye fixed on the ceiling.
"How's life, Charles?" Yurkovsky asked with interest.
"Life's good," Charles said and smiled wanly. "Only short."
Dauge lay down and also Stared at the ceiling. Life's short, he
thought. Much too short. He swore in Lettish softly. '"Pardon?" asked
Mollard.
"He's swearing," explained Yurkovsky.
Suddenly Mollard said, "My friends!" in a high-pitched voice and the
planetologists turned to him.
"My friends!" Mollard repeated. "What shall I do? You're experienced
space flyers. You are great men and heroes. Yes, heroes. Mon dieu! You faced
death more often than I looked into a girl's eyes." He shook his head
ruefully on the cushion. "But I am not experienced. I am afraid and I want
to talk much, but the end is near and I don't know how."
He was looking at them with bright eyes. Dauge muttered, "Damn,"
awkwardly and glanced at Yurkovsky. He was lying back, his head cradled in
his arms, looking at Mollard out of the corner of his eye.
"I can tell you a story of how I nearly got a leg sawn off," Yurkovsky
suggested.
"Excellent," Dauge said happily. "And then you tell us something funny,
Charles."
"You are always joking," said Mollard.
"Or we can sing," said Dauge. "It's been done-I read about it
somewhere. Can you sing us something, Charles?"
"Sorry," said Mollard. "I've gone to pieces."
"Not in the least," said Dauge. "You're doing fine, Charles. That's the
main thing. Isn't Charles doing fine, Vladimir?"
"Of course he is," said Yurkovsky. "Just fine."
"Our captain's not napping," Dauge continued in a cheery voice. "Have
you noticed, Charles? He's thought something up, our captain has."
"Yes," said Mollard. "Oh, yes. Our captain is our big hope."
"I should think so," said Dauge. "You just can't imagine how big a hope
he is."
"Six-foot-six," said Yurkovsky.
Mollard laughed.
"You are always joking," he said.
"And in the meantime we shall talk and observe," said Dauge. "Want to
have a peep in the periscope, Charles? It's beautiful. It's something nobody
has ever seen before." He rose and looked into the periscope. Yurkovsky
noticed his back arch suddenly. Dauge seized the periscope frame with his
both hands. "Good God," he breathed out. "A spaceship!"
A spaceship hung motionless outside. They saw her clearly in all
details and she seemed to be at a distance of a mile or so from the
Tahmasib. She was a first-class photon cargo ship, with parabolic reflector
which looked like a hooped skirt, globular living quarters, a flat cargo
bay, and three cigarshaped emergency rockets flung far out on brackets. She
hung vertically and was completely motionless. And she was grey like a
black-and-white film still.
"Who's that?" Dauge mumbled. "Surely not Petrushevsky?"
"Look at her reflector," said Yurkovsky. The reflector of the grey ship
was chipped. "They've had bad luck too," said Dauge. "Oh," said Mollard.
"There's another one." The second spaceship-an exact replica of the
first-hung farther and lower.
"She's got a chipped reflector too," said Dauge. "I've got it,"
Yurkovsky said suddenly. "It's our
Tahmasib. A mirage."
It was a double mirage. A string of iridescent bubbles raced upwards
and the ghost Tahmasibs rippled and vanished. But three more appeared- to
the right and higher.
"What beautiful bubbles," said Mollard. "And they sing."
He lay on his back again. His nose had started bleeding and he was
blowing it, wincing and glancing at the planetologists to make sure they
were not looking. Of course they weren't.
"There," said Dauge. "And you say it's dull."
"I don't," said Yurkovsky.
"Yes, you do," said Dauge. "You keep whining that it's dull."
They both avoided looking at Mollard. The bleeding couldn't be stopped.
The blood would congeal of itself. They really ought to get him into his
acceleration absorber, but. ... Never mind, it would congeal. Mollard was
blowing his nose softly.
"There's another mirage," said Dauge, "but it's not a ship."
Yurkovsky looked in the periscope. No, he thought. It just doesn't make
sense. Not here in Jupiter. Slowly gliding below and past the Tahmasib was
the peak of an enormous grey cliff. Its base was lost in the pinkish haze.
Another cliff rose near by, bare, vertical, deep-creviced. A little further
there was a whole range of similar sharp sheer peaks. The silence in the
observation bay was now filled with creaking, rustling and faint rumbling
like echoes of far-off mountain-slides.
"This is no mirage," said Yurkovsky. "This looks like a core."
"Rubbish," said Dauge.
"Perhaps Jupiter has a core after all."
"Stuff and nonsense," Dauge said impatiently.
The mountain range under the Tahmasib now stretched as far as they
could see.
"Look over there," said Dauge.
Above the jagged peaks a dark silhouette loomed, grew, assumed the
shape of a huge fragment of black rock, then disappeared. Immediately
another appeared, then a third, while in the distance some roundish grey
mass shimmered palely, only just visible. The mountain range, which had been
sinking slowly, slipped out of view. Yurkovsky, without taking his eyes off
the sight, picked up his mike. In the silence his joints cracked.
"Bykov," he called. "Alexei."
"Alexei's not here, Vladimir," they heard the navigator's voice. The
voice was hoarse and faltering. "He's in the engine."
"Mikhail, we're passing over some cliffs," said Yurkovsky.
"What cliffs?" Mikhail Antonovich asked in a frightened voice.
In the distance a huge plain fringed by low hills slid into view and
then vanished in the pinkish haze.
"We don't understand it yet," said Yurkovsky.
"I'll have a look right away," said Mikhail Antonovich.
Another mountain range was gliding past them. Its base was far above
them and its tops were thrust downwards. It was an eerie, fantastic sight
and Yurkovsky took it for a mirage at first, but it wasn't. Then he
understood and said, "It's no core, this, Grigory. It's a graveyard." Dauge
did not understand. "It's a graveyard of worlds," said Yurkovsky. "Jupe's
gobbled them up."
Dauge didn't say anything for a while, then he muttered:
"What discoveries.... Ring, pinkish radiation, graveyard of worlds....
A pity."
He turned and called Mollard. 'There was no answer. He was lying on his
face.
They dragged Mollard all the way to his cabin, brought him round there
and he instantly fell asleep in the acceleration absorber as though he had
fainted. Then they returned to their periscopes. Under the ship, next to her
and over her fragments of unborn worlds-mountains, cliffs, huge fissured
rocks, grey transparent clouds of dust-swam slowly past in the streams of
compressed hydrogen. Then the Tahmasib drifted off and the periscopes again
showed nothing but a pinkish void all round them.
"I'm fagged out," said Dauge. He turned to lie on his side and his
bones cracked. "Hear that?" "Yes," said Yurkovsky. "Let's go on observing."
"Yes," said Dauge. "I thought it was a core," said Yurkovsky. "It couldn't
be," said Dauge. Yurkovsky rubbed his face with his hands. "That's what you
say," he said. "Let's go on."
They were to see and hear much more, or it seemed to them they did, for
they were both utterly exhausted and often on the verge of a blackout. Then
they were unaware of their surroundings except for the even pinkish light.
They saw broad stark zigzags of lightning propped between the darkness
overhead and the pinkish haze beneath, and heard the iron clang of the lilac
discharges that pulsated in them. They saw quivering films of substance rush
hard by with a thin whistle. They watched weird shadows which stirred and
moved about, and Dauge argued they were three-dimensional, while Yurkovsky
insisted he was just delirious. And they heard howling, and squeaking, and
rattling, and strange noises like voices. Dauge suggested they record them,
but noticed Yurkovsky was fast asleep, lying on his stomach. He turned
Yurkovsky over and was back in his place when through the open door crawled
Varya, white-specked blue and dragging her belly, sidled to Yurkovsky and
clambered on to his knees. Dauge wanted to shoo her away but found he had no
strength left for the effort. He could not even raise his head. Varya's
sides heaved heavily and she was blinking. The bosses on her muzzle stood
out and her two-foot tail jerked spasmodically in time to her breathing.
3. Time to take leave but the radio astronomer doesn't know how to.
It was hard, unbelievably hard to work under those conditions. Zhilin
had had several blackouts. His heart would just stop beating and he would be
plunged into a bloody mist. And all the time there was a taste of blood in
his mouth. And each time Zhilin was acutely mortified because Bykov worked
on untiringly, with the steady rhythm and precision of a machine. He was
drenched in sweat, probably found the work just as hard, but apparently was
able to retain consciousness by force of will. After two hours Zhilin had
lost all understanding of their purpose, all hope and even desire to
survive, but after each black-out he picked up where he had left because
Bykov was at his side. Once he had come to and there was no Bykov. He wept.
But Bykov soon returned, placed a messtin of soup at his side and said,
"Eat." He ate and pitched into his work. Bykov's face was white and his neck
purple and hanging in folds. He was breathing heavily and hurriedly, his
huge mouth wide open. And he never said a word. Zhilin was thinking: if we
do break out of this I won't go on any interstellar flights or expeditions
to Pluto or anywhere before I am like Bykov. As ordinary and even dull in
times of routine. As morose and even slightly ridiculous. So much so that it
was hard to believe in all those stories about the Golconda and Callisto and
other places. Zhilin remembered that behind Bykov's back young space flyers
would poke fun at the Red-Haired Hermit-incidentally, how did he come by
that odd nickname?-but he had never heard a pilot or scientist of Bykov's
generation speak slightingly about him. If I come out I must become like
Bykov. If I don't I must die like Bykov. When Zhilin blacked out, Bykov
stepped over him silently and finished his work. When Zhilin came to, Bykov
went silently to his place.
Then Bykov said, "Come on," and they filed out of the magnetic-system
chamber. Everything was swimming in front of Zhilin's eyes, he wanted to lie
down and bury his nose in something soft and wait until he was picked up. He
got stuck in the hatchway following Bykov and lay down after all, his nose
pressed against the cold floor, but came to rapidly and saw Bykov's boot
close to his face. The boot was tapping impatiently. Must be quite an
effort-tapping one's boot with a G-load like this, he thought. Must try it.
He made a supreme effort and forced himself through the hatchway. Then he
squatted to batten the hatch more securely. The lock wouldn't obey and he
clawed at it with his scratched fingers. Bykov towered near by like a radio
mast, looking at him steadily from above.
"Just a moment," Zhilin said hurriedly. "Just a. moment." Finally the
hatch was locked.
"Ready," Zhilin said and got up. His knees were shaking.
"Come on," said Bykov.
They went back to the control room. Mikhail Antonovich was asleep in
his chair at the computer. His lips hung loose and he was snoring. The
computer was on. Bykov leaned over the navigator, picked up the mike of the
intercom and said:
"All passengers are summoned to the mess-room."
"What?" Mikhail Antonovich asked, startled out of his sleep.
"What-already?"
"Yes," said Bykov. "Let's go to the mess room." He didn't go
immediately, but stood and absently watched Mikhail Antonovich get out of
his chair, grunting and wincing. Then he came to and said, "Come on."
They went to the mess room. Mikhail Antonovich made straight for the
sofa, plopped down and folded his arms on his stomach. Zhilin too sat
down-to stop his knees shaking-and stared at the table-top. Dirty plates
still stood in a pile on it. Presently the door opened and in stumbled the
passengers. The planetologists had Mollard between them. He hung limply,
dragging his feet and clutching at their shoulders. In his hand he had a
balled handkerchief covered with dark spots.
In silence Dauge and Yurkovsky seated Mollard on to the sofa and sat
down on either side of him. Zhilin ran his eye over them all. What horrible
mugs, he thought. Surely I can't look like them? He touched his face
stealthily. His cheeks felt very thin, while his chin seemed as thick as
Mikhail Antonovich's. He felt pins and needles in his face. As if I've been
sitting on it, he thought.
"Well," said Bykov. He got up from a chair in a corner, went to the
table and leaned on it heavily. Mollard gave Zhilin a sudden wink and
covered his face with the spotted handkerchief. Bykov glanced at him coldly.
Then he rested his glance on the opposite wall.
"Well,", he repeated. "We have finished refitting the Tahmasib. We can
now use the photon propulsion unit and that is precisely what I have decided
to do. However -I should like first to let you into all possible
consequences. I warn you the decision's final and I'm not proposing to
consult you and ask for your opinions."
"Please make it shorter, Alexei," said Dauge.
"The decision is final," said Bykov. "But I consider you're entitled to
know how it might end. First, the reactor's activation might touch off an
explosion in the compressed hydrogen round us. And that would mean the
Tahmasib's total destruction. Second, the plasma's first flash might destroy
the reflector-the outer surface of the mirror's probably whittled away by
corrosion by now. Then we'd stay here and.... It's clear what that would
mean. Third, the Tahmasib might fight her way out of Jupiter and-"
"That's clear," said Dauge.
"And the food would be delivered to Amaltheia," said Bykov.
"For which the food would be eternally grateful to Bykov," said
Yurkovsky. Mikhail Antonovich smiled wanly. He didn't find it funny.
Bykov was looking at the wall.
"I'm giving the start right away," he said. "The passengers are
requested to take their places in the acceleration absorbers. All of you.
And without any of your tricks," he glanced at the planetologists. "It's
going to be eight G's. If not more. Carry out orders. Engineer Zhilin, check
on compliance and report to me."
He ran his eye over them, then turned and strode into the control room.
"Mon dieu;' said Mollard. "What a life."
His nose was bleeding again. Dauge jerked his head and said:
"We need someone who's lucky. Any lucky dog among you? We absolutely
need someone who's lucky."
Zhilin got up.
"It's time. Comrades," he said. He wished everything would soon be
over. He desperately wished everything was over and done with. They had all
remained seated. "It's time, Comrades," he repeated in confusion.
"There's about ten per cent of probability of a favourable result,"
Yurkovsky said musingly and started rubbing his cheeks. Mikhail Antonovich
grunted and struggled up out of the sofa.
"Boys," he said. "Looks we ought to bid farewell to one another. Just
in case, you know. Anything might happen." He smiled piteously.
"We might as well," said Dauge. "Yes."
"And I again don't know how," said Mollard.
Yurkovsky rose.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "Let's go and get into the acceleration
absorbers. Bykov might come any moment and then-I'd prefer to be burned up.
He's a heavy hand-I remember to this day, though it was ten years ago...."
"Quite," Mikhail Antonovich said and fussed. "Come on, boys, come
on.... But let me kiss you first."
He kissed Dauge, then Yurkovsky, then turned to Mollard and kissed him
on the forehead.
"Where will you be, Misha?" asked Dauge.
Mikhail Antonovich kissed Zhilin, gave a little sob and said:
"In the acceleration absorber-same as everyone."
"And you, Vanya?"
"Me too," said Zhilin. He was holding Mollard by his shoulders.
"And the captain?"
They were in the gangway now and everyone stopped. There were a few
more steps before separation.
"Alexei Petrovich says he doesn't trust automation inside Jupe," said
Zhilin. "He'll steer her himself."
"Just like Bykov," Yurkovsky said with a wry smile. "A knight in
shining armour."
Mikhail Antonovich gave a little whimper and headed for his cabin.
"Let me help you. Monsieur Mollard," said Zhilin.
"Please," Mollard said and Obediently clutched at Zhilin's shoulder.
"Good luck and quiet plasma," said Yurkovsky. Dauge nodded and they
parted. Zhilin led Mollard to his cabin and helped him into the absorber.
"How's life, Vanya?" Mollard asked sadly. "Good?"
"Good, Monsieur Mollard," said Zhilin.
"And how are the girls?"
"Very good," said Zhilin. "There're nice girls on Amaltheia."
He smiled politely, slid the top in place and switched off the smile. I
wish it was all over, he thought. He walked the length of the gangway and it
looked very bare to him. He tapped on each shock-absorber, got the replies
and went back to the control room.
Bykov sat in the senior pilot's place. He was in an antigrav suit. It
looked like a silk worm's cocoon, from one end of which a mop of red hair
was sticking out. The face was as ordinary as always, only sterner and very
tired. \ "All set, Alexei Petrovich," said Zhilin.
"Good," said Bykov. He glanced at Zhilin sideways. "Not afraid,
youngster?"
"No," said Zhilin. He wasn't afraid. He only wished it would all be
over soon. And then he suddenly wished to see Father as he used to emerge
out of his spaceship after a long trip, stout, moustachioed, helmet in hand.
And to introduce Father to Bykov.
"Go, Ivan," said Bykov. "I give you ten minutes."
"Quiet plasma to you, Alexei Petrovich," said Zhilin.
"Thanks," said Bykov. "Go."
I must bear it out, Zhilin thought. Surely I will bear it out. He was
at the door of his cabin when he spotted Varya. Varya was crawling
laboriously, hugging the wall, dragging her wedge-shaped tail. Catching
sight of Zhilin she raised her triangular muzzle and winked slowly.
"You poor beast," said Zhilin. He seized her by the loose skin on her
neck, dragged her inside, slid open the top of his acceleration absorber and
looked at his watch. Then he threw Varya into the box-she felt very heavy as
she quivered in his hands-and got in himself. He lay back in complete
darkness and listened to the gurgling of the absorber mixture while his body
was becoming lighter and lighter. It was very pleasant, only Varya kept
jerking at his side, her bosses prickling his hand. I must bear it out, he
thought. Like he does.
In the control room Bykov jabbed at the ribbed key of the starter with
his thumb.
EPILOGUE
J-STATION, AMALTHEIA
The chief of the Station has no eye for the setting Jupiter and Varya
gets her tail pulled.
'The setting of Jupiter is also a spectacular sight. The
yellowish-green exospheric glow dies out and stars flicker up one after
another in the darkening sky like diamond needles against black velvet.
But the chief of the J-Station saw neither the stars nor the
yellowish-green glow above the cliffs. His eyes were on the icy field of the
spacedrome. Just where the colossal tower of the Tahmasib was falling
slowly, in a barely perceptible movement. The first-class cargo photon ship
was indeed colossal. It was so huge it even dwarfed the bluish-green plain
pitted with black round spots it was falling on. From the spectrolite dome
it seemed the ship was free-coasting. But in real fact it was being towed
into place. Hidden in the shadows of the cliffs on the sides of the field
there were powerful winches, and bright filaments of hawser would sometimes
sparkle into view in the sun's rays. The sun shone full on the ship and she
was all in sight, from the huge bowl of the reflector to the globe of the
living quarters.
Never before had so badly damaged a ship come to Amaltheia. The
reflector was cracked on the edge so that there was a dense distorted shadow
in the huge bowl. The six-hundred-foot tube of the photon reactor looked
mottled as though eaten away by scab. The emergency rockets protruded at
awkward angles on the twisted brackets, the cargo bay was lop-sided and
looked like a round tin that had been trodden on by a magnetic boot. Part of
the food has perished, thought the chief. What nonsense I'm thinking. As
though that mattered. But one thing's certain: the Tahmasib is going to stay
here for a while.
"Quite a price to pay for chicken broth," said Uncle Hoak.
"Yes," the chief muttered. "Chicken broth. Stop it, Hoak. You don't
really mean it."
"Why not?" said Hoak. "The boys could do with some chicken broth."
The spaceship settled on the plain and was lost in the shade. Only the
ship's titanium sides glowed a faint green, then there were pin-points of
light and the fuss of tiny black figures. Jupiter's shaggy hump dipped
behind the cliffs and they darkened and became taller, and a gorge was lit
bright for an instant, revealing the trellis-work of the antennae.
The radiophone in the chief's pocket sang mosquito-like. He got the
smooth case out and pressed reception.
"Listening," he said.
The switchboardman's tenor-gay, with no diffidence-came to him in a
rattle:
"Comrade chief, Captain Bykov's arrived with crew and passengers and is
waiting for you in your office."
"Coming," said the chief.
Together with Uncle Hoak he took the lift down and went to his office.
The door was wide open. The room was full of people who all 'spoke and
laughed loudly. Still in the gangway the chief heard a gay yell:
"How's life-good? How're the boys- good?"
The chief lingered in the doorway, his eyes searching for the
newcomers. Hoak was breathing noisily just behind him and the chief knew he
was grinning from ear to ear. It would be interesting to look at a grinning
Hoak, but the chief didn't turn. He saw Mollard, his hair wet after a bath.
The Frenchman was gesticulating wildly and laughing his head off. There were
girls round him, Zoya, Galya, Nadya, Jane, Yuriko-in fact, all the Station's
girls-who were laughing heartily too. Mollard had a way of gathering all the
girls round him. Then the chief spotted Yurkovsky, or rather the back of his
head, and a nightmarish monster on his shoulder. The monster was jerking its
head here and there and yawning horribly, while a few daredevils kept
pulling at its tail. Dauge was not in sight but could be heard as easily as
Mollard. He was yelling: "Hands off! Let me go! Ah-ah!" A huge young fellow
he did not know was standing to the side, very handsome and very pale
compared with the group of local space flyers with whom he was engaged in a
lively conversation. Mikhail Antonovich Krutikov was sitting in a chair
beside the chief's desk. He was talking away, waving his short pudgy hands
and sometimes pressing a balled lace-trimmed handkerchief to his eyes.
Only then did the chief recognise Bykov. He was pale to the point of
blueness and there were bluish bags under his bloodshot eyes that spoke of
prolonged exposure to high acceleration. Round him stood department chiefs
and the chief of the spacedrome. He was speaking to them, but in so low a
voice that the chief could not understand a word and only saw his lips move
slowly in the effort of speech. This was the quietest group in the room.
Presently Bykov looked up and saw the chief. He got up, a whisper ran around
and there was a general hush.
They both moved at the same time, their magnetic soles clanging against
the metal floor, and met in the middle of the room. They shook hands and
stood for a while silently and motionlessly. Then Bykov disengaged his hand
and said:
"Comrade Kangren, I report the spaceship Tahmasib with its cargo."