Grant shook his head. “That ship might have been here for years — probably has, since none of us can place it. The crew may be there, but, I fear, not alive. It seems unlikely that this craft has been registered in the lifetime of any of us. I doubt that it would have remained here unless it were disabled; but you must all have realized by now that it holds probably our only chance of life.
Even if it won’t fly, there may be a transmitter in repair. We had better investigate.”
The men followed the captain as he took a long, slow leap down the slope. Little enthusiasm showed in the faces behind the helmet masks; even young Preble had accepted the fact that death was almost inevitable. At another time, they might have been eager and curious,even in the face of a spectacle as depressing as a derelict usually is; now they merely followed silently. Here, probably,’ a similar group of men had, no one knew how long ago, faced a fate identical to theirs; and they were about to see what had befallen those others. No one saw humor in the situation, but a wry smile was twisting more than one face as the group stopped beneath the circular entrance port. More than one thought of the possible irony of their being taken for a rescue crew.
Grant looked at the port, twenty-five feet above their heads. Any of them could easily have jumped to it; but even that effort was not necessary, for a row of niches, eight inches square and two deep, provided a ladder to the rim. It was possible to cling to them even on the lower curve of the hull, for they were deeply grooved around the inside edges. The captain found that his gauntlets could grip easily, and he made his way up the wall of metal, the others watching from below. Arriving at the port, he found that the niches formed a circle around it, and other rows of them extended over the hull in different directions. It was at the entrance, however, that he met the first of the many irregularities.
The others saw him reach the port, and stop as though looking around. Then he traveled entirely around it, stopped again, and began feeling the mirrorlike metal with his gloved hands. Finally he called out:
“Cray, could you come up here, please? If anyone can find the opening mechanism, you should.”
The engineer remained exactly where he was.
“Why should there be any?” he asked. “The only reason we use it on our ships is habit; if the door opens inward, atmospheric pressure will hold it better than any lock. Try pushing; if the inner door is sealed, you shouldn’t have much trouble — the lock chamber will be exhausted, probably.”
Grant got a grip near the edge of the door, and pushed.
There was no result. He moved part way around the rim and tried again, with the same lack of success. After testing at several more points, he spoke again:
“No luck. I can’t even tell which side the hinge is on, or even if there is a hinge. Cray, you and a couple of others had better come up and give a hand at pushing; maybe there’s a trace of air in the inner chamber.”
Cray grunted, “If there’s anywhere near an atmos-phere’s pressure, it’ll take tons to budge the door — it’s twelve feet across.” But this time he began to climb the bull. Royden, probably the most powerful one present, and a chemist named Stevenson followed him. The four men grouped themselves about the forward edge of the port, their feet braced on the door itself and hands firmly gripping the climbing niches; and all four tensed their bodies and heaved. The door still refused to budge. They rested a moment, and followed Grant to the opposite side of the metal disk.
This time their efforts produced results. The pressure on the other side of the valve must have been only a few millimeters of mercury; enough to give four or five hundred pounds’ resistance to an outside thrust at the edge opposite the hinge. When the door opened a crack, that pressure vanished almost instantly, and the four men shot feet first through the suddenly yawning opening.
Grant and Stevenson checked the plunge by catching the edge of the port frame; the other two disappeared into the inner darkness, and an instant later the shock of their impact upon some hard surface was felt by those touch-ing the hull.
The captain and the chemist dropped to the floor of the lock and entered; Preble leaped for the open door, followed by Sorrell and McEachern. All three judged accurately, sailing through the opening, checking their flight against the ceiling, and landing feet down on thefloor, where they found the others standing with belt lights in their hands. The sun was on the far side of the ship, and the chamber was lighted dimly by reflection from the rocks outside; but the corridors of the vessel themselves must be dark.
The inner valve of the air lock was open — and had apparently been so from the beginning. Cray and Royden had shot through it, and been brought up against the far-ther wall of a corridor running parallel to the ship’s long axis. They were both visible, standing back to back, sweep-ing the corridor in both directions with their lights. Grant took a step that carried him over to them, motioning the others to remain where they were, and added his light to those already in action.
To the right, as one entered it, the corridor extended almost to the near end of the ship — the bow, as the men thought of it for no good reason. in another direction, it ran about ten yards and opened into a large chamber which, if this craft resembled the Giansar as closely within as it did without, was probably the control room. At least, it was just about amidships. Smaller doors opened at intervals along the hallway; some were open, the majority were closed. Nothing moved anywhere.
“Come on,” said Grant finally. He walked toward the central room, and paused on the threshold, the others at his heels. The floor they were walking on continued in the form of a catwalk; the chamber they were entering occupied the full interior of the hull at this point. It was brightly lighted, for it was this compartment that possess-ed the six great view ports, equally spaced around its walls, and the sun shone brightly through these. The men extinguished their own lights. Cray looked about him, and shook his head slowly.
“I still think I must be dreaming, and about to wake up on our own ship,” he remarked. “This looks more and more like home, sweet home.”
Grant frowned. “Not to me,” he replied. “This control layout is the first serious difference I’ve seen. You wouldn’t notice that, of course, spending all your life with the engines. It might be a good idea for you to see if the drive on this ship is enough like ours for you to puzzle out, and whether there’s a chance of repairing it. I’ll look over this board for signs of a transmitter — after all, the Mizar shouldn’t be too far away.”
“Why shouldn’t I be able to understand the drive?” retorted Cray. “It should be like ours, only a little more primitive — depending on how long this boat’s been here.”
Grant shot him an amazed glance. “Do you still think this is a Terrestrial ship, and has been here only a few decades?” he asked.
“Sure. Any evidence otherwise?”
Grant pointed to the floor beneath their feet. All looked down, and for the first time noticed that they left footprints in a thin, even layer of dust that coated the corridor floor.
“That means that the ship held its air for a longer time than I care to think about — long enough not only to reduce the various organic substances on board to dust, but at random currents to distribute it through the open spaces. Yet when we came the air was almost gone — leaked out through the joints and valves, good as they were, so that there was not enough left to resist us when we pushed a twelve-foot piston against its pressure. Point one.”