“What do we do now?” Braunek spoke with a curious timidity as he looked back at the other three men. The resilience which all the months of flight had not been able to sap now seemed to have left him. “Do we just fly on?”
Garamond, unable to feel shock or disappointment, turned to Yamoto. “Switch the detector on again.”
“Right.” The astronomer reactivated the black box and the cabin immediately filled with its roar. “But we can’t change what it says — we’re right on target.”
“Is it directional?”
“Yes.” Yamoto glanced at O’Hagan, who nodded tiredly in confirmation.
“Swing to the left,” Garamond told Braunek. “Not too quickly.” The plane banked slowly to the north and, as it did so, the sound from the delton detector steadily decreased until it faded out altogether.
“Hold it there! We’re now flying at right angles to the precise source of the particle bombardment. Right, Sammy?”
Yamoto raised the binoculars and looked in the direction indicated by the aircraft’s starboard wing. “It’s no use, Vance. There’s nothing there.”
“There has to be something. We’ve got an hour of daylight left — take a new bearing and we’ll follow it till nightfall.”
While Yamoto used the lightphone to bring the second crew up to date on what was happening, Joe Braunek steered the aircraft on to its new heading and shed height until they were at cruise altitude. The two machines flew onwards for another hour, occasionally swinging off course to make an up-dated check on their direction. Towards the end of the hour O’Hagan’s strength gave out and he had to be helped back to his bunk.
“We messed it up,” he said to Garamond, easing himself down.
Garamond shook his head as he covered the older man’s thin body. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Our basic premise was wrong, and that’s unforgivable.”
“Forget it, Dennis. Besides, you were the one who warned me we had no right to pick up that first particle so soon. As usual, you were right.”
“Don’t try to butter me. I’m too…” O’Hagan closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep at once. Garamond made his way back to the cockpit and sat down to weigh up the various factors involved in the ending of the mission. He sensed that the resistance of the other men, which had surprised him earlier, would no longer be a consideration. They had allowed themselves to hope too soon, and Orbitsville had punished them for it. What remained now was the decision on where to make the final landing. His own preference was for the foothills of a mountain chain which would provide them with rivers, variety of vegetation and the psychologically important richness of scenery. It might be best to turn back to the range they had just crossed rather than fly onwards over what seemed to be the greatest plain they had encountered so far. There was the possibility that something could go wrong with one of the aircraft when they were part way across that eternity of grass; and there was the certainty that what they would find on the far side would be no different to what they had left behind. Unless they came to a sea, Garamond reminded himself. A sea would add even more…
“I think we’ve arrived,” Braunek called over his shoulder. “I see something in front of us.”
Garamond moved up behind the pilot and peered through the forward canopy at the flat prairie. It stretched ahead, unbroken, for hundreds of kilometres. “I don’t see anything,” he said.
“Straight ahead of us. About ten kilometres.”
“Is it something small?” “Small? It’s huge! Look, Vance, right there!”
Garamond followed the exact line of Braunek’s pointing finger and a cold unease crept over him as he confirmed his belief that they were looking at featureless flatlands.
Yamoto shouldered his way into the cockpit. “What’s going on?”
“Straight ahead of us,” Braunek said. “What do you think that is?”
The astronomer shielded his eyes to see better and gave a low whistle. “I don’t know, but it would be worth landing for a closer look. But before we go down I want to get an infrared photograph of it.”
Garamond examined the sand-smooth plain once more, and was opening his mouth to protest when he saw the apparition. He had been looking for an object which distinguished itself from its surroundings by verticality and texture, but this was a vast area of grass which differed from the rest only in that it was slightly darker in colour. It could have been taken for a natural variation in the grass, perhaps caused by soil composition, except for the fact that it was perfectly circular. From the approaching aircraft it appeared as a ghostly ellipse of green on green, like a design in an experimental painting. Yamoto opened his personal locker, took out a camera and photographed the slowly expanding circle. He reeled the print out, glanced at it briefly and passed it round for the others to see. On it the area of grass stood out darkly against an orange background.
“It’s quite a few degrees colder,” Yamoto said. “I would say that the entire area seems to be losing heat into space.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, the grass there is of a slightly different colour to the rest — which could mean the soil is absorbing some mineral or other. And there’s the heat loss. Plus the fact that radiation from the outside universe is being admitted… It adds up to just one thing.”
“Which is?”
“We’ve found another entrance to Orbitsville.”
“How can that be?” Garamond felt a slow unexpected quickening of his spirit. “We did a survey of the equatorial region from the outside, and besides… there’s no hole in the shell.”
“There is a hole,” Yamoto said calmly. “But — a very long time ago — somebody sealed it up.”
They landed close to the edge of the circle and, although darkness came flooding in from the east only a few minutes later, began to dig an exploratory trench. The soil was several metres thick in the area, but in less than an hour an invisible resistance to their spades told them they had encountered the lenticular field. A short time later a massive diaphragm of rusting metal was uncovered. They sliced through it with the invisible lance of a valency cutter.
Two men levered a square section upwards and then, without speaking the others took it in turn to look downwards at the stars.
nineteen
“This is North Ten, the most advanced of our forward distribution centres,” Elizabeth Lindstrom said, with a warm note of pride in her voice. “You can see at once the amount of effort and organization that has been put into it.”
Charles Devereaux walked across to the parapet of the roof of the administration building and looked out across the plain. Four hundred kilometres to the south lay Beachhead City, and the arrow-straight highway to it was alive with the small wheeled transports of settlers. Here and there on the road, before it faded into the shimmering distance, could be seen the larger shapes of bulk carriers bringing supplies. The highway ended at North Ten, from which point a series of dirt tracks fanned out into the encircling sweep of prairie. For the first few kilometres the tracks made their way through an industrial area where reaping machines gathered the grass which was used as a source of cellulose to produce plastics for building purposes. Immediately beyond the acetate factories the homesteads began, with widely spaced buildings sparkling whitely in the sun.
“I’m impressed with everything Starflight has done here, My Lady,” Devereaux said, choosing his words with professional care. “Please understand that when I put questions to you I do so solely in my capacity as a representative of the Two Worlds Government.”
Do you think I would waste time answering them otherwise? Elizabeth suppressed the thought and bent her mind to the unfamiliar task of self-control. “I do understand,” she assured the dapper grey man, smiling. “It’s your duty to make sure that all that can possibly be done to open up Lindstromland is in fact being done.”