“Like a computer.” Surgenor gave a wry smile. “For an unscheduled foray he likes to use the modules which have clocked up the least engine hours—and this old bus is due for…’
“Don’t tell me—a complete overhaul next month.”
“Next week.”
“That’s just great,” Targett said bitterly. “Two modules out of six. Odds of only two to one against me and I couldn’t even bring it off. With my luck I’d…’ He fell silent as he saw the slow grin spreading over Surgenor’s features.
“May I make a suggestion?” Surgenor kept his gaze straight ahead. “Instead of sitting around here calculating odds, why don’t you get suited up and take a walk over into those hills? That way…’
“What? Can you do things like that?”
Surgenor sighed in the way he always did when a new crew member displayed ignorance. “I would also suggest that you read the survey regulations when you get back. Each suit is fitted out for an EVA of up to fifty hours for precisely this sort of situation.”
“Skip all that stuff, Dave—I can bone up on regulations later.” Targett’s mounting excitement overrode his respect for Surgenor’s greater experience. “Will Aesop clear me to leave the module and take a look at…whatever it is over there?”
“He ought to—the logistics make sense. You could give him television coverage and a verbal report while I’m taking this module back to the ship in pattern with the others. Only one module would need to return to pick you up. And if the report you turn in shows the find is worth bringing the Sarafand down for, there’ll be no extra time on the modules at all.”
“Let’s talk to Aesop right now.”
“You’re sure you want to do this, Mike?” Surgenor’s eyes had become serious, probing. “I’ll feel responsible for you all on your own out there, and the Cartographical Service has an occupational disease all to itself—there’s a tendency for us to start thinking a planet is just a series of pretty pictures on a screen.”
“What are you getting at?”
“We’re so used to coasting around in armchairs that we forget we rely on a machine to transport us around like invalids. It means that no amount of thinking about a ten-kilometre walk can prepare you for the actual experience. That’s why Aesop hasn’t already taken the initiative and ordered one of us to investigate those objects—the Service doesn’t require a man to walk new ground alone.”
Targett snorted and pressed the talk button which would put him into direct contact with Aesop.
CHAPTER SIX
Module Five lifted a short distance into the air, dipped its nose slightly and whined away to the north in a cloud of brown dust.
Targett watched it vanish, and was mildly surprised at the speed with which all sign of the vehicle’s existence was lost in the alien panorama. He took a deep breath of the suit’s plastic-smelling air. It was early afternoon and he had about six hours of daylight in hand—ample time to reach the group of metal objects which lay due east at a distance of some ten kilometres. He began to trudge towards the hills, scarcely able to credit the turn of events which had snatched him from the boredom of a routine survey and set him down alone in the middle of a prehistoric landscape.
Horta VII’s atmosphere contained no trace of oxygen and the planet had never known any indigenous life, yet Targett found he was unable to keep his eyes from scanning the sand underfoot for shells and insects. Intellectually he could accept that he was traversing a dead world, but on the instinctive and emotional level his consciousness simply rejected the concept. He walked as quickly as he could, going ankle-deep in the fine sand, feeling a little selfconscious each time the holstered ultralaser pistol bumped against his thigh.
“I know you don’t need it,” Surgenor had said patiently, “but it’s standard EVA equipment and if you don’t wear it you don’t leave the vehicle.”
The planet’s gravity was close to 1.5G, and by the time Targett neared the hills he was sweating freely in spite of the suit’s cooling system. He unbuckled the pistol—which seemed to have maliciously quadrupled its weight—and slung it over his shoulder. The ground was becoming increasingly stony and on reaching the hills he found they were composed largely of naked basaltic rock. He sat down on a smooth outcropping, glad of the chance to rest his legs. When he had sipped some cold water from the tube that nuzzled against his left cheek, he decided to check on his location.
“Aesop,” he said, “how far am I from the objects?”
“The nearest is nine hundred and twelve metres east of your present position,” Aesop replied without hesitation, drawing on the data continuously fed to him by his own sensors and those in the six converging survey modules.
“Thanks.”
Targett scanned the slope ahead of him. It formed an ill-defined ridge a short distance away. From there he should be able to see the objects, provided they were not buried under the accumulated dust of seventy centuries.
“How are you making out, Mike?” The voice was Surgenor’s.
“No problems.” Targett was about to add that he was beginning to understand the difference between looking at images and toiling his way through the actual terrain when it dawned on him that Surgenor had maintained a long radio silence with the deliberate intention of making him feel cut off. No doubt the big man had Targett’s interests at heart, but Targett was not going to reveal that he knew he had been too casual and brash about the exploit.
“It’s good to get some exercise,” he said. “I’m enjoying the walk. How about you?”
“I’ve got decisions to make,” Surgenor said comfortably. “I’ll be back at the Sarafand in less than three hours, and the question is whether to eat a pack meal now or wait for a proper steak dinner on board. What would you do, Mike?”
“That’s one of those tricky decisions you have to sort out for yourself.” Targett kept his voice level with an effort. This was Surgenor’s way of reminding him that by waiting a few hours he could have done his investigating in comfort and on a full stomach. As it was, he was going to spend an uncomfortable night with nothing to keep him going but water and surrogate. Another disconcerting aspect of his situation was that an alien world seemed a hundred times more alien to a man who was on his own.
“You’re right—it isn’t fair for me to load my problems on to you,” Surgenor said. “Maybe I’ll do things the hard way and try to eat both meals.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Dave. See you around.” Targett rose to his feet with a new determination to make his private expedition worth while. He moved up the slope, being careful not to slip on the loose surface stones and dust which cascaded around his ankles at every step. Beyond the ridge the ground levelled out for more than a kilometre before rising sharply to the rocky spine of the hills. The small plateau was bounded to the north and south by tumbled palisades of boulders, almost as if it had been cleared by bulldozers.
And scattered across the level ground—in random groupings—were hundreds of slim black cylinders, the nearest only a few dozen paces from Targett. They were about seven metres in length and tapered at each end, with controlled curvatures which spoke of aerodynamic efficiency. Targett’s breathing quickened in a way which had nothing to do with his exertions as it came to him that the alien objects certainly were not discarded canisters, as Surgenor had suggested.
He took the miniature television camera from his belt, plugged it into the suit’s powerpack for a few seconds to charge its cells, and aimed it at the nearest cylinders.
“Aesop,” he said, “I’ve made visual contact.”