Shaw had been impressed but his response was cold. “That was small stuff. And it was close. The capsule’s an entirely different matter and it won’t respond to magnetism.”
Kalitzkin laughed. “It will not need to. That is merely by the way. With the co-operation of my colleagues in China very satisfactory tests of the real qualities of the Masurov Beam have been made, as I told you — you will see! When the astronauts bring the capsule into the earth’s atmosphere it will become as good as mine. And immediately after that, you will make your broadcast to say that all is well. Now watch again, please.”
Shaw looked back at the television screen.
Kalitzkin moved the handwheel once more and the plate drooped farther over, the stalk itself inclining so that the plate hovered almost vertically above ground some thirty feet clear of the edge of the deep pit. Then Kalitzkin pressed another of the red buttons. There was a small plop as the second purple button snapped back into ‘off,’ the power died — and a small mountain of metal that must have weighed, at a guess, a couple of tons, slid to the ground. Clear and virgin again, the plate assumed an upward direction as Kalitzkin once more turned the handwheel and it remained there like some grotesque metal mushroom… or like the flower of some man-eating tropical plant greedily waiting for Skyprobe IV to drop into its mouth.
TWENTY-FIVE
Soon after, the stalk was lowered back into its stowage and within a couple of minutes one of the radar operators reported that he had picked up aircraft to the eastward. They were distant and not closing, maintaining a northerly course, and Kalitzkin wasn’t in the least worried, certain in his own mind of the complete security and anonymity of his base. After Shaw had been put through the dress rehearsal of his talk to the West, the four guards took him over again and escorted him back to the cage. He saw Ingrid watching him through the sound-proof glass lining of the bars, with relief and gladness in her eyes at seeing him back unharmed. She smiled at him; he appreciated that smile and the sheer guts it indicated.
He was locked in and left to brood.
He had imprinted on his mind every detail of the control room’s layout, including the fact that the tell-tale television screens didn’t cover the gangway between his and Ingrid’s cages. That might be worth bearing in mind, perhaps; but he had little hope of being able to achieve any results at this stage. He knew that the ditching of the capsule couldn’t be delayed much beyond the extension limit next morning. Possibly they could delay an hour or so beyond it but that would have to be regarded as the absolute deadline; and it would certainly appear pretty pointless to the authorities in the States to put the men in further danger of their lives by delaying the splashdown beyond the known safe limit if the searching forces were still reporting blanks by the time the extra twenty-four hours were up.
In the Caribbean the recovery fleet, having no knowledge of the fact that Danvers-Marshall would order the retro-rockets to be fired off so as to bring the capsule in over the Pacific, had remained on station for the ditching.
Splashdown was now definitely scheduled to be attempted at 0900 hours next day subject to revised orders only if the hostile base should be located in the meantime. Klaber had personally spoken again to the men in space and had told them of this decision, taken after full consultation with the President, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and his own technical aides.
Once again Klaber asked, “You’re sure the retro-rockets are okay now?”
“Sure I’m sure.” Danvers-Marshall wouldn’t be interfering with them again now; everything was moving his way. Schuster was trembling with frustration; even though there was no conceivable point in reporting the situation to control, since there was just nothing anybody on the ground could do about it — and they must have guessed by now anyway — he would have liked Klaber and the world to know for absolutely sure just what was going on inside the capsule. But a look over his shoulder had shown him that Danvers-Marshall’s eyes were staring insanely and he was becoming convinced the man’s mind had been affected by his position and he would be quite likely to start shooting if anything rattled him further.
Klaber’s voice said unnecessarily, “Report at once if you have any trouble.” Klaber wanted to go on talking, hated the idea of cutting off and leaving them to it. Schuster sensed that; he knew Klaber well.
He said, “Sure, sure,” and his tone was ironic. He couldn’t help that; there was going to be plenty of trouble and they just had to take it. Without the threat of a docking to be used against Danvers-Marshall any more, there wouldn’t be any future at all in risking the Britisher’s gun — and neither could they start anything on the way down. This thing had to be fought out after splashdown and not before — unless things got too much and he couldn’t stop himself, and if he did that, it was goodbye anyway.
He had to watch it.…
Suddenly Danvers-Marshall said, “Greg.”
Schuster stiffened at something in the man’s tone. “Yeah?”
“You’ll want to have a word with your families.”
This was ghoulishness. “Like hell.”
“Wayne?”
“Leave them out of this, you Red bum.”
“Look,” Danvers-Marshall persisted. “I’m sorry about all this. I’ve said that and I mean it. My hands were tied—”
“Nuts.”
“Well, if you don’t want to believe that, Greg, I can’t make you.” Danvers-Marshall’s voice was unsteady now. “That’s not to say I won’t go through with it… I will go right through with it, I assure you. But I want you to think of your families, both of you. They’ll want a word with you. Only, don’t say anything I wouldn’t want you to. That’s all.” He hesitated. “Greg… call up mission control. Tell them to put the families on.”
“Get stuffed.”
“I mean it, Greg. I’m telling you to do it.”
Schuster took a deep breath and glanced over at Wayne Morris. Slowly Morris nodded… he wouldn’t mind having a last word, though he as well as Schuster knew Danvers-Marshall was only trying to help his own conscience over a sticky patch. Schuster sighed and called up the tracking station at Canaries. He said, “Tell Kennedy, we’d like a word with our families next time round.”