“What's it look like from there, Circe?” the Annabelle's navigator asked his opposite number.
“More revolting, if possible,” the other assured him. “Like a mass of red mucous; disgusting. Not altogether stable, either. Unless it's a trick of the light, there seem to be undulations in it. Might be a sort of tidal movement — or it might be something to do with its metabolism as it revolves, if Foggatt's-notion of its drawing sustenance from sunlight is right. Going to make a circuit now.”
Reception faded as the Circe passed round the other side of the monstrosity, and came back as she reappeared.
“The same all the way round,” said her navigator. “Just a nasty big blob. Another circuit at 90 degrees now.”
He watched the silver shape turn into line with the axis of the body and disappear over the nearer pole. No great time elapsed before it came into sight again flashing in the sunlight on the opposite side.
“From what you can see in the dark round there, there's no distinguishing feature anywhere,” came the navigator's voice again. “Going down now. Descending to 300 feet, to take samples.”
From the Annabelle it looked as though the other ship ? were stationary. Only the reports of her navigator's voice as he gave decreasing altitudes told them that she was actually sinking closer to the viscous surface. They heard him sing out: “Three hundred” and then: “Aye, aye, sir,” and, after a pause: “Two hundred, and steady, sir.”
Through the Annabelle's instruments it was possible to discern some kind of disturbance on the red surface below the other ship. A sort of tide or tremor in roughly circular ripples seemed to be running through the mass. At first Bentley attributed it to the impact of the sample bottles which, he judged would now have been propelled into the substance, and thought it in consequence to be in a much more liquid state than he had hitherto imagined. Then he realized uneasily that the ripples were not spreading outwards as from a stone dropped into water, but inwards. He doubted if the effect were, as clearly observable from the close range of the other ship, and leaned over to speak into the navigator's phone.
“Circe. There's something queer going on just below you,” he said.
A voice came back:
“It's okay, sir. Just the effect of — 'Strewth!”
Bentley turned back to his instrument just in time to catch a glimpse of the cause of the exclamation.
The stuff had gathered in a kind of mound beneath the Circe, and flung out towards her a vast shapeless limb of itself, a reaching pseudopod like a licking red tongue.
Those on board wasted no time. There was a gush from the Circe's main tubes, and she leapt forward like a flash. But swift as she was, she did not draw clear in time. She tore through the top of the extending tongue like a streak and emerged from it with speed undiminished, but she was no longer a silver ship: from bow to tubes she was coated in brilliant scarlet.
At once with her hull aerial system fouled, radio communication died. Captain Bentley seized a headset of the type built into space-suits, and began calling. Evidently Waterson had done the same. His first remarks were vivid, but unprintable. Bentley waited for the picturesqueness to subside.
“You all right?” he asked.
“What do you mean, ‘all right’? The main radio's dead, and we can't see a bloody thing outside, otherwise I suppose we are. Except that we'll have lost the man in the air-lode putting down the bottles, I'm afraid.”
Another voice cut in, speaking somewhat unsteadily:
“I'm still here, sir, in the lock. Must have been knocked kind of silly for a minute when we started like that.”
“Good man. Look here —”
Bentley broke in on them :
“Tom, what about braking? You're still running free, you know.”
“God, yes!” He heard Captain Waterson shout orders for deceleration equal to previous impetus.
The man in the lock spoke again.
“The place is crawling with this ruddy muck, sir.”
“Is the outer door damaged?”
There was a pause.
“No, it's shut all right, sir.”
“Good. Well, keep it shut. You've still got the blowtorch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Clean up with it as much as you can in there. Don't touch your suit fastenings. When you come out I'll have a couple of chaps here with torches to finish it off. That clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Captain Waterson turned his attention back to Bentley and the Annabelle.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“About three hundred miles sunward from Pomona,” Dick told him. “You made some jump. We're coming up to you now. You're lying pretty well at orbit speed. Hold it like that.”
“We're covered in the stuff, I take it?”
“Every inch.” He caused for another burst of lurid comment which ended with Waterson's inquiry:
“What the hell do we do now?”
“I suggest I try to burn you clean.”
“How?”
“First thing, I'm going to send over two grappels, one to bow and the other to stern.”
“The stuff will spread back along the cables to you.”
“We can take care of that. The thing I want to know is can you roll your ship? Without giving any directional movement, I mean.”
“Roll? What, you mean horizontally?”
“Sure.”
“God knows. In all my years in Space I've never even wanted to try. You'd better speak to the engineer about that. What if we can?”
“Then I turn my tubes on to you. That ought to burn pretty near anything off.”
“It'll shove you away.”
“Not if I put on the braking tubes to balance the thrust.”
“H'm. It's an idea,” approved Captain Waterson. “Yes, it's worth trying — only don't go and concertina your ship in between the two thrusts.”
“We'll take good care of that,” Bentley assured him, and turned to his preparations.
The two magnets were floated out, and since accurate placing was necessary, were guided into position by space-suited men equipped with propulsive pistols. The two men took good care to project themselves back from the red hull before contact was made. The rest watching intently from the Annabelle's windows broke into comments; within half a minute it was possible to see the red substance begin to swarm up the sides of the magnets; in four it was starting to travel along the cables connecting the ships. Once it had begun, it continued to extend along them at a surprising rate. Then, some fifty out from the Circe, it came to an obstruction. The Annabelle's men watched anxiously, and then relaxed for the progress of the red substance was checked. It had encountered the three foot sections that had been wrapped in asbestos and bound with wire which now glowed incandescent, and it did not like them. The advance was stopped, and it contented itself with thickening upon that part of the cable already covered.
The Annabelle manoeuvred delicately to place herself stern on to the other ship, and slightly closed the distance between them.
“Hello, Circe,” Bentley called. “I'm about to start. Have your outside party ready with lamps to mop up when we finish. Be ready to start rolling when I give the word — and make it as slow as you can.”
A blaze began to glow from both forward and stern tubes of the Annabelle. Gradually it increased to a blast of fire gushing out from the stern tubes to envelope the scarlet ship in a roaring gale of fire. The effect upon the substance was immediate and encouraging. Under the searing heat the red coating shrivelled, smoked and blackened.