The Lost Kafoozalum Read online

ankle.

  "I volunteer," I say.

  B gives me a most dubious glance and then lifts her hand, too.

  Cray on the other side of the table is slowly opening his mouth whenthere is an outburst of waving on the far side of B.

  "Me too, colonel! I volunteer!"

  Mr. Yardo proceeds to explain that his special job is over and done,he can be more easily spared than anybody, he may be too old to takecharge of _Gilgamesh_ but will back himself as a hopper pilot againstanybody.

  The colonel cuts this short by accepting all three. He then unfoldshis paper again.

  "Piloting _Gilgamesh_," he says. "I'm not asking for volunteers now.You'll go to your cabins in four hours' time and those who want towill volunteer, secretly. To a computer hookup, Computer will selecton a random basis and notify the one chosen. Give him his finalinstructions, too. No one need know who it was till it's all over. Hecan tell anyone he likes, of course."

  A very slight note of triumph creeps into the next remark. "One point.Only men need volunteer."

  Instant outcry from Kirsty and Dilly: B turns to me with a look ofawe.

  "Nothing to do with prejudice," says the colonel testily. "Just facts.The crew of _Gilgamesh_ were all men. Can't risk one solitary womanbeing found on board. Besides--spacesuits, personal backgroundsets--all designed for men."

  Kirsty and Dilly turn on me looks designed to shrivel and B whispers"Lizzie how wonderful you are."

  * * * * *

  The session dissolves. We three get an intensive session course ofinstruction on our duties and are ordered off to sleep. Afterbreakfast next morning I run into Cray who says, Before I continueabout what is evidently pressing business would I care to kick him,hard?

  Not right now I reply, what for anyway?

  "Miss Lee," says Cray, dragging it out longer than ever, "although Ihave long realized that your brain functions in a way much superior tologic I had not sense enough yesterday to follow my own instinct anddo what you do as soon as you did it; therefore that dessicated meathandler got in first."

  I say: "So you weren't picked for pilot? It was only one chance inten."

  "Oh," says Cray, "did you really think so?" He gives me a long lookand goes away.

  I suppose he noticed that when the colonel came out with his remarksabout No women in Gilgamesh I was as surprised as any.

  Presently the three of us are issued with protective clothing; we justmight have to venture out on the planet's surface and therefore we getwhite one-piece suits to protect against Cold, heat, moisture,dessication, radioactivity, and mosquitoes, and they are quitebecoming, really.

  B and I drag out dressing for thirty minutes; then we just sit whileTime crawls asymptotically towards the hour.

  Then the speaker calls us to go.

  We are out of the cabin before it says two words and racing for thehold; so that we are just in time to see a figure out of an Historicalmovie--padded, jointed, tin bowl for head and blank reflecting glasswhere the face should be--stepping through the air lock.

  The colonel and Mr. Yardo are there already. The colonel packs us intothe hopper and personally closes the door, and for once I know whathe is thinking; he is wishing he were not the only pilot in this shipwho could possibly rely on bringing the ship off and on Mass-Time atone particular defined spot of Space.

  Then he leaves us; half an hour to go.

  The light in the hold begins to alter. Instead of being softlydiffused it separates into sharp-edged beams, reflecting andcrisscrossing but leaving cones of shadow between. The air is beingpumped into store.

  Fifteen minutes.

  The hull vibrates and a hatch slides open in the floor so that theblack of Space looks through; it closes again.

  Mr. Yardo lifts the hopper gently off its mounts and lets it backagain.

  Testing; five minutes to go.

  I am hypnotized by my chronometer; the hands are crawling throughglue; I am still staring at it when, at the exact second, we go offMass-Time.

  No weight. I hook my heels under the seat and persuade my esophagusback into place. A new period of waiting has begun. Every so oftencomes the impression we are falling head-first; the colonel usingship's drive to decelerate the whole system. Then more free fall.

  The hopper drifts very slowly out into the hold and hovers over thehatch, and the lights go. There is only the glow from the visiscreenand the instrument board.

  One minute thirty seconds to go.

  The hatch slides open again. I take a deep breath.

  I am still holding it when the colonel's voice comes over the speaker:"Calling _Gilgamesh_. Calling the hopper. Good-by and Good luck.You're on your own."

  The ship is gone.

  Yet another stretch of time has been marked off for us. Thirty-sevenminutes, the least time allowable if we are not to get overheated byfriction with the air. Mr. Yardo is a good pilot; he is concentratingwholly on the visiscreen and the thermometer. B and I are free to lookaround.

  I see nothing and say so.

  I did not know or have forgotten that Incognita has many smallsatellites; from here there are four in sight.

  * * * * *

  I am still looking at them when B seizes my arm painfully and pointsbelow us.

  I see nothing and say so.

  B whispers it was there a moment ago, it is pretty cloudy downthere--Yes Lizzie there it is _look_.

  And I see it. Over to the left, very faint and far below, a pin-prickof light.

  Light in the polar wastes of a sparsely inhabited planet, and since weare still five miles up it is a very powerful light too.

  No doubt about it, as we descend farther; about fifty miles from ourobjective there are men, quite a lot of them.

  I think it is just then that I understand, _really_ understand, thehazard of what we are doing. This is not an exercise. This is in deadearnest, and if we have missed an essential factor or calculatedsomething wrong the result will be not a bad mark or a failed exam, oreven our personal deaths, but incalculable harm and misery to millionsof people we never even heard of.

  Dead earnest. How in Space did we ever have cheek enough for this?

  The lights might be the essential factor we have missed, but there isnothing we can do about them now.

  Mr. Yardo suddenly chuckles and points to the screen.

  "There you are, girlies! He's down!"

  There, grayly dim, is the map the colonel showed us; and right on thefaint line of the cliff-edge is a small brilliant dot.

  The map is expanding rapidly, great lengths of coastline shooting outof sight at the edge of the screen. Mr. Yardo has the cross-hairscentered on the dot which is _Gilgamesh_. The dot is changing shape;it is turning into a short ellipse, a longer one. The gyros areleaning her out over the sea.

  I look at my chronometer; 12.50 hours exactly. B looks, too, and gripsmy hand.

  Thirty seconds later the Andite has not blown; first fuse safetyturned off. Surely she is leaning far enough out by now?

  We are hovering at five hundred feet. I can actually see the whiteedge of the sea beating at the cliff. Mr. Yardo keeps making smallcorrections; there is a wind out there trying to blow us away. It iscloudy here: I can see neither moons nor stars.

  Mr. Yardo checks the radio. Nothing yet.

  I stare downwards and fancy I can see a metallic gleam.

  Then there is a wordless shout from Mr. Yardo; a bright dot hurtlesacross the screen and at the same time I see a streak of blue flametearing diagonally downwards a hundred feet away.

  The hopper shudders to a flat concussion in the air, we are all thrownoff balance, and when I claw my way back to the screen the moving dotis gone.

  So is _Gilgamesh_.

  B says numbly, "But it wasn't a meteor. It can't have been."

  "It doesn't matter what it was," I say. "It was some sort of missile,I think. They must be even nearer to war than we thought."

  We wait. What for, I don't
know. Another missile, perhaps. No morecome.

  At last Mr. Yardo stirs. His voice sounds creaky.

  "I guess," he says, then clears his throat, and tries again. "I guesswe have to go back up."

  B says, "Lizzie, who was it? Do you know?"

  Of course I do. "Do you think M'Clare was going to risk one of us onthat job? The volunteering was a fake. He went himself."

  B whispers, "You're just guessing."

  "Maybe," says Mr. Yardo, "but I happened to see through that faceplate of his. It was the professor all right."

  He has his hand on the controls when my brain starts working again. Iutter a strangled noise and dive for the hatch into the cargo hold. Btries to grab me but I get it open and switch on the light.

  Fifty-fifty chance--I've lost.

  _No_, this is the one we came in and the people who put in the newcargo did not clear out my fish-boat, they just clamped it neatly tothe wall.

  I dive