Hepworth was moving towards the left output chamber as he spoke. Nicklin followed close behind, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. He had had little to do with the gates and their associated mechanisms, partly because they had been Hepworth’s jealously guarded territory, but also because the gates themselves were blocks of ferro-molybdenum weighing in the region of 600 tonnes each. In spite of their enormous mass they had to be moved quickly, with three degrees of freedom, to direct the magnetic flux of the Tara’s intake fields.
The support frames, controls, gears and resonance motors were heavy power engineering, and outside the scope of Nicklin’s fields of expertise. He had always worked alone and had taken no interest in anything he was unable to lift without help. But in spite of his limited knowledge, as he trailed behind Hepworth through the inhuman environment of the engine cylinder, he found himself again experiencing doubts about the man’s qualifications and practical experience.
What he had seen portrayed on the ship’s control console had looked, to him, like a straightforward collapse of the left intake field. At a guess he would have said that a flux pump had developed one of the dozen or so faults to which such complex machines were prone. But he was relegated, condemned, to the role of bystander because of his cursed lack of relevant training. Could the field have withered in a way that, to the experienced eye, told of a failure in gate mechanisms?
Hepworth reached the massive bulkhead of the field emission chamber and, breathing heavily, began tapping the access code into the lock.
“Scott, what are you doing?” Nicklin grabbed Hepworth’s upper arm. “You can’t just walk in there!”
Hepworth angrily shook his arm free. “I know what I’m doing. The whole complex has shut down automatically.”
“But you don’t know what the residual level of motor activity is! There could be… I mean…”
Nicklin strove for the right form of warning, the formula with which to penetrate the shell of Hepworth’s irrational fury. He knew a lot about magnetic pulse motors, and on a small scale had seen the havoc they could wreak when suddenly frustrated in their normal activities. For as long as five minutes after a serious breakdown they could emit bursts of gyromagnetic energy which, flitting through the vicinity like poltergeists, could invade metal objects and invest them with a pseudo-life of their own. He had seen cables writhing like snakes, and pliers leaping from workbenches with enough force to shatter windows. In those cases the kinetic force had been released by broken motors no larger than his fist—and the motors in the field emission chamber were the size of beer kegs.
“There’s nothing wrong with the motors,” Hepworth snapped. “The trouble is in the gate control rods, and I know exactly where.”
“But at least look at the monitors and…” Nicklin gestured at the panel beside the door and his voice faded as he saw that all its dials and counters were inert.
“Somebody put the wrong fuses in that thing,” Hepworth said defiantly. “It’s a redundant piece of junk anyway.”
“But you told Corey… you told us all that the work on your side of things was finished weeks ago! What else have you declared redundant around here?”
“All essential systems are functional.”
Nicklin stared into the physicist’s eyes and saw something there which terrified him. “Fleischer was right about you, wasn’t she? You’re not up to the job!”
The punch Hepworth threw was both clumsy and slow, but when Nicklin tried to avoid it his feet, lacking purchase in the low gravity, skidded out from under him. Hepworth’s fist hit him squarely in the stomach as he went down. He landed on his back and slid into a tool rack. Mentally rather than physically shocked, he gripped the rack and drew himself to his feet as Hepworth was disappearing from his view in the emission chamber.
“Scott, I’m sorry,” he called out. “Please don’t go—”
His voice was lost amid a series of violent reports from within the chamber. Metal was striking on metal with a ferocity which punished Nicklin’s ears and numbed his brain. The clamour went on for perhaps ten seconds, and somewhere in the heart of it he heard a different kind of sound. It was a softer impact, less strident than the others and with several elements—a crushing, a pulping, a gasp. The mechanical bedlam reached an awesome climax and then, quite abruptly, slackened off. In the ringing aftermath Nicklin could hear a single piece of metal bouncing, come to rest, vibrating—then there was total silence.
He remained where he was, petrified, staring at the baffle screen which prevented him from seeing far into the emission chamber. Gyromagnetic demons had been unleashed behind that screen, he knew, and he was not venturing into their lair until it was safe to do so. Five minutes, he thought. I’ll give it a full five minutes from now—just to be safe…
He began counting the time on his wristwatch.
Don’t get me wrong on this thing. I’m not actually saying that old Scott is dead. No, sir! He isn’t making any noises—I’ll grant you that—but that doesn’t mean he’s been defunctified, not by a long chalk. He could be cowering inside a locker, wondering what the hell happened. Perhaps he has filled those awful fucking baggy pants of his and is too ashamed to come out into the open. What a bloody scream that would be!
Almost two minutes had passed when there came a single loud clank from behind the screen.
“Scott?” Nicklin whispered. “Is that you, Scott?”
As if answering the query, the wrenches and screwdrivers in his pockets stirred into life, twisting and squirming like trapped animals. He gave a quavering moan as the rack upon which he was leaning shuddered and briefly became a discordant carillon, every tool on it clattering its individual note. But the agitation soon passed. His new fear evaporated as he realised that the gyromagnetic demons had, in their death throes, given birth to and sent forth a horde of mischievous kinetic imps.
Another nice touch, O Gaseous Vertebrate! You really had me going there for a moment. But there’s just one minor point—does this mean that Scott is really dead? Extincticated? Exanimated? Kaputorised?
Two minutes further on Nicklin heard a faint sound to his right. He looked in that direction and saw a young man in the uniform of a spaceport guard. It was the same young man—obviously a restless and inquisitive type—who had earlier intruded on the control deck. He studied Nicklin’s face for a long moment and then, without uttering a word, placed a finger vertically against his lips and retreated out of sight.
When five minutes had gone Nicklin advanced slowly to the door of the emission chamber. From the narrow space between the bulkhead and the baffle screen he could see part of a surreal world of grey metal masses, grey cabinets and twisted control rods, the whole accented with streaks of red here, and spots of red there.
When he moved to the end of the screen and looked around it the first thing he noticed, lying almost at his feet, was Hepworth’s head. It had been untidily severed, very untidily severed, and the face was turned up to his.
Nicklin felt his own face become an equally contorted death mask, and his mind immediately ricocheted into the safe universe of the absurd and the irrelevant. Look at the blackhead at the side of his nose. Just look at the frigger! Maybe I should squeeze it out before anybody else sees him like this… do him a last favour… mark of respect…