Module Five, which was Surgenor’s vehicle, had just skirted a low but jagged range of peaks and he guessed that at least two of the others would have been forced to go over the top and lose time. Somehow, in spite of all the years and light-years, he felt a renewal of the competitive urge. It could be pleasant, if not altogether appropriate, to finish his career in the Cartographical Service with a champagne toast.
“Here we go,” Voysey said as the vehicle gathered speed on the downward slope. “A shower, a shave and champagne—what more could you ask for?”
“Well, even if we stick to the alliteration, and decide to omit vulgarities,” Surgenor replied, “there’s steak, sex, sleep…’
He stopped speaking as the voice of Captain Aesop on board the Sarafand boomed from the radio grille mounted above the view plates.
“This is the Sarafand speaking to all survey modules. Do not continue your approach. Cut your motors and remain where you are until further notification. This is an order.”
Before Aesop’s voice had died away the radio silence that had been observed during the homeward race was broken as startled and angry comments from the other modules crashed from the loudspeaker. Surgenor felt the first cool feather-flick of alarm—Aesop had sounded as though something was seriously wrong. And Module Five was still churning its way down into the blackness of the polar plain.
“It must be some kind of fault in the mapping procedures,” Surgenor said, “but you’d better cut the motors anyway.”
“But this is crazy! Aesop must be out of his tiny little mind. What could go wrong?” Voysey sounded indignant. He made no move to touch the motor controls.
Without warning an ultralaser burst from the Sarafand splintered the night into dazzling fragments and the hillside lifted skywards in front of Module Five. Voysey hit the brakes and the vehicle slid to a halt on the glowing edges of the ultralaser scar. Falling rock hammered on the roof in an irregular, deafening frenzy, then there was silence.
“I told you Aesop was out of his mind,” Voysey said numbly, almost to himself. “Why did he do a thing like that?”
“This is the Sarafand,” the radio blared again. “I repeat—no survey module is to attempt to approach the ship. I will be forced to destroy any other module which fails to obey this order.”
Surgenor pressed the button which put him in contact with the mother ship.
“This is Surgenor in Module Five, Aesop,” he said quickly. “You had better tell us what’s going on.”
“I intend to keep all crew members fully informed.” There was a pause, then Aesop spoke again. “The problem is that six vehicles went out on this survey—and seven have come back. I hardly need to point out that this is one too many.”
With a spasm of alarm Candar realized he had made a mistake. His fear stemmed not from the fact that the strangers had discovered his presence among them, nor that they had reasonably potent weapons—it came from the knowledge that he had made such an elementary and avoidable error. The slow process of his physical and mental deterioration must have gone much further than he had appreciated.
The task of reforming his body to look like one of the travelling machines had been a difficult one, but not as difficult as the vast cellular reorganization which enabled him to survive when the two suns had grown huge and both were in the sky at once. His mistake had been in allowing the machine whose shape he had reproduced to come within range of the scanning device inside the large machine towards which the others were heading. He had allowed the small machine to draw away from him while he went through the agony of transformations and then, when he went after it, had become aware of the pulsing spray of electrons sweeping over him.
Crazed with hunger though he was, Candar had tested the fine sleet of particles and it occurred to him almost at once that they were being emitted by a surveillance system. He should have deduced in advance that creatures with the feeble sense organs he had perceived would have striven for something to widen their awareness of the universe—especially the creatures who would take the trouble to build such complicated vehicles. For an instant he considered absorbing all electrons which touched his skin, thereby rendering himself invisible to the scanning device, but decided that doing so would defeat his purpose. He was already within visual range of the largest machine, and the displaying of any unusual characteristics would make him instantly identifiable to the watchers inside.
Candar’s alarm faded away as, with another part of his sensory network, he picked up the currents of fear and bewilderment stirring in the minds of the beings in the machine nearest to him. Minds like these, especially housed in bodies like these, could never present any serious problem—all he had to do was await the opportunity which was bound to occur very soon.
He crouched on the cracked surface of the plain, most of the metallic elements in his system transferred to the periphery of his new shape, which was now identical to that of the travelling machines. A small part of his energy was going into producing light, which he beamed out in front, and another minute fraction of it was devoted to controlling the radiations reflected by his skin, thus obscuring his individuality.
He was Candar, the most intelligent, talented and powerful single entity in the universe—and all he had to do was wait.
The standard intercom speakers fitted in geodesic survey vehicles were, in spite of their small size, very effective pieces of equipment. Surgenor had never heard of one being overloaded before, but immediately following Aesop’s announcement communication was lost as every module crew reacted in surprise or disbelief. A defence mechanism caused him to stare at the speaker grille in mild wonderment while another part of his mind assimilated Aesop’s news.
A seventh module had appeared on an airless world which was not only uninhabited but, in the strictest clinical sense of the word, sterile. Not even the toughest known bacteria or virus could survive when Prila I ran the gamut of its double sun. It was totally unthinkable that an extra survey vehicle could have been awaiting the Sarafand’s arrival, and yet that was what Aesop claimed—and Aesop never made a mistake. The cacophony from the loudspeaker quieted abruptly as Aesop came on the air again.
“I am open for suggestions regarding our next move, but they must be made one at a time.”
The hint of reproof in Aesop’s voice was enough to damp the noise level to a background rumble, but Surgenor could sense a growing panic. The root cause of the trouble was that operating a geodesic survey module had never become a genuine profession—because it was too easy. It was a casual, big-money job that smart young men went into for two or three years in order to raise capital for business ventures, and when signing on they practically demanded a written guarantee that there would never be any interruption in the profitable routine. Now, on this unprecedented occasion, something had gone wrong, and they were worried. Their jobs had been created largely by trade union pressures—it would have been a simple matter to automate the survey modules to the same extent as the mother ship—but at the first demand for a flexible response to an unforeseen event, the basis of the unions’ arguments, they were both resentful and afraid.
Surgenor felt a flicker of annoyance at his team-mates, then remembered that he, too, was planning to pocket his profits and bow out. He had joined up sixteen years earlier, along with two of his space-struck cousins, and they had stayed for seven years before quitting and going into the plant-hire business. Most of his accumulated salary was in the business with them, but now Carl and Chris had reached the end of their patience and had presented him with an ultimatum. He had to take an active part in the running of the firm or be bought out, which was why he had served notice of resignation from the Cartographical Service. At the age of thirty-six he was going to settle down to a normal life, do a little desk-flying alleviated by some fishing and theatre-going, and probably find himself a reasonably compatible woman. Surgenor had to admit the prospect was not unpleasant. It was a pity that Module Seven had to crop up on his last trip.