“There was some reference to obstruction of observations at the time,” Dick Bentley recalled, “though it seemed as if it referred to intervening flocks of petty asteroids...”
“H'm. Well if we find them maybe we'll learn a bit more —but it's a big if. Nearly fourteen months now since they sent off that globe. Seems to me one of the things we've got to keep a sharp look out for round these parts is that we don't get into the same kind of mess they did.”
“Maybe that's why they sent the two of us,” Bentley suggested, thoughtfully.
They got down to the details of operation. There could be no doubt about the first move. It would be to examine the Asteroid, Pomona Negra, for any signs that the Joan III had indeed landed there as her intention had been. It was quite possible that crippled as she was on the navigation side and depending only on the directions of a lookout who would find difficulty in the conditions in using even field-glasses, she had been unable to reach it. If neither she nor any sign of her presence was to be seen, there would be a further conference on the method of search to be adopted.
Captain Bentley was content to leave the arrangement at that when he returned to the Annabelle. Half an hour later the two ships, at a speed very little above that of the asteroids themselves began to nose their way with a delicate fastidiousness into the Belt in the direction of Pomona Negra.
The next days were tedious with slow movement. The imperative quality was caution. It was impossible to observe and avoid all contact with asteroids which travelled not only in swarms, but often solitary and might be in size anything from a pebble to a large building and therefore necessary to limit their speed to one at which the larger bodies could be seen and avoided, and glancing or direct blows from the smaller would do no harm. For all on board the ships it was a disagreeable period of weariness which frayed the nerves and shortened the tempers.
Were Pomona Negra an outflier such as Pallas or Eros, approach would be simpler; unfortunately she holds an orbit of low inclination to the ecliptic and travels attended by considerable ruck of cosmic debris, and there is no path to her that does not require patience and caution. Almost two weeks passed before Circe signalled observation of a body 75 miles in diameter in the position nominally occupied by Pomona Negra.
Bentley contacted Captain Waterson:
“What's this ‘nominally’ stuff, Tom? There can scarcely be two asteroids of that size around here.”
“That's just the trouble, Dick. If Pomona Negra means anything it should be The Black Apple — because, presumably, the thing's black. This isn't — it's bright scarlet.”
“Oh-ho,” murmured Bentley thoughtfully.
“Exactly my sentiments. Oh-ho, followed by, now what?”
“Well-what?”
“Investigate cautiously. Decrease speed, proceed with added care to avoid any suspicious object or substance. Pick your own course — it's wiser to separate in case whatever the Joan III ran into is hanging around. Rendezvous twenty-five mile level to sunward of Pomona. Keep in radio touch. In case of radio failure the ship in trouble will reduce to Pomona's orbit speed and the other ship will go to her aid. Got it?”
“Okay. That's clear. And at the rendezvous we inspect and decide further?”
“That's it. Good luck. Dick.”
“And to you, Tom.”
Three days later the two ships hung at the appointed twenty-five miles above the surface of the reputed Pomona Negra. No one had the least doubt that it was the right asteroid, but the name was now thoroughly inappropriate; no single spot of black was visible on its surface.
Bentley, visiting the Circe once more, suggested that the first thing to do was to recommend that its name be changed to Pomona Rosa.
They looked out of the window at it: a globe of scarlet touched here and there by the fall of the light with a faint oily irridescence. The surface was smooth, fat, bulgingly unpleasant as if distended. More than anything else it reminded Bentley of a boil, angry and bloated with pressure.
Captain Waterson's expression as he gazed at it was serious.
“That thing,” he said, “should be a ball of rough black rock. Instead, it's a perfectly smooth globe. God knows what quantity of the stuff there must be to have levelled off over all that area. The rate of growth! It doesn't bear thinking about.”
“Assuming that the Joan III in brought it here, you mean.”
“I think we're justified in that. It can't have been like this before or Foggatt would have noticed it and reported it.”
“He did report some of those red asteroids,” Bentley reminded him.
“But nothing like this. We saw some small ones ourselves some twenty-four hours back, a few twenty or thirty footers, I expect you did. This is colossal, horrible — And it must have overrun the whole thing in less than fourteen months: that's what gets me. I'd not believe it possible anything could grow at such a rate. Think of the area it covers!”
They gazed down in silence for some minutes on the asteroid. The more Bentley looked at it the less he liked it, for though at moments it had the aspect of a vast vivid pearl, its constant suggestion was repulsively obscene tumescence.
“What do you suppose it is?” he asked at length.
Waterson shrugged his shoulders.
“What is life anyway? — some kind of seed floating about the universe until it finds suitable conditions to develop? May be. Lord knows what there may be in all this Space. Perhaps we were once a few chance spores; perhaps there are a lot of different kinds of life floating about waiting for time to give them their chance...”
“Still, that's for the scientists to argue about when they get some of the stuff. The present question is what about Foggatt and the Joan III.”
Bentley stared down at the red mass.
“I'm afraid there's not much question there. Even if they could keep the stuff out of the ship, and manage to survive as long as this — which is doubtful, what is there to be done about it? Nothing if they're buried in all that muck. You could try full power on the radio, but it's unlikely, by the report, to reach them — and even if it could, it's highly improbable that they've had anyone listening on the chance all this time. Honestly, I don't see that there is anything to be done, poor devils.”
Waterson pondered, and then agreed reluctantly.
“Nor do I, hanged if I do. I'm afraid that was finish for poor old Foggatt and his lot. Still, I shall go down and take a closer look — there might be something though I doubt it. Anyway, I've got to get the specimens. Your job'll be to hang around here and keep an eye on things.” “Okay, Tom. For Heaven's sake be careful, though.” “Oh, I'm not going to take any risks. Just shoot down some automatically closing specimen bottles and have a man standing by to burn them clean when we haul them up again. Simple. No, I'm not taking any chances with that stuff. Loathsome-looking muck, it is.”
Back on the Annabelle, Bentley watched the Circe go down on a spiral matched to the rotation of the scarlet globe. Through the instruments they watched the shuttle-like, silver shape level off a mile or less above the surface and set itself to circle the asteroid.