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“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.