II

The colony on the second planet of Sirius existed solely due to one of

those vicious circles of progress. Just as iron is needed to make the

steel to build the tools and equipment necessary to mine the raw iron

ore, so this colony was needed to mine the precious mineral that made

such colonies possible in the first place.

The mineral was called Praesodynimium, a polysyllabic mouthful which

meant simply that it was an unstable crystalline isotope of sodium

that broke down eventually into ordinary sodium (hence "prae-":before;

"sod-":sodium), which was possessed of extreme kinetic potentials

("dyn-":power), and was first extracted from sodium compounds by a

Canadian scientist ("-imium" instead of the more American "-inum" or

even "-um").

This crystal had the happy habit of electrical allergy. When

subjected to even a mild electric current, it avoided the consequent

shakeup of its electronic juxtaposition by simply vanishing from

normal space until the power was turned off. The nice part about its

disappearance--from an astronaut's point of view--was that the crystal

took not only itself, but objects within a certain radius along with

it. It turned out that a crystal of Praesodynimium the moderate size

of a sixteen-inch softball would warp a ninety-foot spaceship into

hyperspace without even breathing hard. Of course, it would warp

anything _else_ within a fifty-foot radius, too; so it was only turned

on after the ship had ascended beyond planetary atmosphere, lest a

large scoop of landing-field, not to mention a few members of the

ground crew, be carried away with the ship.

In her eagerness to investigate the now-attainable stars, Earth had

soon exhausted her sources of the mineral. Worse, the crystal, being

unstable, had a half-life of only twenty-five years. That meant that a

ship using it had a full-range radial margin of about five years before

the crystal ceased warping the ship-inclusive area.

Until some way was discovered to get into hyperspace without using

Praesodynimium--and its actual function was as much a mystery to

scientists as an automobile's cause-and-effect is to a lot of drivers;

very few people can describe the esoteric relationships between the

turning of the ignition key and the turning of the rear wheels--the

mineral was worth ten times its weight in uranium 235.

Sirius II had been found to be as rife with the mineral as a candy

store is with calories. Hence the colony.

For so long as the ore held out the planet would be regarded with

fond respect and esteem by any and all persons who had investments,

relatives or even just interest in the Space Age and its contingent

programs.

* * * * *

So it was with considerable trepidation that Earth received the news

that the mines on Sirius were no longer being worked. Oh, yes, there

was still ore--enough to keep the planet profitable for another

century. The trouble was the miners. They weren't coming out of the

mines anymore. And no one who went inside to look for them was ever

seen again, either.

Naturally, mining slacked off. The men refused to set foot in the mines

until somebody found out what had happened to their predecessors.

So the officials of the colony resurrected a scanner-beam and

roborocket from the cellar of the spacefield warehouse and storage

depot. They sent the rocket into an orbit matching planetary rotation.

In effect it simply hovered over the mines while it scanned the area

for uncatalogued alien life.

And when they brought the rocket down and checked the microtape

against the file of known species on the planet, they found that no

such beast had ever been catalogued. Its life-pulse gave a reading of

point-nine-nine-nine.

Since life-pulses are catalogued on a decimal scale based on the

numeral one (with Man rated at point-oh-five-oh), the colonial

administration staff immediately ordered the mines officially closed

and off-limits. This brought no results on Sirius II which had not been

already achieved, but the declaration made the miners feel a little

less guilty over their dereliction of duty.

An SOS was swiftly sent to Earth, explaining the situation in detail

and requesting instructions.

Earth sent word to hang on, keep calm and leave the mines closed until

an investigation could be made--all of which the colony was trying to

do anyway.

A duplicate of the microtape had been transmitted along with the SOS.

Earth had checked the pattern against every known species filed in

U.S. Naval Space Corps Alien-Contact Library, a collection of the

vast alien multitude gathered by Space Zoologists in the methodical

colonization and exploration of the universe. It was found to be not

only _unknown_ anywhere in the thus-far-explored cosmos, but totally

_unlike_ any life-pulse previously encountered.

Earth decided the only way to get any satisfaction would be by the

unorthodox method of sending in a Space Zoologist to Contact the alien,

though this would be the first time in the history of Contact that this

had ever been done on an already-settled planet.

And so the badly frightened colony lingered behind bolted doors, and

peered through locked windows at the sky--awaiting the arrival of Jerry

Norcriss, and praying he'd locate the alien and tell them how it might

be dealt with....

* * * * *

"Begging your pardon, sir," grinned the tech, doing some last-minute

fiddling with the machine, "but you never had it so good." Jerry dabbed

at the cold sweat-film on his forehead and upper lip, and nodded

silently.

In all his previous Contacts, done before any colonization was even

attempted, things were a bit more rustic. His present environs

were luxury compared to those setups. If the six-month orbit of the

roborocket found the planet safe for humans, well and good; Jerry did

not have to go. But if a new life-form were spotted--one that did not

correspond in life-pulse to any known species--then it was Jerry's job

to land on the planet and Learn the beast, to determine its probable

menace, if any, to man.

The tech was referring to the fact that Jerry's usual base of

operations was out on the sward beside the tailfin of the rocket, the

only power-source on a non-colonized planet. There, in his Contact

helmet, relaxed upon his padded couch, he would let his mind be

sent right into that of the alien, to Learn it from the inside out.

Here, though, on a settled world, his accommodations were pleasantly

out of the ordinary. He was in the solarium of the town's research

laboratory-hospital. He gazed up through quartz panes at soothing blue

skies, in air-conditioned comfort spoiled only by a fugitive scent of

disinfectant lingering in the building.

Some half-dozen curious members of the building's staff were gathered

in the room. None of them had ever seen a man go into Contact before.

In vain the tech had assured them, before Jerry's arrival, that there

was nothing to be seen. Jerry would lie on the couch and adjust the

helmet upon his head, and then the tech would throw a switch. And for

forty minutes there would be nothing to see except Jerry's silent

supine body.

Later, of course, the information transmitted by Jerry's mind through

the helmet pickups to the machine would be translated into English.

Then they could all read about the new animal. That would be the

interesting part, for them; not this senseless staring at the young

man, white-haired at thirty-plus, who would, so far as they'd be able

to tell, merely doze off for an uneventful forty-minute nap.

For Jerry, however, things would be anything but dull for those forty

minutes.

Once the process was begun, there was no way known even to the

discoverer of the Contact principle to extend or reduce the

time-period. When Jerry's mind had traveled to that of the alien, he

would remain there for the full time. Anything that happened to the

alien in that period would also happen to Jerry. Including death.

If the alien somehow perished with Jerry "aboard," as it were, the

group in the solarium would wait in vain for him ever to bestir himself

and rise from the couch again.

Jerry, fighting the waves of nausea that burned in the pit of his

stomach, lay there in his helmet and waited for the tech to finish

adjusting the machine.

A scanner-beam, sent toward the suspected locale from the solarium, had

instantly retriggered that same green blip in response, as jagged and

powerful as before. Jerry would soon be sent right into the center of

the response-area, and his mind imbedded in the brain of the alien.

"Hurry it up, will you?" Jerry called over to the tech, trying not to

shout.

"Ready, sir," the other man said abruptly. "Are you all set?"

"All set, Ensign," Jerry replied, then shut his eyes to the clear blue

sky and the stares of the curious and let his mind relax for the brief

shock of transport....

A flare of lightning, silent, white and cold in his mind--and Jerry

Norcriss was in Contact....

* * * * *

One of the nurses, crisp and efficient in white starched cotton, took

a hesitant step toward the figure on the couch, then spoke to the tech

without looking at him, intensely. "What are his chances? It's so

important that he succeed!"

About to brush her off with a noncommittal reply, the tech turned his

gaze from the control panel to meet, turning to face him, a pair of the

deepest blue eyes he'd ever seen, and a smooth-skinned serious face

beneath a short-cropped tangle of bright yellow hair. The eyes were

troubled. His manner softened instantly.

Trying not to show the sudden warmth he felt, he pointed with offhand

authority at the tall metal machine, its face alive with leaping lights

and quivering indicator needles.

"This'll tell the story, one way or the other," he said. "A Space

Zoologist's chances are always fifty-fifty. He either succeeds and

returns in perfect health, or he fails and doesn't return at all.

But whatever data he picks up in Contact will be punched onto the

microtape. It may help us deal with the menace. Or it may not."

She looked surprised. "Then this is simply a recorder? I'd thought it

was the thing that sent his mind out to the mine area...." She faltered

on the last few words, and looked more concerned than ever.

The tech was tempted to ask her about it, but decided to stay on the

neutral ground of simple mechanics for a while. "No, his mind sends

itself. That is, the helmet triggers a certain brain-center; his mind

follows a scanner-beam directed toward the alien and he Contacts. After

that, this machine could be turned off, so far as maintaining Contact

goes. After a forty-minute interim, his mind would return to his

body by itself. The brain-center gets triggered sort of like a muscle

reacts to a blow. It gets paralyzed for a certain time. Forty minutes.

Beyond that limit, or short of it, no Contact or breaking of Contact is

possible...."

His voice trailed off as he realized her responsive nods were

abstracted and vague, her thoughts elsewhere. "Look," he said

awkwardly, "I'm no psyche-man, but--maybe it'd help if you talked about

it."