The log was strictly routine--space plan had been followed exactly;
arrival had been on schedule; survey team had been dispatched with
minimum delay, had reported grounding and camp establishment without
incident, had relayed particulars of commencement of operation--until
the last entry. It was eerie listening to the emotionless voice of 231's
skipper: "Sub-entry one. Date: same. Time: 2205 Zulu. No contact with
base camp. Surface front negates visual. Am holding dispatch of M 1.
Will wait until next scheduled report time before action."
There was no sub-entry two.
I broke the recorder seal, reversed and played back the comm tapes.
There wasn't much. Distance obviates any talky-talky from ship to base
once the Solar System has been cleared. What I learned was simply a
substantiation of what I'd already surmised. I cut off when I heard a
familiar voice say: "250 from 231."
* * * * *
Moya helped me strip off the pressure suit. No matter what the physio
manuals say, there's room for improvement. Nothing beats your own skin.
He trailed me into the gear compartment.
I returned the suit to its clips and began sorting through the welter of
what the well-dressed spacer wears for a bug rig somewhere near my size.
The tag is not completely adequate. It's a light-weight outfit, with
intrinsic filters and auds, designed to be worn under conditions that
involve the suspected presence of dangerous bacteria or harmful gases.
Its efficacy does not extend beyond the limits of reasonable atmosphere.
"Now don't start jumping to conclusions," I told Moya. "All I know is
that whatever happened happened quickly and down below."
From the weapons' chest, I selected a little W&R 50 and the biggest clip
I could find. "Fifties" aren't much for range, but they are
unconditionally guaranteed to make a creature the size of a Triceratops
think twice before heading in your direction again, and, once you strap
one on, you never feel the weight. That's why, even though they are
officially obsolete, you can generally find a brace in most star ship
arsenals.
"Remind me to report the maintenance gang of this hunk for stocking
unauthorized weaponry."
"You would, too," Moya said.
On the way back to the lock, I told him:
"Let's save time by not making a duplicate recording. I'll transmit
additional information and intent going down. There's one shuttler left
in 231, so I'll use it. If I find I need something that isn't in the
shuttler, I'll fetch myself. Under no circumstances are you or any of
your boys to leave this ship without my say-so."
"What happens if--?"
"You've had thirty years of deep space, Tony; am I supposed to tell you
your job? Go by the book. Either launch another messenger and sit tight
for instructions, or get out and risk a board inquiry, depending."
"You can rot down there for all of me."
"Thanks a pile. Make certain your crew understands. I wouldn't want any
of them getting their pretty hands dirty."
But I didn't feel so cocky going down. I hadn't the least idea of what
to expect. Sure, I'd gleaned something from the comm tapes: the
unsuccessful attempts to contact the survey team at base camp; the
happy-go-lucky report from the kid sent in shuttler II to investigate,
saying that the camp was deserted but everything looked fine, just fine;
the unsuccessful attempts to recontact him; and then a blank except for
my own voice. Apparently, the skipper had followed with the rest of the
con crew. I could even guess why he had failed to make additional
entries in the log, or not transmitted from the camp in lieu thereof. He
figured it was something he could work out himself, and he didn't want
anything on record to show that he had broken regulations. He wanted to
keep the errors of personnel under his command--and his own--in the
family. He figured, after the situation was resolved, that he could make
cover entries and nobody's slate would be soiled.
* * * * *
The camp was at the edge of a plain marked "Hesitation" on the chart.