If Space Service regulations had allowed it, Captain Sir Henry Quill,
Bart., would have worn a walrus mustache. And if he'd had such a
mustache, he would have whuffled it then. As it was, he just blew out
air, and nothing whuffled.
"You and I are the only ones in the dark, then," he said. "The rest of
the crew is being picked from Chilblains Base. Pete Jeffers is First
Officer, in case you're wondering."
"Oh, great," Mike the Angel said with a moan. "That means we'll be going
in cold on an untried ship."
Like Birnam Wood advancing on Dunsinane, Quill's eyebrows moved upward.
"Don't you trust your own designing?"
"As much as you do," said Mike the Angel. "Probably more."
Quill nodded. "We'll have to make the best of it. We'll muddle through
somehow. Are you all ready to go?"
"No," Mike admitted, "but I don't see that I can do a damn thing about
that."
"Nor do I," said Captain Quill. "Be at Chilblains Base in twenty-four
hours. Arrangements will be made at the Long Island Base for your
transportation to Antarctica. And"--he paused and his scowl became
deeper--"you'd best get used to calling me 'sir' again."
"Yessir, Sir Henry, sir."
"_Thank_ you, Mister Gabriel," snapped Quill, cutting the circuit.
"Selah," said Mike the Angel.
* * * * *
Chilblains Base, Antarctica, was directly over the South Magnetic
Pole--at least, as closely as that often elusive spot could be
pinpointed for any length of time. It is cheaper in the long run if an
interstellar vessel moves parallel with, not perpendicular to, the
magnetic "lines of force" of a planet's gravitational field. Taking off
"across the grain" _can_ be done, but the power consumption is much
greater. Taking off "with the grain" is expensive enough.
An ion rocket doesn't much care where it lifts or sets down, since its
method of propulsion isn't trying to work against the fabric of space
itself. For that reason, an interstellar vessel is normally built in
space and stays there, using ion rockets for loading and unloading its
passengers. It's cheaper by far.
The Computer Corporation of Earth had also been thinking of expenses
when it built its Number One Research Station near Chilblains Base,
although the corporation was not aware at the time just how much money
it was eventually going to save them.
The original reason had simply been lower power costs. A cryotron unit
has to be immersed at all times in a bath of liquid helium at a
temperature of four-point-two degrees absolute. It is obviously much
easier--and much cheaper--to keep several thousand gallons of helium at
that temperature if the surrounding temperature is at two hundred
thirty-three absolute than if it is up around two hundred ninety or
three hundred. That may not seem like much percentagewise, but it comes
out to a substantial saving in the long run.
But, power consumption or no, when C.C. of E. found that Snookums either
had to be moved or destroyed, it was mightily pleased that it had built
Prime Station near Chilblains Base. Since a great deal of expense also,
of necessity, devolved upon Earth Government, the government was, to say
it modestly, equally pleased. There was enough expense as it was.
The scenery at Chilblains Base--so named by a wiseacre American navy
man back in the twentieth century--was nothing to brag about. Thousands
of square miles of powdered ice that has had nothing to do but blow
around for twenty million years is not at all inspiring after the first
few minutes unless one is obsessed by the morbid beauty of cold death.
Mike the Angel was not so obsessed. To him, the area surrounding
Chilblains Base was just so much white hell, and his analysis was
perfectly correct. Mike wished that it had been January, midsummer in
the Antarctic, so there would have been at least a little dim sunshine.
Mike the Angel did not particularly relish having to visit the South
Pole in midwinter.
The rocket that had lifted Mike the Angel from Long Island Base settled
itself into the snow-covered landing stage of Chilblains Base,
dissipating the crystalline whiteness into steam as it did so. The
steam, blown away by the chill winds, moved all of thirty yards before
it became ice again.
Mike the Angel was not in the best of moods. Having to dump all of his
business into Serge Paulvitch's hands on twenty-four hours' notice was
irritating. He knew Paulvitch could handle the job, but it wasn't fair
to him to make him take over so suddenly.
In addition, Mike did not like the way the whole _Branchell_ business
was being handled. It seemed slipshod and hurried, and, worse, it was
entirely too mysterious and melodramatic.
"Of all the times to have to come to Antarctica," he grumped as the door
of the rocket opened, "why did I have to get July?"
The pilot, a young man in his early twenties, said smugly: "July is bad,
but January isn't good--just not so worse."
Mike the Angel glowered. "Sonny, I was a cadet here when you were
learning arithmetic. It hasn't changed since, summer or winter."
"Sorry, sir," said the pilot stiffly.
"So am I," said Mike the Angel cryptically. "Thanks for the ride."
He pushed open the outer door, pulled his electroparka closer around
him, and stalked off across the walk, through the lashing of the sleety
wind.
He didn't have far to walk--a hundred yards or so--but it was a good
thing that the walk was protected and well within the boundary of
Chilblains Base instead of being out on the Wastelands. Here there were
lights, and the Hotbed equipment of the walk warmed the swirling ice
particles into a sleety rain. On the Wastelands, the utter blackness and
the wind-driven snow would have swallowed him permanently within ten
paces.
He stepped across a curtain of hot air that blew up from a narrow slit
in the deck and found himself in the main foyer of Chilblains Base.
The entrance looked like the entrance to a theater--a big metal and
plastic opening, like a huge room open on one side, with only that sheet
of hot air to protect it from the storm raging outside. The lights and
the small doors leading into the building added to the impression that
this was a theater, not a military base.
But the man who was standing near one of the doors was not by a long
shot dressed as an usher. He wore a sergeant's stripes on his regulation
Space Service parka, which muffled him to the nose, and he came over to
Mike the Angel and said: "Commander Gabriel?"
Mike the Angel nodded as he shook icy drops from his gloved hands, then
fished in his belt pocket for his newly printed ID card.
He handed it to the sergeant, who looked it over, peered at Mike's face,
and saluted. As Mike returned the salute the sergeant said: "Okay, sir;
you can go on in. The security office is past the double door, first
corridor on your right."
Mike the Angel tried his best not to look surprised. "_Security_ office?
Is there a war on or something? What does Chilblains need with a
security office?"
The sergeant shrugged. "Don't ask me, Commander; I just slave away here.
Maybe Lieutenant Nariaki knows something, but I sure don't."
"Thanks, Sergeant."
Mike the Angel went inside, through two insulated and tightly
weather-stripped doors, one right after another, like the air lock on a
spaceship. Once inside the warmth of the corridor, he unzipped his
electroparka, shut off the power, and pushed back the hood with its
fogproof faceplate.
Down the hall, Mike could see an office marked _security officer_ in
small letters without capitals. He walked toward it. There was another
guard at the door who had to see Mike's ID card before Mike was allowed
in.
Lieutenant Tokugawa Nariaki was an average-sized, sleepy-looking
individual with a balding crew cut and a morose expression.
He looked up from his desk as Mike came in, and a hopeful smile tried to
spread itself across his face. "If you are Commander Gabriel," he said
softly, "watch yourself. I may suddenly kiss you out of sheer relief."
"Restrain yourself, then," said Mike the Angel, "because I'm Gabriel."
Nariaki's smile became genuine. "So! Good! The phone has been screaming
at me every half hour for the past five hours. Captain Sir Henry Quill
wants you."
"He would," Mike said. "How do I get to him?"
"You don't just yet," said Nariaki, raising a long, bony, tapering hand.
"There are a few formalities which our guests have to go through."
"Such as?"
"Such as fingerprint and retinal patterns," said Lieutenant Nariaki.
Mike cast his eyes to Heaven in silent appeal, then looked back at the
lieutenant. "Lieutenant, _what_ is going on here? There hasn't been a
security officer in the Space Service for thirty years or more. What am
I suspected of? Spying for the corrupt and evil alien beings of Diomega
Orionis IX?"
Nariaki's oriental face became morose again. "For all I know, you are.
Who knows what's going on around here?" He got up from behind his desk
and led Mike the Angel over to the fingerprinting machine. "Put your
hands in here, Commander ... that's it."
He pushed a button, and, while the machine hummed, he said: "Mine is an
antiquated position, I'll admit. I don't like it any more than you do.
Next thing, they'll put me to work polishing chain-mail armor or make me
commander of a company of musketeers. Or maybe they'll send me to the
18th Outer Mongolian Yak Artillery."
Mike looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Lieutenant, do you actually mean
that you really don't know what's going on here, or are you just
dummying up?"
Nariaki looked at Mike, and for the first time, his face took on the
traditional blank, emotionless look of the "placid Orient." He paused
for long seconds, then said:
"Some of both, Commander. But don't let it worry you. I assure you that
within the next hour you'll know more about Project Brainchild than I've
been able to find out in two years.... Now put your face in here and
keep your eyes open. When you can see the target spot, focus on it and
tell me."
Mike the Angel put his face in the rest for the retinal photos. The soft
foam rubber adjusted around his face, and he was looking into blackness.
He focused his eyes on the dim target circle and waited for his eyes to
grow accustomed to the darkness.
The Security Officer's voice continued. "All I do is make sure that no
unauthorized person comes into Chilblains Base. Other than that, I have
nothing but personal guesses and little trickles of confusing
information, neither of which am I at liberty to discuss."
Mike's irises had dilated to the point that he could see the dim dot in
the center of the target circle, glowing like a dimly visible star.
"Shoot," he said.
There was a dazzling glare of light. Mike pulled his face out of the
padded opening and blinked away the colored after-images.
Lieutenant Nariaki was comparing the fresh fingerprints with the set he
had had on file. "Well," he said, "you have Commander Gabriel's hands,
anyway. If you have his eyes, I'll have to concede that the rest of the
body belongs to him, too."
"How about my soul?" Mike asked dryly.
"Not my province, Commander," Nariaki said as he pulled the retinal
photos out of the machine. "Maybe one of the chaplains would know."
"If this sort of thing is going on all over Chilblains," said Mike the
Angel, "I imagine the Office of Chaplains is doing a booming business in
TS cards."
The lieutenant put the retinal photos in the comparator, took a good
look, and nodded. "You're you," he said. "Give me your ID card."
Mike handed it over, and Nariaki fed it through a printer which stamped
a complex seal in the upper left-hand corner of the card. The lieutenant
signed his name across the seal and handed the card back to Mike.
"That's it," he said. "You can--"
He was interrupted by the chiming of the phone.
"Just a second, Commander," he said as he thumbed the phone switch.
Mike was out of range of the TV pickup, and he couldn't see the face on
the screen, but the voice was so easy to recognize that he didn't need
to see the man.
"Hasn't that triply bedamned rocket landed yet, Lieutenant? Where is
Commander Gabriel?"
Mike knew that Black Bart had already checked on the landing of the
latest rocket; the question was rhetorical.
Mike grinned. "Tell the old tyrant," he said firmly, "that I'll be along
as soon as the Security Officer is through with me."
Nariaki's expression didn't change. "You're through now, Commander,
and--"
"Tell that imitation Apollo to hop it over here fast!" said Quill
sharply. "I'll give him a lesson in tyranny."
There was a click as the intercom shut off.
Nariaki looked at Mike the Angel and shook his head slowly. "Either
you're working your way toward a court-martial or else you know where
Black Bart has the body buried."
"I should," said Mike cryptically. "I helped him bury it. How do I get
to His Despotic Majesty's realm?"
Nariaki considered. "It'll take you five or six minutes. Take the
tubeway to Stage Twelve. Go up the stairway to the surface and take the
first corridor to the left. That'll take you to the loading dock for
that stage. It's an open foyer like the one at the landing field, so
you'll have to put your parka back on. Go down the stairs on the other
side, and you'll be in Area K. One of the guards will tell you where to
go from there. Of course, you could go by tube, but it would take longer
because of the by-pass."
"Good enough. I'll take the short cut. See you. And thanks."
8
The underground tubeway shot Mike the Angel across five miles of track
at high speed. Mike left the car at Stage Twelve and headed up the
stairway and down the corridor to a heavy double door marked _freight
loading_.
He put on his parka and went through the door. The foyer was empty, and,
like the one at the rocket landing, protected from the Antarctic blast
only by a curtain of hot air. Outside that curtain, the light seemed to
lose itself in the darkness of the bleak, snow-filled Wastelands. Mike
ignored the snowscape and headed across the empty foyer to the door
marked _entrance_.
"With a small _e_," Mike muttered to himself. "I wonder if the sign
painter ran out of full caps."
He was five feet from the door when he heard the yell.
"_Help!_"
That was all. Just the one word.
Mike the Angel came to a dead halt and spun around.
The foyer was a large room, about fifty by fifty feet in area and nearly
twenty feet high. And it was quite obviously empty. On the open side,
the sheet of hissing hot air was doing its best to shield the room from
the sixty-below-zero blizzard outside. Opposite the air curtain was a
huge sliding door, closed at the moment, which probably led to a freight
elevator. There were only two other doors leading from the foyer, and
both of them were closed. And Mike knew that no voice could come through
those insulated doors.
"_Help!_"
Mike the Angel swung toward the air curtain. This time there was no
doubt. Someone was out in that howling ice-cloud, screaming for help!
Mike saw the figure--dimly, fleetingly, obscured most of the time by the
driving whiteness. Whoever it was looked as if he were buried to the
waist in snow.
Mike made a quick estimate. It was dark out there, but he could see the
figure; therefore he would be able to see the foyer lights. He wouldn't
get lost. Snapping down the faceplate of his parka hood, he ran through
the protective updraft of the air curtain and charged into the deadly
chill of the Antarctic blizzard.
In spite of the electroparka he was wearing, the going was difficult.
The snow tended to plaster itself against his faceplate, and the wind
kept trying to take him off his feet. He wiped a gloved hand across the
faceplate. Ahead, he could still see the figure waving its arms. Mike
slogged on.
At sixty below, frozen H_{2}O isn't slushy, by any means; it isn't even
slippery. It's more like fine sand than anything else. Mike the Angel
figured he had about thirty feet to go, but after he'd taken eight
steps, the arm-waving figure looked as far off as when he'd started.
Mike stopped and flipped up his faceplate. It felt as though someone had
thrown a handful of razor blades into his face. He winced and yelled,
"What's the trouble?" Then he snapped the plate back into position.
"I'm cold!" came the clear, contralto voice through the howling wind.
A _woman_! thought Mike. "I'm coming!" he bellowed, pushing on. Ten more
steps.
He stopped again. He couldn't see anyone or anything.