Day of the Dragonstar Read online

“SP2 double A standing by,” he said, then keyed out the throat mikes. The cylinder was already much larger, he noticed. Its dimensions were staggering . . . and they still had more than a thousand kilometers to go! “How’s it going?” he asked O’Hara.

  “Fine.” O’Hara did not look at him, but continued staring at the cylinder which floated silently ahead of them.

  It was hard to keep your gaze away from the object. Now that its shape was clearly discernible, it was obvious that it was no natural formation—asteroid, meteor, or even monstrous chunk of frozen water or gases. A perfect cylinder—hundreds of times larger than the tallest building. Impossibly large, thought Melendez, yet there it was filling up the viewport with its bulk. The thought kept hitting him over and over: something this large, so cleanly-devised, had to have been designed. Created.

  The notion could hardly mesh with his acceptance, and yet before him was all the evidence he needed.

  “Oh, Jesus, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it,” said O’Hara, his voice soft, almost reverent. “What the hell is it, Melendez?”

  “I think you know about as much as I do, O’Hara.” A shiver of awe ran down his spine.

  * * *

  The VOR transmissions burst upon the Communications Center screens. Phineas Kemp and the Staff members stared at the images silently, unable to speak. Growing larger, clearer with each second, the representation on the computer-enhanced screens was obviously of an intelligently conceived and constructed object. Kemp could see the first details and markings along the dull, metallic surface. One end of the cylinder flat and almost featureless, but the opposite end, when it tumbled past the camera’s field, revealed large conical things, superstructure and tank-Iike formations. Engines. Engines capable of propelling the monstrous ship across impossible distances among the stars. No other alternative. The ship was not of Earth’s stellar system—humankind had already established that it was alone in Sol’s collection of planets.

  “It is a ship,” whispered Marcia Bertholde, beginning to look every bit of her forty-nine years. Smoke coiled up from her cigarette, coiling like DNA molecules near her lace.

  Rheinhardt’s aging, wrinkled face looked grim. “If you laid it on its side it would stretch from Washington to Manhattan.”

  Kolenkhov shifted his ample girth uneasily in his seat, hands clasped together as though for a wished-for drink. “What are you going to have those two men do, Phineas?” he asked. “It might be dangerous.”

  “Observatory data indicates that the object has been locked into that cometary orbit for a long time. The orbit is very stable, and the period is precise. Aside from an undifferentiated electromagnetic field—which the Snipe’s instruments are picking up here”—Kemp pointed to a column of readouts on one of the console’s screens—“the object seems to be dead in space, although the scanners indicate precise axial spin. Probably for artificial gravity inside.”

  “A derelict?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “I don’t know,” Kemp said slowly. “All I’m is that it appears to be a derelict. It could have been orbiting the sun for God knows how long.”

  “Is it safe for those men?”

  Kemp looked back at Marcia Bertholde. “Safe? How should I know? We’re in a hostile environment, Marcia. What the hell is ‘safe’ out here?” He sighed, suddenly sorry he’d snapped like-that. “Listen everybody. I don’t know what we’re dealing with any more than the rest of you. All l know is that we have a chance for an extreme close-up recon of something that appears to be an extraterrestrial object. A ship. And we can get a first-hand look at it! I intend to get it! If anybody has any objections, I want to hear them. Now.”

  No one spoke.

  * * *

  The Snipe had come so close to the object that its viewing ports were totally filled with the greyish-silver expanse of its hull. The stars and the darkness had been matted out, effectively removed from reality. It was though the Snipe were preparing to land on the surface of a planet.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” said O’Hara. “We got their pictures . . . Let’s scram.”

  “I have to call Copernicus first.”

  “Jeez, I could use a friggin’ drink . . .”

  “I could too, Chuck. I could too.” Melendez patched in moonbase Communications and voiced the proper contact words.

  “We copy. Your telemetry is excellent. We estimate distance at one-forty kilometers. Put in for a matching orbit. I want recon within five hundred meters of the surface, relative velocity less than a hundred kilometers an hour. Can you handle that?”

  “We’ll try, Copernicus.”

  “Good luck.”

  “On-board computer has matched orbit coordinates, Copernicus. Stand by . . . matching orbits.” At that moment, the controls were momentarily removed from O’Hara as the autoguidance speeded the vessel to obey the orders.

  “Continue close-approach to five hundred meters. Surface-scan velocity One hundred KPH,” Colonel Kemp’s voice spoke in Melendez’s headphones. The thought of coming that close to the immense ship threatened to unnerve him. He concentrated on his instruments.

  “Affirmative, Copernicus. Match orbit velocity in five seconds. Stand by.”

  O’Hara switched off his mike. “Crazy! Friggin’ crazy!”

  Melendez tried to wave him off, then switched off his mike. “Look, will you keep an eye on the controls, goddammit.”

  “Listen, Melendez, if there’s anybody inside that thing, they might not like the idea of us pokin’ around out here.”

  Calming his voice, Melendez said, “Think for a minute, will you? Anybody that is capable of building something like this ship, or whatever it is, doesn’t have to be afraid of us. They’ve probably been aware of us a lot longer than we’ve been aware of them.”

  “Then how come they haven’t sent out no welcomin’ committee?” O’Hara’s eyes widened. His forehead glistened with sweat. “How come!”

  “I don’t know,” Melendez responded. “Look at the size of the damned thing! I mean, maybe we’re so insignificant to them that they don’t even care. We’re like a little bug crawling along the side of a skyscraper.”

  The helmet-phones crackled. “SP2 double A, what’s going on up there? Everything all right?”

  Back to Priority Channel. “Affirmative, Colonel. We have achieved match orbit, and will be assuming manual-control. Altitude twelve hundred meters and closing.”

  “Roger, SP2 double A. At five hundred meters, begin recon toward the closest end of the cylinder.”

  “Altitude seven hundred meters and closing, stand by . . .” said Melendez, gazing, over at O’Hara, who was nervously controlling the descent of the Snipe. The big man’s face was flushed. He was covered with perspiration. His hands trembled slightly.

  “Copernicus, we have reached altitude. Close approach recon beginning now. Instruments are tracking. We have a positive make on all systems. Do you copy?”

  “Affirmative. Make your first pass along length.”

  “Roger, Copernicus. Please stand by.” Melendez swallowed with difficulty as he watched the metallic-grey expanse of the object sweep past their viewports. An endless stretch of metal, so smooth it could have been polished on a jeweler’s wheel. Occasionally the featureless, alien plain was broken by an unidentifiable contour—a housing, a small dome, a piece of superstructure that could be an antennae system, or perhaps even a weapons system. There was no way of knowing.

  O’Hara was handling the controls as though in a trance. His eyes stared straight ahead, out at the surface of the vessel. It loomed so close it looked as though one could reach out and touch it. He thought that he might be able to do something to assure O’Hara that they were not in any danger.

  “Copernicus, this is Spec-5 Melendez. I was wondering if I might ask you a fairly important question? Important to us, especially.”

 
; “Colonel Kemp here. Go ahead, Melendez.”

  Melendez smiled slightly. He’d long ago discovered that the best way to handle a problem was to attack it straight on. Ask the right questions; get familiar with the authority figures; don’t be afraid. He’d ask what he wanted to know, not caring about the responses he might get as much as his ability to establish a position for himself.

  “Thank you, sir,” Melendez said. “You see, my partner and I have been wondering just what it is we’re scanning. I mean, does Copernicus have any idea? Have you made contact with it?”

  “Negative, Melendez. We don’t know any more than you. Attempts to communicate with the object on every conceivable band and frequency have been made. All negative. The only signal we detect is a general field display, which indicates some kind of internal activity. We don’t know what kind of activity, and we were hoping that you might be able to help us find out. Continue lateral scan, Melendez. We will forward further instructions as necessary. Standing by.”

  O’Hara pulled his throat mike off and cast it across the console. “They don’t care about us!” He continued to stare straight ahead, rocking in his seat, whispering softly to himself. “Christamighty, O Christamighty!”

  Poor guy, thought Melendez as he assumed control of the Snipe as well as the instrument monitors. The thought struck him that O’Hara might try something crazy, and he doubted if he had the physical strength to contain him.

  He shook the notion from his mind, checked his instruments, and concentrated on the object. Its surface seemed more cluttered now, as the Snipe edged along its length, away from the bow, Configurations and shapes were scattered across the expansive hull, which Peter noticed was turning slowly on its longitudinal axis. He considered reporting this to Copernicus Base, but realized that the scanners would have long ago relayed this movement back to the moon. The rotation did indicate something: the instigation of an artificial gravity within the vessel by centrifugal force.

  An old idea, but a sensible one, included in the original colony designs of O’Neill back in the last century. This concept made sense, considering the fact that it was alien. The inhabitants might require a gravity-dominated environment so that they might endure the long spans of time needed for interstellar flight.

  An alien ship. The phrase resonated in his mind. Hard to accept. It stretched his mind to the point of snapping. He could understand why O’Hara was tottering on the point of hysteria.

  As the Snipe continued its longitudinal course, Melendez noticed a general increase in the complexity of superstructure on the hull. Small hexagons seemed to be placed in clusters of six at regular intervals. Antennae and other unclassifiable projections sprouted in abundance.

  “SP2 double A, this is Copernicus. Accelerate to five hundred klicks a second and continue longitudinal course. We want to get a look at the aft section. Do you copy?”

  “Copy!”

  The Snipe lurched forward under the power from the ship’s thrusters, and the landscape of the hull glided by quickly. Melendez guided the ship silently towards the opposite end of the great cylinder. As the Snipe drifted past the end of the cylinder, he felt an instant of vertiginous fear. The maneuver was not unlike driving a car off the edge of the Grand Canyon.

  “Copernicus, this is SP2 double A. UCR should be giving you pictures of what looks to be the business end of this thing. I’m plotting a transactional course across the diameter. Do you copy?”

  “We copy, SP2, double A. Continue on changed course. We are standing by . . .”

  Melendez checked his instruments, then stared down at the gigantic funnel-shaped structures which passed beneath the Snipe. They were engines. Immense engines. Literally hundreds of the inverted cones were grouped in clusters of ten. The dimensions were deceiving, for although they looked small in comparison to the bulk of the ship itself, Peter knew that even one of the cones, placed next to the Texas Triangle towers, would make those, buildings look like a stack of children’s building blocks. He wondered what energies had flowed from these great engines, what kind of force had once collected here.

  O’Hara had calmed down considerably. His lips were moving, but he made no sounds, and the rocking motions had slowed to almost nothing. “How you doing, Chuck?”

  O’Hara looked at him, but said nothing for a moment. His eyes were blank and lifeless. “Just get me outta here.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  As the Snipe reached the end of the transect across the cylinder’s diameter, Melendez radioed in for further instructions, which called for another longitudinal scan. Keying in the maneuvers, he guided the little ship past the edge and into position. The delicate fire of the retrorockets responded as Melendez played his control console like a musical instrument.

  * * *

  Some people thrived on moments like these. Others collapsed under the pressure. Phineas Kemp knew there had already been a surfeit of make-or-break moments in his own career . . . and yet, here was another one laying heavy on him. He looked carefully into the faces of the Staff Chiefs, hoping to find an answer, finding nothing.

  What should be done?

  “Gregor,” he said softly. “How long before we can get a reliable analysis of this data?” Kemp waved an arm at the display screens.

  The Russian shrugged noncommittally. Gregor was a good friend. A large, going to fat man, he obviously enjoyed the pleasures of a “Western-oriented” style of living. Over the years he had acquired a taste for good California wines and straight poker. Smiles came easily to his Slavic features, but none were forthcoming now. “Not long. An hour or two, if we put enough good people on it.”

  “They’ll all have to be cleared through Security,” Rheinhardt reminded him sternly.

  Kemp nodded. “Gregor, give him the names you want. Oscar, get those clearances immediately.”

  “And the men in the ship?” Marcia Bertholde said.

  Kemp turned and faced her, retaining his stoical expression. She was a hard one, Marcia was, just waiting to get him through a chink in his armor. She was ruthless and ambitious, But she was also extremely efficient, almost indispensable, in her assigned duties.

  “I haven’t forgotten them, Marcia.” He turned to Kolenkhov. “Gregor. I’d like to get a molecular sample from that thing’s hull. What’s the feasibility?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. The Snipe’s grapples have metal samplers in their tool gauntlets. The miners take rock samples with them all the time.”

  “Right. We’ll give it a try and then get those fellows back to the Astaroth.” He leaned over the communications control. Switched it on. Spoke.

  * * *

  Melendez jumped as Colonel Kemp’s voice cut through the cabin’s silence. He responded immediately.

  Kemp continued. “Listen, Melendez, we have one final task before breaking match orbit. It’s been suggested that you can use the soil-samplers on your ship’s grapples to get us a molecular sample of the object’s hull. You’ll have to key in a match for the object’s axial rotation. Can you do it?”

  Eager to please, Melendez spoke without pausing to consider any possible danger in the request. “Affirrnative, Copernicus. On-board has necessary matching capability. Not too different from attaching to a spinning asteroid. We’ve put down on rocks with worse rotations than this.”

  “’We copy, SP2 double A. Proceed on longitudinal course beyond the aft-end superstructure. Select a suitable touchdown by visual. We will monitor via VOR. Good luck. Copernicus standing by.”

  O’Hara continued to stare out the viewport, mumbling to himself. Probably better this way. If the big man realized what was coming next, he might short-circuit.

  Checking his boards, Melendez began to decelerate, then keyed in a matched orbit request based on the Euler spin parameters of the object. The ship’s small computer responded immediately as the durations and designates for
thruster-fire appeared on the display screen. Melendez had a moment now to reflect on this final phase of the mission. He kept wondering about who might be inside that giant ship . . . and how they might feel about earthmen pouncing on their outer hull and scraping around. A little close-up snooping was one thing. But actually touching down . . . ? That might not be such a good idea.

  On the other hand, here was his chance for real achievement. Physical contact with an alien ship. The dream of adventure he’d had for space was now being realized. He’d be a hero.

  He could go back and face Caroline now, with a solid and substantial reason for leaving Earth. Maybe she’d understand after this.

  The display screen stabilized, the on-board ready for the complex maneuver which would bring the Snipe down.

  “Ready for touchdown,” he said.

  “We copy. Proceed with caution.”

  Punching in the instructions, Melendez watched the hull configuration grow larger as the tiny Snipe began its descent. He could see patterns in the collection of hexagon-shapes, noted the formations of dome-like blisters spaced evenly across the hull. He saw seams in the metallic surface which might be hatches, and thought of radioing in his observations, before he realized that the Copernicus was seeing it as well.

  “Altitude one hundred meters and closing.”

  The Snipe attained the angular rate coordinates and was now descending at a sixty-two-degree angle. A Iarge expanse of hull stretched out ahead of the ship’s flight path. Melendez thought it would be a good touchdown site.

  “I’m within fifty meters of the surface, Copernicus. Do you suggest a hover-attitude or complete touchdown? The grapple has a five-meter range.”

  “Attempt complete touchdown. We want to be sure of the sample.”

  “Roger. Eighteen meters and descending.”

  O’Hara grabbed his shoulder. “Get us outta here, kid. They’re gonna kill us.”