Saucer: The Conquest

8

The overhead lights of the hangar were pinpoints in the accumulated dust on the saucer's dark skin. The floor was naked, cracked concrete covered with caked dirt and ancient oil stains. The windows high up on both ends of the building were coated with black paint. A few of the windows were broken, with panes missing. The lighting system was probably as old as the hangar; the entire place was poorly lit.

Egg Cantrell stood for a while taking everything in, then walked over to the saucer. He ran a hand along the top of the leading edge, wiping off dust. The skin was cool and smooth underneath and appeared black as the desert night.

His first impression was size. This saucer was larger than the one Rip had found in the Sahara, yet in all other ways it seemed identical. Same style legs, three of them, same canopy, same shape. He walked around it, examined the four rocket exhausts, looked at the maneuvering jet ports, ran his fingers along the leading edge, searching for dents or cuts or imperfections. And found none.

When he had circled the entire machine, he turned to face Newton Chadwick. "Want to tell me about it?"

Chadwick crossed his arms on his chest, then reached a hand up to feel the stubble on his chin. Finally he said, "It was found in New Mexico in 1947. The army moved it here. It's been sitting here ever since."

'You work for the government?"

Chadwick put both hands on the saucer and stood staring at it.

Egg lost his temper. "Come on, Chadwick. You aren't with the government — I know that. You had me kidnapped, two men are injured or dead, and you've had plenty of time to decide on your story. Get on with it or let me go. I've got better things to do than stand here in this filthy old hangar in the middle of the night surrounded by thugs."

"I was here in 1947 when they brought it on a train. Was working for the government evaluating Nazi rocket research. I was young then, just a kid. They only let us in the saucer for a day, one lousy day, before the cowards in Washington ordered us back to Florida and the saucer sealed and stored. I stole a computer out of it."

Egg laughed, a harsh bark. 'You expect me to believe that? 1947 was fifty-seven years ago. Man, you are at least thirty years too young!"

Chadwick turned to face Egg and grinned wolfishly. 'You've been looking at the database on that computer you took out of the Sahara saucer for at least a year. You know what's on it. Don't tell me I'm too young."

Egg stared at the man before him.

Chadwick took a step closer. "And don't tell me you weren't tempted. I knoio you were. How do you suppose people lived through a voyage across interstellar space?" He laughed long and loud with his head back as the French thugs stood and watched, then answered his own question. "They injected themselves with a drug that stopped the aging process, of course. It took years, but I finally got the manufacturing process right. I've been taking it for thirty years." His voice rose in pitch and volume. "I'm seventy-nine years old," he shouted, and slapped the saucer in glee.

"All these years I tried to sell technology from that computer. The American government listed me as an international fugitive — they even sent men to kill me. Don't deny it__I know it's true. So I couldn't just walk into a drug company and say, 'Hello, my name is Newton Chadwick and I have discovered a youth serum.' Oh, no! I couldn't walk into Boeing or Grumman or Aerospatiale and say, 'I'm John Doe and I have discovered how to reverse the polarity of gravity." I couldn't walk into the University of Heidelberg and say, 'I'm Albert Einstein's bastard son and I have discovered the Grand Unified Theory, the theory that combines relativity, quantum mechanics and gravity, the theory of everything, the theory that explains the entire physical world.' Oh, nooooooo!"

His howl filled the hangar, startling a bird from its roost among the rafters.

Chadwick paused to breathe deeply and calm himself as the bird squawked and flapped its wings above their heads. Finally, in a normal, conversational voice, he leaned toward Egg Cantrell and said, "So I went to Pierre Artois, who was dreaming of building a base on the moon, and showed him what I knew. He believed me. He had faith. He understood! No one else ever had! But Pierre did." He paused, nodding, and added, 'Yes, he did." He stared into Egg's eyes. 'You believe me too, don't you?"

"If the government had this saucer squirreled away, how'd you get to it?"

"With money. Someone always wants money. The amazing thing is how little it takes to get what you want."

Chadwick nodded, turned back to the saucer and put his hands upon it. "So," he said. "So, that's where we are."

"And that is?" Egg asked.

"You have flown a saucer," Newton Chadwick said as he caressed the saucer's cold, black skin, smearing the dust. "I haven't. You and I and several of these men are going to fly this saucer to the moon."

"I don't know where you got your information, Chadwick, but you are wrong. I haven't flown a saucer — I've flown in one. I've flown in airliners too, but I never flew one. Surely even a man as full of it as you are can understand the distinction."

Chadwick faced Egg again. "I sent these incompetents to get your nephew, Rip, but they brought you back instead. You'll have to do. You and I are going to the moon in this saucer or you're going to hell — real soon."

Egg took a deep breath. "Sounds as if you want to go to hell with me."

"The moon, Mr. Cantrell. We are going to the moon."

It was the evening of the following day in Paris when Pierre Artois made his announcement. He broadcast it over an open frequency, where it was heard and recorded by the world's news organizations and immediately rebroadcast worldwide on television and radio.

On the moon, Artois announced, he had the ultimate weapon, an antigravity beam generator, which he would use for the betterment of all mankind. World peace was not going to arrive someday; it was here now, and he intended to enforce it. Henceforth the governments of the world would serve only at his pleasure, following policies of which he approved. Weapons of war were obsolete and would be destroyed. All nations would live in peace, their differences arbitrated by a commission that he appointed. Criminals and enemies of mankind would be dealt with summarily.

As evidence of their good faith, all the governments of the world must, within forty-eight hours, renounce their sovereignty and swear allegiance to the new world order, which Artois and his lieutenants would enforce.

As his proclamation circled the globe electronically, governments around the world met to confer. In Paris the premier had some choice words for the minister of space, whose incompetence had allowed this Artois maniac to transport himself, his henchmen and his weapon to the moon at the expense, primarily, of French taxpayers. The minister submitted his immediate resignation and stalked out of the premier's office. The premier found that the minister's departure did not improve the situation a detectable amount, but it made the premier feel better.

After an emergency meeting of the House of Commons, the British prime minister stood resolutely in front of television cameras and defiantly told Pierre Artois to "bugger off." Ten minutes later the Tower of London rose swiftly from its foundations in a cloud of stone and brick that was lifted almost a thousand feet in the air; then the fragments rained down on the city of London and the Thames. Fifteen minutes after that one wing of Buckingham Palace was destroyed in a similar manner.

While these spectacular feats of demolition were playing on television, the American president huddled in the Oval Office with O'Reilly, the secretary of state, the director of the CIA, the national security adviser, the secretary of defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"What can we do to thwart this maniac?" the president demanded. He looked at the uniformed generals, scanning each face.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, an army four-star, pulled at his tie. "Uh, in the short term, nothing, sir. Given enough time, we can mount a nuclear warhead on a rocket and shoot it at the lunar base. If Artois doesn't destroy it with his beam weapon before it gets there, it should do the trick nicely."

"How long would that take?"

The chairman's eyebrows rose while he considered. "Oh, six months or so, I would imagine."

"Six months?"

"Maybe more."

In the disappointed silence that followed that comment, the secretary of state said, "Actually a world government isn't such a bad idea."

O'Reilly looked at her in stupified amazement.

She continued, "Someday we'll have a world government, with or without Pierre Artois. Why not start now? Artois won't last forever. In fact, one suspects he won't last long." She rubbed her hands and continued enthusiastically, "We can tackle global warming, third world starvation, universal medical care, the equitable redistribution of the world's wealth—"

"Holy moly!" O'Reilly said, interrupting. 'You're suggesting we rescind the Declaration of Independence and tear up the United States Constitution. If I may indulge in understatement, I don't think the electorate is quite ready for that bold step, Madam Secretary."

"I don't think that Artois intends to give the American electorate a choice in the matter," the lady retorted tartly.

"And you want to take advantage of that happy fact. You remind me of a bystander watching a robbery who decides to help himself after the clerk is tied up."

"That's outrageous," the secretary shot back.

While she and O'Reilly squabbled the telephone rang. The president picked it up, listened a moment, grunted, then put the instrument back on its cradle. After silencing the pugilists, he announced, "Artois has just zapped one of the space shuttles at Cape Canaveral. It rose five hundred feet in the air and fell back to earth. NASA thinks they may be able to salvage some of the smaller parts."

"We should probably evacuate the White House," the national security adviser advised. "Artois will undoubtedly target it too."

The president frowned. "Artois isn't going to go after this government until he learns we have no intention of surrendering. We have a few hours yet."

The secretary of state was plainly appalled. 'You intend to let this maniac hurt innocent people?"

"I have no intention of surrendering the United States to anyone or anything, madam. Not now, not ever. At my inauguration I swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States, and I intend to do just that. If Artois harms a single American, that is his choice, not mine."

The president shifted his gaze to the Joint Chiefs and national security adviser. "Presumably Artois doesn't intend to rule earth from the moon. As I recall, there are only four spaceplanes capable of making round trips. Charley Pine stole one from the lunar base, and the other three are in France. Target them. I want bombers aloft, over the Atlantic, twenty-four hours a day, ready to cross into French airspace and destroy those spaceplanes on ten minutes' notice. Place submerged submarines off the western and southern coasts of France. Have them target the spaceplanes with cruise missiles. Those spaceplanes are not to leave the ground."

'You're going to attack France?" the secretary of state asked disbelievingly.

The president didn't answer right away. He was apparently taking the time to choose his words carefully when the secretary of state, unable to wait for his answer, broke the silence.

"I strongly suggest consulting with Congress before we do anything rash."

"We try to never do anything rash," O'Reilly shot back, obviously miffed.

The president didn't let those two get into another squabble. "Artois may be a tool of the French government," he said. "He may actually be following orders." The president toyed with a pen on his desk. "Even if he is a rogue, he must have many allies in the French space agency. In any event, it is plain that he thinks the French government will cave. I suspect he's right."

The president cast a cold eye on his audience. "Regardless of what happens anywhere else, the British will never surrender, and of course we won't. Artois may cause a great deal of havoc, but he isn't getting any supplies from earth or a ride home from the moon without my permission."

The president smiled. The secretary of state had never liked his smile, and she didn't like this one.

The president glanced at the Joint Chiefs. "Let's not waste any more time, gentlemen. I want those bombers armed and airborne as soon as humanly possible. I want a plan on my desk within the next two hours that tells me precisely how many hours it will be before we have the bombers and subs in position to destroy those spaceplanes."

'Yes, sir!"

"Madam Secretary, I suggest you pop over to the State Department and work the phones. Keep me advised." He shooed her out.

When only the president and O'Reilly were left in the room, the president stood and stretched. "After the military destroys those spaceplanes, I'll make a televised address to the American people. We'll dither until then. In the meantime get the congressional leaders over here and consult with them. Have the speechwriters do a draft of the speech."

He started for the door before adding as an afterthought, "After the speech Artois may zap the White House. Better get the staff and the valuable paintings out. Don't let the television people see you doing it."

"Yes, sir. What should the press secretary tell the press in the interim?"

"We're consulting with allies, congressional leaders, talking to the UN, all that stuff."

"In other words, nothing."

"That's usually best."

"Where will you be if we need to find you?"

The president looked at his watch. "I think I'll go to the gym and work out. Call me when you have a draft of that speech ready for me to look at."

O'Reilly looked at his watch, then his notebook, which he carried everywhere. 'You have an appointment in ten minutes with a Sports Illustrated reporter who wants to know if you think baseball should reinstate Pete Rose."

"Ah, the burning question of our time. Tell him I'm meditating on the matter and reschedule."

"May we say cogitating or ruminating?"

"Meditating. It makes me sound smarter."

Newton Chadwick and the Frenchmen huddled around a radio in the dilapidated hangar in the Nevada desert, listening to the news of Pierre Artois' announcement. They had rigged an antenna on top of the building and were tuned to a station in Reno.

Egg listened from his perch on a crate of canned food in the back of the room.

An antigravity beam weapon! On the moon. Egg scrutinized Newton Chadwick, who was hanging intently on every word from the radio. Yep, without a doubt, Chadwick gave or sold Artois the technology, which was right out of that saucer in the middle of the hangar — Egg would have bet every last dollar he ever hoped to get on that proposition.

And Artois intended to conquer the world. Egg knew he was the only person in the room to whom that was news. Chadwick and the Frenchmen were excited, intense. They looked like athletes on a team that was several touchdowns ahead.

So what else did Chadwick give Artois? The youth serum?

It wasn't a serum, really, but a gene blocker. The chemical latched on to the aging gene that was present in every human cell and inhibited its functioning. When he had first discovered it in his saucer computer, Egg had been so excited he couldn't sleep. Medical researchers were today attempting to find a formula that would affect the aging gene so that they could come up with some way to attack the diseases aging caused, diseases such as Alzheimer's, senility, diabetes and Parkinson's. Egg was ready to call them up, give them the formula.

Yet the more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea. Someone would undoubtedly realize the economic value of such a drug, and the vision of fantastic wealth would be irresistible. Listening to the announcer translate Artois' demands and the reaction of governments around the world to them, Egg thought about the impact upon human life — upon all life on this planet — that the ready availability of such a drug would have. The demand for the drug would distort the world's economy, the death rate would plummet, and the population would explode in a Malthusian nightmare that would crowd out other life forms and destroy civilization.

When Egg added it up, the human conquest of death didn't seem like a red hot idea. So he had said nothing to anyone about it, not even Rip or Charley. Nor had he been tempted, like Chadwick, to make a small batch of the drug for himself. He had perhaps two or three decades of life left, and that was enough. When his time came, he would be ready for the next adventure.

So Chadwick wanted to go to the moon. That figured. Charley Pine had stolen the only spaceplane on the moon; the other three might be destroyed or damaged at any moment, leaving Artois and his crew marooned high and dry. Obviously Artois was betting that Chadwick could deliver, that he could get the saucer there.

Egg shook his head, trying to clear his mind of extraneous thoughts. If he didn't take Chadwick where he wanted to go in the saucer in the hangar, this crowd would kill him and go after Rip. Artois had to have a ride home, and no doubt he would do whatever he could to get one.

He had inspected the saucer carefully. It looked intact, as well preserved as the one Rip had found in the Sahara. Larger than Rip's saucer, it had more capacity to carry water. Of course, it also weighed more. Still, rough calculations indicated that it should be able to reach the moon and land there. Once there, however, it would have to be refueled with water to make the return trip to earth. Was there enough water on the moon?

Egg had asked Chadwick that question and had received a curt nod. Yes.

Well, Chadwick had better be right or there were going to be more people stranded up there, Egg included.

The reactor seemed intact; it wasn't leaking radiation. Egg had checked with a Geiger counter. The main flight computer was installed, the headbands were there, the hatch seals seemed intact — he had checked everything that he could. As far as he could determine, the saucer was ready to fly.

He hadn't told Chadwick that, though. He had more things to check, he had said, which gave him more time to think, to come up with the right course of action.

Could he fly the saucer?

He knew how Charley and Rip had done it, but Charley was a highly skilled test pilot, and Rip was — well, he was fearless and a quick thinker, and he had flown repeatedly with Charley before he gave it a try. Egg had had exactly one ride.

Hoo boy!

Charley Pine cracked her knuckles after she fin-ished programming and checking the navigational computer. She ran through the program twice to make sure she had it right, went over the checklist one more time, then stowed the checklist, sighed and cracked her knuckles.

'You'll give yourself arthritis doing that," Joe Bob Hooker said. He was sitting in the right seat, watching.

"Doing what?"

"Cracking your knuckles."

"Oh," she said, vaguely surprised. "I've been trying to stop that. Bad habit."

Jeanne d'Arc was in low earth orbit, and had been for two days. The television monitor behind the pilots' seats picked up broadcasts as the spaceplane came over the horizon and lost them about ten minutes later when the stations sank behind the orbiting ship. Sometimes the signal faded just as the commercials came on, but it seemed that most of the time Charley and Joe Bob got all the commercials and lost the signal in the middle of some significant pronouncement by a political leader.

The snatches of news were clear enough; Pierre was causing havoc with the antigravity beam and making demands. France was in meltdown, it seemed. A great many Frenchmen were ready to march behind the Artois banner; they were loudly demanding the government accede to Pierre's demands. The small nations of Europe, with token military forces without any real combat power, were making noises, but not threats. Charley Pine got the impression that a lot of the elected persons were merely wringing their hands,

waiting.

Everyone was waiting on the United States, which so far had taken no official position. The press secretary said the government was "studying" the matter. Indeed, the press reported that everyone who was anyone in official Washington had trotted over to the White House for consultations, but no one was saying anything for the record to the press. Oh, sure, there were the usual leaks and rumors, but nothing official.

"Where is the president?" one commentator asked rhetorically.

Joe Bob Hooker thought the political theater very entertaining, and watched by the hour as, Jeanne d'Arc circled the earth and Charley Pine catnapped in the pilot's seat. But now the waiting was over. Charley had programmed the navigation computer for reentry and made a last inspection tour through the ship ensuring all gear was properly stowed, and now the minutes were ticking down.

The autopilot turned the ship, lining it up so that it was flying backward with its rocket engines pointing dead ahead. Charley wondered about the main engine. If it wouldn't start, the computer would automatically fire the other engines longer and adjust the reentry flight path accordingly. As long as the other four rocket engines worked!

"I want to thank you,"Joe Bob said, "for the adventure of a lifetime."

Charley smiled. "I had nothing to do with it. Write a letter to Pierre Artois."

"Seriously, flying with you is the adventure of a lifetime. Selling cars will never be the same."

All four of the smaller engines ignited on cue, to

Charley's intense relief, and the deceleration Gs mashed her back into her seat. Joe Bob Hooker abandoned his attempts at conversation.

When the burn was over, the autopilot gently turned the free-falling spaceplane 180 degrees, until she was pointed along her trajectory like a large arrowhead. As Charley and Joe Bob sat watching, Jeanne d'Arc plunged silently downward toward the Earth's atmosphere.

The fixed-gear, high-winged Cessna 182 buzzed low over the tops of the mountain ridges. In the pilot's seat Rip Cantrell scanned the sky, and occasionally glanced at the instruments to ascertain the health of the single piston engine. High clouds obscured the sky to the west, the precursors of a front that was moving eastward, yet the sky overhead was clear except for a high, thin, gauzy layer of cirrus.

Rip glanced at his watch again and checked the fuel. He had been airborne for an hour and had plenty remaining, yet—

He had been cruising north along the ridge; now he turned south. He throttled back even more and leaned the mixture a tad, trying to save another gallon.

There, in the sky to the west, under the clouds a speck. He watched it intently. He had already been fooled twice, once by an airliner and once by a jet fighter.

The speck was high and descending.

Rip turned eastward, toward the stupendous expanse of salt flats that lay west of the Great Salt Lake, and rapped the mixture and throttle controls forward.

The spaceplane was ten or fifteen thousand feet above him when it passed overhead, descending steeply in a powerless glide. He had the nose down, the throttle and prop controls full forward as Jeanne dArc broke her long glide ten miles ahead of him and, with the nose well down, turned 180 degrees and lined up for a landing to the west, into the wind. The spaceplane leveled its wings, descended steadily and flared just before the wheels touched the salt. A plume of dust rose behind it and tailed away to the east — Charley Pine had guessed right on the wind. Jeanne dArc rolled and rolled until she came to a complete stop.

Inside the spaceplane's cockpit, Charley Pine looked at Joe Bob Hooker and said, "Welcome back to earth."

Joe Bob threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, man, have I got a tale for the grandkids! If you ever get to Dallas…"

Charley was the first out of her seat. She almost fell on her face after the days of weightlessness, broken only by the weak gravity of the moon and occasional bursts of rocket power. Hanging on to whatever she could reach, she carefully made her way aft. The door that she had entered on the moon was the one she wanted, so she set to work releasing the pressure on the seals and opening it. It opened with a hiss.

The cool autumn air enveloped her. It smelled of salty earth and cooked brake pads — well, she did push vigorously on the brakes after she touched down. Wispy contrails floating in that high autumn sky made streaks in the gauzy cirrus. She filled her lungs and exhaled slowly. This certainly wasn't Kansas, but Dorothy Gale was right: There is no place like home.

By leaning out slightly and bending down she could see one of the right main landing gear's wheels. It hadn't sunk more than an inch or two into the salt. She had been worried about the salt's consistency — if it had been too soft, it could have torn the landing gear right off Jeanne dArc, which would have skidded to a quick stop on her belly, shattered beyond repair. She knew it was hard enough the instant she touched down, yet visual confirmation of her pilot's sense was nice.

Satisfied, she didn't waste any more time. She went to the locker room where the space suits were kept and brought hers back to the door. She tossed it out. There were three extra suits stored in the ship, just in case one of the fitted suits sprang a leak or was damaged during use. She threw them out the door onto the growing pile.

Joe Bob Hooker was there at the door when she made her last trip. "Why the suits?" he asked.

'You never know when you'll need a space suit," she replied, and tossed the air compressor and suit-testing equipment on top of the pile.

He went back for his and threw it out too. "Paid for it," he explained. "I'll strut around in it at Lions Club."

She had to help him down, then tossed his small bag of personal items to him. Then she jumped. She fell heavily and bruised herself.

She arose, dizzy and hurting, and brushed the salt from her sleeves and rump as the wind from distant mountains played with her hair. Eight days away from the earth's gravity and she was weak, as if she were recovering from a long illness.

Charley heard the Cessna before she saw it. It came out from behind the wing, already on the salt, and taxied up. Rip grinned and waved.

"Here's my ride," she said to Joe Bob. "You're going to have to wait for a while, but someone will be along pretty soon."

"I reckon somebody saw us land," Joe Bob said, scanning the seemingly endless expanse of empty, flat salt.

Rip killed the engine of the little plane and jumped out. He rushed over to Charley and enveloped her in his arms. When he came up for air, he whispered, "Missed you, lady."

"Oh, Rip—"

"Here comes someone now," Joe Bob said, pointing. A plume of dust was rising from the vast dirty-white expanse, still miles away. It looked as if it might be a car, or perhaps an SUV.

"Let's load the suits and get out of Dodge," Charley said to Rip-

They were in the Cessna taxiing when a police car rolled to a stop beside the spaceplane. Charley waved at the officer, a woman, while Rip reset the trim and eased the throttle in. The plane gathered speed and lifted off. Rip turned to the southeast.

Charley sat looking at Jeanne d'Arc as long as she was visible. As they flew away, the ship seemed to shrink on the endless expanse of salt, under the huge, high autumn sky. She looked small, almost toylike. Hard to believe she had flown to the moon and back.

The Cessna hummed loudly and bumped along in light turbulence. It was certainly real enough. Charley reached for Rip's arm, felt the firmness of his muscles. Rip grinned at her. "Welcome home," he said over the song of the engine.

She kissed him again.