Saucer: The Conquest

9

Jeanne d'Arc's fiery plunge into the earth's atmo-sphere was monitored by Space Command, which projected that the ship's flight path would impact at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. The news was flashed to the Pentagon and the White House while the spaceplane was still miles high, descending. The news should have made a huge splash at the White House, but today, of all days, the government of France was in chaos. The news of the spaceplane's return didn't even reach the brain trust that surrounded the president.

In Paris the cabinet ministers were in conference behind closed doors. The networks had live feeds featuring reporters in front of the doors with nothing to report but speculation and the hourly communique from Pierre Artois, demanding responses to his nonnegotiable demands. The CIA had no idea what was going on in Paris. If the British knew, they weren't telling.

The U.S. ambassador to France was huddled with his mistress, who had a brother who worked as a janitor in the

French parliament building. Every now and then one of the politicians visited the men's room where the brother was pretending to work and commented on this or that. The brother telephoned his sister, who told it to the ambassador, who flashed the comment to the State Department in Washington, where it was passed to the White House for the president and his advisers to ponder.

Periodically news of another French municipal or national monument rising abruptly into the sky, only to return to earth in ruins, was announced on television by breathless reporters. Enterprising producers ordered camera crews to set up in front of likely monuments in the hope that they could broadcast an attack from the moon as it happened. Pictures of rubble after the event had less dramatic impact.

In various places around the world the crisis was denounced as a hoax. The ayatollahs in Iran refused to discuss Artois' demands or allow news about them to be aired on television. Much of the Islamic world followed suit and buried their heads in the sand. On the moon, Pierre didn't have time just now to whip the little countries into line. He would get to them later. His priorities were France, then Europe, the United States, Japan and China. If he could get the big nations to fall into line, the rest, he thought, would have to follow.

Pierre had done his homework. He began making promises. Universal health care, universal employment, free care for the sick and elderly, free drugs (the medicinal kind), and free food for everyone on the planet were some of the major benefits that would accrue to all who followed his banner. "Together," he said, "free from the petty squabbles that have embroiled mankind since the dawn of recorded history, we can solve the world's problems and build a better life for people all over the globe." Needless to say, Pierre didn't talk about the messy details that he would have to handle to deliver his Utopia, nor where the assets would come from to fund the free goodies.

Public debate broke out all over the English-speaking world. In Great Britain and across America political outcasts, conspiracy theorists, religious zealots and crackpots of every stripe accused the government — always their own govern-_ment—of manufacturing a crisis to cover up something. The political opposition in every democracy on the planet was having a field day. Every spy agency in the world had overlooked a virulent, malignant conspiracy embedded in the French space agency. Even worse was the possibility that the spymasters had detected it and the governments involved failed to act, or were now reacting inappropriately. Political rivals postured, investigations were called for, resignations demanded, jail terms threatened.

All this was marvelous public theater and played out against a backdrop of antigravity beam strikes from the moon, with which Pierre Artois tried to silence the critics and extort capitulations from the various governments.

The French government decided to surrender when the first cathedral went up in a beam and came back to earth in a rain of stone and rubble.

The secretary of state rushed into the Oval Office to deliver the news to the president and the assembled national security types. "The premier says he has no choice," she reported. "Artois is threatening to destroy Paris."

"Buildings and monuments are just stone and mortar," the president replied, "even cathedrals. They can be rebuilt."

"Paris is the soul of France, its legacy to all the generations to come," the secretary of state explained. Talking to the president was always difficult, she knew all too well, because he was so obtuse. The voters had a lot to answer for.

She forced herself to say calmly, "France is not like other countries. France is… inhabited by the French. Don't you understand? Innocent people might be killed, Paris — the most beautiful city on earth — destroyed, laid waste. The French government has no choice, none at all."

The president's tone never changed. "If the premier surrenders France to that madman, we'll nuke Paris. For the next thousand years the only living things in the rubble will be radioactive beetles. Tell him that."

All conversation in the room came to a dead stop.

The secretary was horrified. "My God! I can't believe you said that! Surely you wouldn't!" She stared at the president, who returned her scrutiny without expression.

"Get on the phone," he urged, finally, to get her moving. "Tell the premier what I said."

She dashed from the room. Conversation slowly began again.

"Uh-oh," O'Reilly whispered to the president. "We're in real trouble now. She thinks you would really do it. She'll repeat that comment to every reporter she knows. It'll be the headline in the Washington Post tomorrow."

"Explain to me again why she is the secretary of state."

"You wanted a bipartisan cabinet, and State was the only office she would accept."

"In a country infested with politicians, I picked that one. Sometimes I dazzle myself with my own stupidity."

Twenty minutes later the television had a live feed from Paris of the premier surrendering to Artois.

"That tears it," the president said to O'Reilly. He wadded up the latest communique from the men's room of the French capital and threw it into the wastebasket beside his desk. "How much longer until we can whack those space-planes?"

"It will be at least another twenty-four hours, sir. We don't have any carriers in position, and the submarines are still _well out of range."

"How about a B-2 strike?"

"It's already dark in France," the chairman of the Joint Chiefs replied. "We can't get B-2s there until tomorrow night unless you want to send them in daylight, in which case the French may shoot down one or two."

The darn B-2s cost over a billion bucks apiece, the president knew, but were defenseless against enemy fighters and vulnerable to them during the day. Taking a chance that the French air force might drop a few into the French countryside didn't seem wise. "Tomorrow night," the president agreed reluctantly, "unless the Brits can do it sooner. Ask them."

"Do we really want the British to fire the first shot?" the national security adviser asked. He was thinking of the reaction of Joe Six-Pack out there in the American heartland. Joe would want America to lead the charge.

The secretary of state returned to the Oval Office in time to hear that exchange. "This entire discussion is outrageous," she declared heatedly. "The French are our oldest allies. They have been forced to surrender to a terrorist; now you intend to stab them in the back. If you attack France, I must resign my office. I'll have no part in this."

"We'll be sorry to see you go," O'Reilly shot back. "But before you leave, please tell us: Did you deliver the president's ultimatum to the French premier?"

"I did, and of course he refused to believe me." She made a dismissive gesture. "He said you would never destroy Paris, but Artois would."

The president sighed. Unfortunately he had recently announced that he would run for reelection. He realized that he should probably reconsider. He flipped listlessly through a marked-up copy of his speech, which the leaders of Congress were demanding he deliver right now, if not sooner. His eyes went to a photo of a Montana trout stream that hung upon the wall. Sunlight glistened upon the water, and distant mountains wore a crown of snow. "Why me, Lord?" he muttered.

"You've been studying this ship's computer for fifty-plus years," Egg Cantrell said to Newton Chadwick. "Why don't you fly it?" They were in the saucer's main machinery space checking the integrity of fittings.

"I'm not a pilot."

"Nor am I."

"Each of us has his gifts, Cantrell. Mine isn't — I couldn't do it. I know that. I don't have the disposition for it. I'm impulsive and tend to get excited about things."

"I've noticed that."

'You're going to do the flying. If you get there, we will too."

"There's faith for you," Egg muttered, then changed the subject. "Do you really think enslaving the world's population is a good idea?"

"Most people are sheep," Chadwick replied flippantly. "They are better off if they do as they're told."

"This freedom thing sorta passed you by, I see."

"We don't need to waste time on philosophy, Cantrell. Starving people need food, sick people need medicine, everyone needs clean water and air. Freedom works great for the rich, not so good for everyone else."

"The fervor of your humanitarianism surprises me. I thought the only person you cared about was Newton Chadwick."

"I don't care what you think."

"Nor what anyone else thinks, apparently."

"Pierre Artois and I are going to give everyone a shot at a decent life."

"Give?"

"We're going to rearrange the social order, Mr. Cantrell. Call it what you will. Everyone will be better off."

"Including you."

"Including me," Newton Chadwick agreed. "Now let's top off the water tank and fly to the moon."

"I haven't finished preflighting. Crashing and dying in this big Frisbee would be a tragic waste of all that work you put into making youth serum."

'You've got one hour," Chadwick said. "Not a minute more." He crawled out of the space. Egg heard him drop through the main hatch to the hangar floor.

He looked though the open hatchway at the man sitting in the pilot's seat, who was looking back at Egg. He was one of the men who kidnapped him. Today he was wearing a pistol on his belt and had a short submachine gun draped over his shoulder. Terrific!

Egg moved out of the man's sight and sat contemplating his rounded middle.

It was late afternoon at the airport in Grand Junc-tion, Colorado, when Rip and Charley landed and taxied to a stop in front of the small general aviation terminal. He and Charley Pine stood under the awning near the building wrapped in a serious embrace, getting reacquainted, while the line boy fueled the Cessna 182 from a truck. Rip had wanted to do this ever since he saw her, but the little plane lacked an autopilot.

Charley had talked for the entire two hours of the flight to Grand Junction, telling Rip of her adventures on the moon. At one point, after describing Artois' antigravity beam generator, she said, "I can't believe French scientists invented it. It's a derivation of the antigravity technology in the saucer you found, but they've been working on theirs for several years, at least."

"There must be another saucer somewhere," Rip said. "One we don't know about."

"That's the most likely explanation," she agreed. "But where?"

They left that subject and discussed her decision to escape. It seemed important to have Rip tell her she had done the right thing. He did that, but still, she thought, it wasn't enough. The people on the moon were stranded. It would cost a large fortune to fly Jeanne d'Arc to France, then back to the moon, and the French space ministry would probably sue her for every dime. The world had only her word for it that Pierre was a megalomaniac — and guess who the reporters would believe.

She had Rip, and he sure knew how to kiss, but boy oh boy.

They followed the line boy into the one-story building after he finished fueling the Cessna. Four men and a woman were huddled around a television in one corner of the room watching the news. The woman reluctantly left the set and came over to the counter to ring up the sale and process Rip's credit card. She was in her forties, wearing a no-nonsense sweater and jeans.

"Anything new?" Rip asked, referring to the international situation.

"The French have surrendered to Pierre Artois. He is the new emperor of France. Now they're trying to persuade the rest of Europe to also surrender."

A beatific smile split Charley Pine's face. Suddenly the load felt a hundred pounds lighter. She wasn't going to have to prove to anyone that Artois was crazy; now everyone on earth knew it. The smile faded, though, when she realized that if he became emperor of the world, she might have to look for a way to get off. He hadn't impressed her as the forgive-and-forget type.

"And the Americans?" Rip asked.

"Nothing out of Washington. I think they're hunkered down, waiting to see which way the wind is blowing." The desk person looked at the one-piece flight suit that Charley was wearing and said, "Isn't that something like the French astronauts wear?"

"I think so," Charley replied innocently. "I ordered it over the Internet. They said it was very authentic."

"Probably made in China," the desk lady said languidly, and glanced at the name on Rip's credit card. "Cantrell. Same name as the saucer guy. Don't you wish you were?"

"Oh, you bet," Rip shot back. "Money, hot women, fame— I don't know how he stands it."

The woman waited until the credit card machine spit out the slip, then slapped it on the counter for Rip to sign. "Too bad he gave that flying plate to the Air and Space Museum. If he had it now he could go after that clown on the moon."

"Umm," Rip Cantrell said, and signed the credit card slip.

When they were walking out to the plane, Charley said to Rip, "How do you stand it?"

"My low IQ is the only thing that keeps me sane."

She squeezed his hand.

"The whole world is going nuts," Rip said, "so it's up to us to rescue Egg."

"I just hope he's okay," Charley Pine replied. She was so tired, it was difficult to concentrate. She yawned. "You fly this leg, Rip." She crawled into the second set of seats and stretched out as Rip preflighted the plane, ensured the fuel caps were on tight and pulled chocks.

Egg Cantrell and Newton Chadwick studied a map of the moon that they had spread on the leading edge of the saucer. Egg noted that it was published by National Geographic. "The lunar base is right there," Chadwick said, marking the map with a pen. He put a dot on the base and drew a circle around it.

Then he brought out a Nevada highway map, one distributed free by the state. He studied it a bit and put an ink mark smack inside a federal prohibited area. "We're right here."

"Okay," Egg said, folding the maps and placing them in his hip pocket. "I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be. This is your last chance to back out and live to a ripe old age."

Chadwick ignored that last comment. "Open the hanger door," he told one of the flunkies, then repeated the order in French. The two men who had kidnapped Egg were already in the saucer.

Egg got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the saucer to the personnel hatch. A less bulky man could just bend over and walk there, as Chadwick did behind him. Once everyone was inside, Egg closed the hatch and ensured it was latched, then checked that the food cartons the Frenchies had loaded were properly stowed against the rear bulkhead of the passenger compartment and secured with bungee cords. Cartons of full water bottles, squirt lids, plastic baby bottles full of pureed goo. Bet the Frenchmen had fun shopping for this stuff! There were even four space suits, flown in from France. Egg had tried on the largest — it was a tight squeeze, but he got in it.

Fortunately this large saucer contained a head, one designed to be used in zero gravity. And there was plenty of room in the passenger compartment — although if all the people on the moon tried to return in this ship it was going to be impossibly crowded. The moon! Here we go!

Egg climbed into the pilot's seat, which was on a pedestal in front of the instrument panel. Chadwick stood beside him, watching the men struggling with the hangar doors, which consisted of a half dozen very large panels on rollers.

"They haven't been opened in many years," he muttered.

While the men were struggling with the doors, Egg pulled the red knob on the panel to the first detent. The computer displays in front of him came to life, just as the displays had in Rip's saucer. He studied them. The displays looked as he remembered them, but it had been what, thirteen or fourteen months?

He picked up the computer headband and placed it on his head, adjusting the strap so that it would stay there.

He said Hello to the computer, and asked for the launch display.

This part, at least, was familiar. He had spent much of the past year talking to a computer just like this one.

Relieved, he wiped the perspiration from his brow with his hands, then wiped his hands on his trousers.

"They can't get the door open," Chadwick said. Egg looked. The two men working the door had the first large panel open about ten feet, but the wheels were rusty. The door panels seemed to be stuck.

Do we have enough fuel? Egg asked the computer.

The display appeared before him. Yes.

Hull integrity, reactor temp, hydrogen pressure, oxygen?

The displays flashed before him as quickly as the thought passed through his mind.

He glanced outside. The men were hooking up one of the vehicles to the door with a towing chain. They were going to drag it open.

Egg waited more or less patiently, concentrating on the computer displays. He touched the rotating earth on the navigation display, putting his finger on Nevada. The view zoomed in on the selected area. Cities and highways weren't m the computer's memory — oh, my! Yes, they were. This saucer must have flown after the cities and highways were built! Perhaps 1947, as Chadwick suggested.

The display of Nevada grew and grew, but it was post-World War II Nevada, the West as it had been in 1947. Highways but not superhighways, small airports. After consulting the map again, Egg put his finger on the place on the computer display that corresponded to Chadwick's mark. The airport should be there. This is where we are, he told the computer.

Just by thinking about it, he brought up a display of the face of the moon and went through the exercise again. He designated the location of the lunar base with the touch of a finger. This is ivhere we wish to go.

The SUVs managed to drag open the panels of the hangar door, one by one. They were struggling with the last one when a helicopter crossed the visible swatch of sky.

Chadwick was beside himself. "I told them to cut the door alarms," he roared. "They must have forgotten to cut the ones on the hangar doors."

"Guess that bribe wasn't big enough," Egg remarked to no one in particular.

The last door seemed to be out of the way.

"Let's go, right now," Chadwick said, slapping Egg on the back.

Up about afoot, Egg told the computer. The ship rocked once, then rose slightly and stopped.

Gear up!

He heard the whine of the landing gear coming in, felt it thump home. Three green lights on the instrument panel disappeared.

Fonoard, slowly.

The saucer crept toward the open hangar door. Egg looked right and left. The opening seemed to be wide enough.

Safely outside, he looked around for the chopper.

There it was, some kind of gunship, in a hover on his left, facing the saucer. The nose turret gun was tracking.

Dear Lord…

Go, Egg urged the computer. Fullpoiver.

The rocket engines lit with a roar and the G came on instanteously. Newton Chadwick, who had been standing beside Egg, tumbled aft. Out of the corner of his eye, Egg saw muzzle flashes from the helo's machine gun, but only for an instant.

The ship accelerated in a gentle climb, faster and faster, gathering speed as at least four Gs pushed Egg aft into the seat. When it was several thousand feet above the desert, traveling at least five hundred knots, the nose of the saucer began to rise.

On the computer presentation before Egg a pathway appeared, one that led up, up, up from the earth in a long, gently curving path off to the east.

Go, go, go, Egg told the computer as the exhilaration of flight filled him with laughter. Oh, yessss.

Rip was about to get in the Cessna when he heard the deep, low rumble of rocket engines at very high altitude. He looked up into the evening sky — and saw the twinkle of rocket exhaust. The dot of fire was well to the east when the sound arrived, and it disappeared eastward into the night sky more quickly than any jet as the rumble from the heavens washed over Rip. The sound was lower in pitch than jet noise, and stronger. It seemed to engulf him. Charley heard it too, and got out of the little airplane to listen.

Rip knew what it was. A saucer, going into space. Perhaps the one he and Charley had speculated about just two hours ago. Or a spaceplane, like Jeanne d'Arc. Where it had come from he didn't know, but he knew as well as he knew his own name who was in it. Egg Cantrell. That was why the frogs had kidnapped him.

Holding hands, he and Charley stood listening to the low rumble until it had faded completely. It was one of those sounds that you think you still hear long after it has gone, so even after it faded he stood frozen, straining for the last whisper.

Rip shook himself, finally, then leaned against the side of the plane for support and thought about what they should do. He and Charley discussed their options.

They got into the Cessna and Rip started the engine. Charley was exhausted, feeling the effects of eight days in zero or low gravity. She lay down again on the rear seat and immediately drifted off to sleep.

It was a clear, windless evening over the Rockies. The sun set as Rip flew eastward up the valley of the Colorado River. The moon was well above the horizon and about three-quarters full. Its light illuminated the ridges and peaks. Rip left the Colorado River at Eagle and made for Vail Pass. Safely through, he flew over Dillon Reservoir while climbing to fourteen thousand feet.

He was aware of the magic of this moment — the hum of the engine, the mountains at night, the stars and moon above, and Charley asleep in the backseat. He turned and looked. She was sacked out with her flight jacket around her shoulders.

If only those bastards hadn't kidnapped Uncle Egg…

The interstate was illuminated by a steady stream of headlights. Flying above it, he crossed the Divide over Eisenhower Tunnel and immediately saw the lights of Denver gleaming in the darkness sixty miles away. He eased the throttle out an inch, dialed the RPM back a hundred, and retrimmed for a gradual descent.

Safely in orbit, with the rocket engines shut down, Egg Cantrell sat strapped to the pilot's seat while he swabbed the perspiration from his face with his shirttail. Ohmigawd! He had done it! Flown a saucer into space. Actually, he had done nothing but talk to the computer via the headband, and the computer had flown the ship, but wow!

Newton Chadwick floated near him, white as a sheet and unable to speak. Chadwick looked through the canopy at the earth, then turned his head to look into the infinite void of deep space. Egg could see that Chadwick's hands were still shaking.

"I have never—" Chadwick began, then gave up.

Egg put the headband back on and asked the computer for a flight path. He studied it. The computer had planned two orbits of the earth and, on the second one, a burn that would accelerate the saucer on a course that would loop it around the moon. On the back side another burn would decelerate the saucer, placing it in lunar orbit.

Fine, Egg told the computer. Thai's the way zve'll do it.

Regardless of how this adventure turned out, Egg felt as if he had reached the zenith of his life. Nothing he ever did in the past or would do in the future could compare with the rush he got flying this saucer into space. Now he knew how Charley Pine felt, and why she took the job Pierre Artois offered.

If NASA ever calls me, I'm signing up, Egg told himself, and laughed.

There was a television crew waiting at the Centen-nial Airport executive terminal when Rip taxied up. Charley had awakened on final approach. Now, seeing the cameraman and female reporter waiting with her microphone, she groaned. "This isn't going to do your uncle any good," she said over the intercom.

"Just don't say anything that will set Pierre off."

The television crew charged the plane the instant the prop stopped.

"Mr. Cantrell, Mr. Cantrell," the reporter called breathlessly, "what can you tell us about Charley Pine? Why did she steal the spaceplane?"

Then the reporter saw Charley. She elbowed Rip out of the way and jabbed the microphone at her.

"Get that thing out of my face," Charley snapped.

Rip hurried into the terminal and squared around in front of the desk person, another woman. "I thought you people promised customers some privacy."

"Oh, my heavens," the woman said, fluttering her hands. As Rip well knew, celebrities and business bigwigs didn't want the press lurking when they departed or arrived in their bizjets. "We didn't think you'd mind. The reporter is the spouse of one of our executives. He thought—"

"Get that camera crew out of here now or I'll make a formal complaint to the president of the company."

The woman snapped her fingers at one of the line boys, and in less than a minute the camera crew was marching through the lobby toward the parking lot. The reporter scowled at Rip, who ignored her. Charley trailed the media into the building and followed the signs toward the women's room.

"Did you have a nice flight?" the woman at the desk asked Rip with a frozen smile.

"Great. Now we need to charter a jet to take us to Washington. We'll leave as soon as you can get a crew." He tossed the keys to the rental Cessna on the counter.

It took the crew of the jet an hour to get to the airport and file a flight plan. Charley Pine took a shower and ate a sandwich from the vending machine while they waited. Rip watched a little television. European camera crews had man-

aged to capture an Italian cathedral in Rome being zapped by the antigravity beam from the moon. Joe Bob Hooker, home from the moon, was the hottest man on the planet. A battery of reporters were questioning him about the lunar base, his conversations with Pierre Artois, his thoughts on Pierre's demands.

Charley joined Rip in front of the television. After she had watched some of the interview, she said, "I told him most of that stuff."

"He referred to you as the most beautiful woman alive, and the finest pilot."

"Joe Bob is a discerning individual," Charley said, and squeezed Rip's hand.

"He's going to be in big trouble with his wife when he gets home," Rip replied.

Then a newsflash.

"This network has just learned that a flying saucer went into orbit from an unknown site in Nevada several hours ago. It is now in orbit. Here is the announcement from the White House."

Charley watched in frozen silence as Rip squeezed her hand.

"Oh, Rip. You know Egg was in it."

"Flying it, probably."

They talked in whispers. They were still head to head in one corner of the room when the desk lady came to tell them their jet was ready to depart.

An hour and fifteen minutes after they landed in Denver, Rip and Charley were on their way to Washington in a Citation V. The space suits and air compressor were stacked in the empty seats.