Medusa's Children

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Rose of York was fitted with a satellite navigation system which had been guaranteed by its manufacturers to be an exact duplicate of a type perfected three centuries earlier. Their literature had stated that the quality and reliability were as good as in the original hardware, but Somerville had never been able to check on that claim because the most vulnerable part of the system—the satellites themselves—had begun functioning erratically soon after he acquired the boat. He had been forced to devise a hybrid technique for getting around the South Pacific, a method using traditional dead reckoning, radio beacons where available, and the occasional flash of lucidity from his satnav equipment.

Tarrant had become accustomed to similar makeshifts on a more sophisticated level in his flying days, and he quickly learned all that was necessary to navigate the boat. Somerville and he took four-hour spells at the wheel throughout the first night and the following day, mainly to monitor the self-steering gear. Between daytime watches Tarrant sat at the stern with his rifle cradled in his lap. His own boat was following the larger one, duckling fashion, and he kept a close watch on the water all around it, hoping to see a familiar mottled shape come to the surface. He could not say if he was going by instinct, or receiving guidance from the friend he carried within his chest, but he was certain the big squid was not far away. And he would be unable to work comfortably in the water until he had seen the huge body ripped into streamers and drifting with the tide.

At other times he went below and attended to chores such as helping the three women and two men to reach the cruiser’s chemical lavatory. Without the pressures of sexual deprivation, he handled the men and women impartially, and there was no conversation with them at any time. He understood, and was proud, that Ka regarded Somerville and him as superior instruments of his will. They were far stronger than the people of the Clan, mobile, possessed of valuable skills and knowledge—and as such had no reason to communicate with any but each other. The five he had rescued from the water had been useful in that they had served to induct Somerville and him into the corporate entity that was Ka, and they might be useful again, but until then they were relegated to the status of inert appendages.

Several times during the day they saw other craft. At one point a destroyer flying the Republic of Queensland flag came almost to within hailing distance, but drew away incuriously to dwindle over the horizon. Sunset found The Rose of York holding its north-easterly course in a calm, glassy sea which progressively darkened from green to black as the light faded from the sky. When Tarrant went up for his spell of duty he discovered Somerville anxiously examining the meters which reported the state of the boat’s propulsion system.

“We’re down about eight volts,” Somerville said gloomily. “Some of the batteries aren’t holding their charges.”

“It may not come to much.” Tarrant insinuated his flat body into the space beside Somerville and clicked switches which isolated various battery trays, his eyes taking in the condition of each. On one circuit the meter needles sagged dramatically. “There’s where the trouble is—Port Four.”

Somerville swore savagely. “I only bought that set last month. It’s the same old story—new is bad.”

“Let’s just wait and see what happens,” Tarrant said. “They may not collapse for days.”

At regular intervals during the next four hours he ran checks on the suspect tray and was forced to admit that the overall condition of the batteries in Port Four was deteriorating at a noticeable rate. The boat continued to cut its way through the darkness, using energy its solar panels had gathered and fed into the batteries during the day, but its speed was gradually falling. Tarrant knew he would soon have to choose between selecting a lower propeller speed or risking the consequences of overloading the remaining healthy units.

“We can’t afford to lose speed,” Somerville said when he came back on watch.

“It’ll only be for a couple of hours.” Tarrant glanced at his watch. “At first light we can bring my boat alongside and transfer my batteries.”

Somerville came to decision. “We’ll do that right now, without waiting for first light—I want those batteries on charge as soon as the sun comes up.”

Tarrant nodded compliantly and, leaving the boat to steer itself, they went aft. It took only a few minutes to haul the smaller boat alongside against the drag of the bow wave. As Tarrant climbed down into it, stretching his legs across a margin of racing black water, he felt a moment of uneasiness. It seemed to him that he had once known a good reason to avoid that kind of situation, but in the urgency of the moment he had forgotten what it could be. In any case, no harm could befall him as long as his friend and mentor quivered within his chest cavity. He ran a line up from the stern of his boat and Somerville secured it, creating a more stable bond between the two craft.

The task of transferring the batteries was longer and more difficult than Tarrant had expected. In the past he had done similar work without paying too much attention to wisps of gas in the battery compartment, but now each time he put his head in too far he felt a strange, writhing pain in his right lung and was forced to draw back. The batteries themselves were tricky to disconnect in the uncertain light from Somerville’s lamp, and became wilfully massive as they were being handed from one boat to the other, causing strained muscles and broken fingernails.

Tarrant was sweating profusely by the time he had passed over the last weighty cube and his arms were trembling with fatigue. His boat was riding higher in the water, testimony to the amount of work he had done, and with the change in angle of the connecting ropes had moved a short distance away from The Rose of York. Tarrant knelt down to replace the cover of his battery compartment. He was leaning forward, tightening wing nuts, when the cruiser gave his boat a sharp nudge, and he fell forward against the outer gunwale. In the same instant something wet and dark slapped itself around his waist. Then he was in the water, facing death by nightmare.

Other tentacles encircled his body as he went below the surface. Guided by instincts that had never been called into play before, Tarrant twisted violently, trying to get his booted feet into the central mouth area towards which he was being drawn. His feet bedded on a rubbery mass. Mercifully, there was no crushing pain which would have let him know he had driven his feet into the squid’s mouth, but his situation was nonetheless critical. He was under water, in the grip of a monster which thrived in that environment, and being carried further downward with every second. In a very short time the air in his lungs would be exhausted and he would drown, provided that the Horra—using all its advantages—had not managed to destroy him first.

As Tarrant fought to retain his meagre supply of air against the fierce pressure on his chest, he became aware of yet another threat to his life. One of the squid’s tentacles, smoother than the others, was feeling for his mouth, trying to force its way into his throat. He got his right hand free from the coils which were gathering around his body and fended off the stabbing arm, but he knew his success had to be pitifully brief. The dead air in his chest was trying to explode outwards, creating a force which could be resisted for only a matter of seconds. As the blood-warm bubbles began to flee from his nostrils, Tarrant experienced a sense of resignation, discovered that death was only terrible while one refused to accept its inevitability. His struggles began to weaken as he realised that a being which had to breathe air would never be a match for one which spent its entire existence under water.

He relaxed, already partially drowned, waiting for the inevitable—then became aware of the steady pulsing of water at his right leg. It was the pumping action of the squid’s siphon. Part of his mind noted the phenomenon and was unconcerned, but another part—which housed all that was stubborn and unyielding in Tarrant’s character—saw it as searing revelation. The squid, just like any other animal, did have to breathe, did rely on oxygen to keep it alive. And to that extent it was every bit as vulnerable as he.

Summoning the last remnants of his strength, he moved his right foot sideways. It encountered the leathery, penis-like tube of the Horra’s siphon at full extent as it exhaled water. He waited until the tube had retracted then thrust his foot down inside it. The effect on the creature was immediate. It convulsed and swerved and tumbled, and the tentacles which had been drawing Tarrant inwards relaxed their hold and began pushing him away. As this was something they had not been designed to do, they were relatively ineffectual, and Tarrant—aware he could not survive a fresh attack—fought to remain inside the cone of threshing arms. The air bubbles streamed from his mouth and nose, shivering and scrambling in their eagerness to fly to the surface.

There was an indeterminate period—a flashing of lights, the thunder of organic pumps—during which Tarrant felt nothing but a dark satisfaction that he had not been an easy prey; then he was forced to open his mouth and let himself be invaded by the sea. …

“… Never seen anything like … thought it was some kind of leech, but the … seems to be a complete lack of specialised organs. …”

The voices came and went for a long time, meaningless as the drone of bees on a summer afternoon.

Tarrant opened his eyes and saw a flat, whitish plain crossed by parallel black canals which receded into infinity. Here and there on the Dali landscape were monstrous objects which might have resembled shoes but for their enormous size. He became aware of a weight on his back, of the insistent pressure of hands. At first he accepted the incomprehensible new world without question, suffused with a vague relief at being able to see or feel anything, then one of the shoe-like things moved and he knew he was lying with his face pressed against the wooden deck of a ship. He tried to speak, but renewed pressure on his back turned the unborn words into a rasping moan.

“We’ve got him,” a man’s voice said. “For a while I didn’t think he was going to make it.”

With the return of consciousness, the natural mechanisms of coughing and retching took over the job of expelling water from Tarrant’s body and he gave himself up to it for minute after minute. Finally the muscular spasms began to ease, and the authoritative voice spoke again.

“Wrap those blankets around him and take him inside. Get some hot coffee into him.” There was a pause. “And bring that bucket with you.”

Tarrant was lifted and carried across the deck, during which process he glimpsed naval grey superstructure, a broad upraised bow reminiscent of that of a trawler, and a distant golden fire on the horizon which told him the sun was rising. He was taken into a spacious deck-house and placed in a chair. In spite of the predominant battleship grey, the men who carried him were wearing an assortment of lightweight civilian clothes. The senior man wore an officer’s peaked cap, but with a careless jauntiness which—in conjunction with his loose red shirt and open sandals—made him look like a weekend sailor. He was a stoop-shouldered man in his fifties, with crisp waves of greying hair, steel-rimmed glasses and a look of quizzical intelligence.

Tarrant watched him blankly over the rim of the mug which was being held to his lips, and tried to drag himself fully into the present moment. He liked this man who was standing before him, he liked the feeling of being cared for, he liked the warm and dry airiness of the deck-house … but bad things had been happening to him, something terrible had come into his life. Tarrant let his gaze rove around, taking in the watchful faces, the profusion of electronic equipment on shelves and benches, the white plastic bucket on the deck near his feet, the eel-like sliver of black jelly which lay in the bottom of the bucket. …

“Kill it!” he screamed, throwing himself forward. “Kill that thing! Kill it!”

“Take it easy, son.” Strong hands pushed him back into his chair and held him immobile.

“Burn it,” Tarrant pleaded. “Do you hear me? I want it dead!” He renewed his struggles to get out of the chair, but in his weakened condition the others contained him easily. Tarrant began to sob.

“That thing was inside me, for God’s sake! It made me …” As his memory returned in full, he doubled forward in a paroxysm of nausea, and coffee spurted from his mouth on to the deck.

“Take the bucket out of his sight,” the senior man ordered, “but be careful with it.”

When the bucket was carried away Tarrant slumped back in his chair. “Thank you, thank you—but don’t let anybody touch it. Don’t let it get near anybody’s mouth, because if you do …”

His jaw clamped and tears welled into his eyes as he recalled some of the horrors of his Ka-existence. He had been prepared to kill a whole family to gain perhaps an hour, and the people, the children, had been nothing to him. He had been more inhuman than the Horra themselves. He had left two nuclear weapons in an unlocked building, where they could be found and tampered with by children. And there had been other things. Using a helpless woman like a. … Tarrant gave a deep sigh and huddled himself up in the blankets, rocking from side to side in the chair.

“I’m Theo Martine,” the grey-haired man said, gripping Tarrant’s shoulders and holding him steady. “And this is a research vessel of the South Newzealand Navy. What’s your name?”

“Hal Tarrant.”

“What were you doing in the sea? Did you go overboard from a ship?”

Tarrant shook his head and almost managed to smile. “You’ll never believe me.”

“Try me.”

“It’s no use, I tell you.”

Martine’s face became less kindly, more determined. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Would it help you if I told you that the squid we picked up along with you is like nothing else on this Earth? And that you owe your life to that fact?”

“In what way?” Tarrant said cautiously.

“It’s an outsize version of the common squid, which is a nektonic-pelagic animal. All nektonic species are slightly heavier than water, which means that when they die they sink to the bottom. The one you managed to kill floated to the surface, bringing you with it, so I knew immediately that giantism wasn’t its only peculiarity. Things like that intrigue me, Mr Tarrant. And things like that mobile jelly we pumped out of your lungs intrigue me even more, so I want you to start telling me what you know about them. All right?”

Tarrant nodded, his mind plagued by doubts, then a new thought occurred to him. Will Somerville, Myrah, Lennar and the others were on their way to Harpoon Island with the intention of exploding a nuclear bomb on it. Detonating such a bomb was a fairly straightforward matter for a man with military experience, but because it was intended for artillery use the maximum delay available on the fuse circuits varied from only thirty to sixty seconds, depending on the type of weapon. This consideration had not troubled Tarrant while he was aboard The Rose of York, and he understood now that Ka had suppressed it. Somerville still had that lethal blind spot, and therefore he was going to his death—as were the group of lost, hag-ridden men and women travelling with him.

“Big decision?” Martine said.

“Not really.” Tarrant met his gaze squarely. “Does the name Ulrich Bergmann mean anything to you?” He saw the muscles of Martine’s face sag momentarily.

“Just a minute,” Martine said briskly, making an immediate recovery. He turned to the small group of men who were with him. “I’m taking Mr Tarrant to my room, where he can rest properly. In the meantime I want that squid sectioned and examined. Keep an eye on the other thing and let me know if it shows any sign of change.”

Martine helped Tarrant to his feet. They went aft, climbed a flight of steps and entered a roomy cabin which was furnished as living quarters. Martine handed Tarrant a towel, then opened a drawer and passed him clean underwear, a shirt and a pair of shorts. As he moved about the cabin his eyes watched Tarrant unblinkingly.

“I did tell you,” he said finally, “that this is a ship of the South Newzealand Navy.”

“You did.” Tarrant began to dry his hair with the towel. His arms felt weak, difficult to control.

“You sound like a Newzealander yourself.”

“I am.” Tarrant began to wonder where the interview was leading.

“North or South?”

“South. I was born in Dunedin.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Not right now—all my papers are at my home on Cawley Island.”

“So you can’t prove you’re not a spy?” Martine had ceased looking like an amateur yachtsman, and was craning forward with his head tilted for Tarrant’s reply.

“A spy?” Tarrant looked at him in astonishment. “What would a spy be doing out here in the middle of …?”

“You were the one who mentioned Bergmann,” Martine cut in.

Tarrant recalled his country’s interest in Harpoon Island seven years earlier and half-formed ideas began to stir in his mind. “Look,” he said, “if I was snooping on your research into dysteleonics I wouldn’t come right out and say it, would I?”

Martine gave an unexpected laugh. “If that sort of reasoning was valid anybody who was caught doing anything, anywhere, would only have to mention his crime first, and thus prove his innocence.”

“I haven’t committed any crime.”

“Then perhaps you’ll tell me what you have been doing.”

“I guess I’d better.” Tarrant, having decided on complete honesty, led off with a brief sketch of his service career and his desertion from the South Newzealand Air Force. While he was changing into the dry clothes Martine had provided, he described the events of the past few days, beginning with his first brush with the Horra and ending with his being plucked overboard from his boat. The account took twenty minutes, but Martine heard him out with no interruptions, although at times he grew distinctly restless.

“You said earlier that you hadn’t committed any crime,” Martine commented after a lengthy pause. “What about this nuclear mortar bomb you took?”

“I didn’t take it—I’ve explained to you that I had no moral responsibility.” Tarrant’s concern about the two bombs remaining on Cawley Island came back to him. “I’d like you to put a signal through to the chairman of the Inner Council on Cawley and let him know the armoury isn’t secure.”

“I’ll do that, but right now I’m worried about the third bomb—the one your friend has.” Martine squeezed his lower lip between finger and thumb, his eyes hard on Tarrant’s. “You see, we have nearly twenty people on Harpoon Island, and—from what you say—Mr Somerville would have no compunction about wiping them out.”

Tarrant shook his head impatiently. “I tell you it isn’t Will Somerville who … What are your people doing on Harpoon?”

“I shouldn’t tell you, but you’ve given me some valuable information. …” Martine’s face relaxed slightly. “They’re excavating for the machine.”

“Then it is there. Will was right!”

“There’s something down there. We haven’t been able to measure its size or depth. The amount of dysteleonics activity in the area makes nonsense of all our readings. That’s the trouble with this stuff—above a certain intensity it makes compasses and most other instruments go haywire, but once it drops below a threshold level we can’t even detect it.” Martine’s eyes glistened as he warmed to his subject. “We’ve got to have dysteleonics—it’s the only way we’ll ever get the per capita energy quota back up to 21st century levels—but progress has been so slow.

“Would you believe that picking you out of the water this morning, a chance find if ever there was one, has advanced our work by six months or a year?”

“In what way?” Tarrant felt exhausted and had a pounding headache, but his mind had never been so alert.

“There must be a Bergmann transceiver just north of Cawley Island, so—for the first time—we can draw a line on a map and know it represents a dysteleonics beam.”

“That’s good,” Tarrant said. “I’m glad about that—but what are you going to do about Will Somerville and the others?”

“There’s only one thing I can do.” Martine blinked mildly behind his glasses. “I have to turn the matter over to the military and have them stopped.”

‘When I was with Interceptor Command,” Tarrant said thoughtfully, “there was a very strict policy for dealing with nuclear threats, even tactical stuff.”

“I’m not a military man,” Martine replied, “but I can see the need for such a policy. I’m sorry.”

“But they don’t deserve to be killed.”

Martine walked around the room before answering. “There’s more at stake than the lives of the twenty people on Harpoon, though in my opinion that issue alone justifies the use of maximum force against Somerville. There’s more at stake than the South Newzealand dysteleonics research programme. We’ve made the rather humbling discovery that human life on this planet has been artificially nurtured for millennia, and now that we know about the system of balances we have to protect it or bear the full brunt of future climatic changes.

“There could be millions of lives at stake here, billions of lives—and that’s why your friend Somerville has to be stopped before he gets anywhere near that machine. He’s a threat to the future of the whole race.”

Tarrant leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair. “I keep telling you it isn’t Will Somerville who’s the enemy. He and the others have no control over their actions.”

“Even if that were true, the situation remains effectively the same.”

Tarrant was taken by surprise. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Look at it from my point of view,” Martine said reasonably. “A week ago would you have believed in a mutated medusa-fish with telepathic powers? One which can exert control over animals and human beings?”

“But you believed everything else, didn’t you? I mean, a planetoid made up of sea water is a pretty unlikely. …”

“That’s different,” Martine interrupted. “I already knew about the planetoid.”

Tarrant looked at him in surprise. “How?”

“We located it by telescope and long-range radar more than two years ago. In fact, we found two planetoids in the same orbit, between Earth and Venus.”

“I see.” Tarrant began to appreciate the extent of the South Newzealand investigations. “And naturally you didn’t tell anybody?”

“Of course not. That information is all part of a single matrix.”

Tarrant cradled his head in his hands for a moment, trying to fight off his pain and tiredness. “Have you a drink? Anything alcoholic?”

Martine went to a wall locker and came back with a glass of brandy. “I’ll leave you to work on that while I go to the radio room.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I can’t delay that message any longer.”

He went out and closed the door behind him. Before the door had completely shut Tarrant saw him begin to speak to someone in the corridor outside, and knew he was under guard. He sipped the brandy and thought about Will Somerville sailing his boat towards a death which was now doubly certain. The others deserved a better fate, too. It filled Tarrant with a peculiar anguish to think of Myrah, in particular, living her grim travesty of a normal life for more than twenty years, then going through the enormity of a marriage to Ka, and surviving the transit to Earth—only to be obliterated by an air-to-surface rocket or a homing torpedo. He would have to renew his efforts to persuade Martine to stay his hand, even if it was only to gain a little breathing space.

“That’s that,” Martine said, coming back into the room. “They’re checking with Cawley Island to confirm that a nuclear mortar has been taken, then the hunt will be on. Incidentally, somebody on Cawley is going to get a roasting for possessing those things.”

“To hell with them,” Tarrant snapped. “Look, Captain, is it the …?”

“I’m not actually a naval officer,” Martine interrupted. “I don’t even know how to drive this ship. I’m a Principal Science Officer with the Marine Technology Board.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Martine gave him a twinkly, penetrating glance. “Go on, Mr Tarrant—I believe you were going to try convincing me that telepathy is an established fact.”

Tarrant nodded. “It may not be an established fact, but we might be able to establish it to your satisfaction in a few minutes.”

“What would be the point?”

“Well, if I can get you to accept direct transference of data, it’s only a short step to believing in a mental transmitter so powerful that it swamps out everything else in the receiver’s brain.”

“A short step for you perhaps, but a great leap for a scientist.” Martine looked over his glasses. “How would you do it, anyway?”

“You’ve still got that tissue you pumped out of my lungs?”

“It doesn’t prove anything—new marine life forms are still being found every year.”

“Yes, but if you divide it in two, and put the two parts in separate rooms, you’ve only to do something to one part. …”

“And see if the other part reacts!” Martine went to the locker and poured some brandy for himself, once again playing the part of the jaunty amateur sailor. “You propose doing something fairly drastic to the first half?”

“For the purpose of the experiment,” Tarrant said, “there’s no point in tickling it.”

Fifteen minutes later he was standing in a small chemical laboratory on a lower deck of the ship. He had almost conquered his first blind reaction to the sight of the Ka tissue, but his stomach heaved intermittently as he watched the movements of the egg-sized gob of black jelly. The entire organism had been poured out of the bucket and divided in two by pressing down on it with a metal sheet. Both halves had then been scooped into glass jars. One of them was in Martine’s quarters on the upper deck and the other had been taken to the laboratory by Tarrant. Wet highlights glistened on its surface as it furled and flattened, restlessly exploring its surroundings with pseudopods which sometimes extended right across the container. When it managed to rise a short distance up the side of the jar its undersurface was seen to have the dark redness of clotted blood.

“Pleasant little fellow,” Tarrant’s companion said. He was a bearded young research assistant who had been introduced to Tarrant as Les Anvers.

“A real charmer.” Tarrant tried to sound emotionless as he took the stopper off the bottle of concentrated hydrochloric acid which had been provided by Martine. “Give the word at any time.”

Anvers glanced reluctantly at his stopwatch and then at Tarrant. “I don’t like doing this to anything that’s alive.”

“I’m the one that’s doing it,” Tarrant told him. “Say when.”

Anvers shrugged, waited a short time, then stopped the watch, “Now!”

Tarrant immediately poured the acid into the jar and watched, his mouth twitching uncontrollably, as the black jelly writhed in the swiftly darkening fluid. In a matter of seconds there was nothing left but a foul-smelling organic slurry on the surface of which bubbles clustered like a swarming of blood-red beetles. Appalled though he was, Tarrant felt a deep pang of satisfaction. I hope that got home to you, Ka, he thought. I hope you felt that. He became aware that Anvers was staring at him.

“It’s all in a good cause,” he said, realising the futility of trying to explain what had been happening, that he was trying to save the lives of men and women.

Anvers nodded without speaking and placed a square of glass on the jar to contain the fumes which were rising from it. A minute later Martine came into the laboratory carrying his own stopwatch. He took the other watch from Anders and waited until the assistant had gone out before comparing the two readings. They were the same to within a fraction of a second.

“There was a marked reaction,” he said. “The control specimen seemed to go mad.”

Tarrant nodded peacefully. “I’m glad about that.”

Martine looked away from him. “This place stinks.”

“If you want to be squeamish,” Tarrant said, angered, “be squeamish about those people who are carrying that stuff around inside them. You don’t like this experiment? All right—I’ll suggest a better one. Take that other piece of tissue and put it on your tongue and see what happens. Why don’t we go up there right now?”

“You’ve made your point,” Martine said. “Don’t overdo it.”

Tarrant bunched his fists in exasperation. “I’m sorry, but nobody understands—and there’s so little time. How long do you think it will take them to find Somerville’s boat?”

“Three or four days if he’s lucky.”

“That long? I don’t get it.”

“It appears,” Martine said drily, “that all our long-range, all-weather, day-and-night reconnaissance aircraft are grounded because the engines have started to fall off them. Perhaps you encountered similar problems in your flying days?”

“All the time—but what about the Navy?”

“They’ve got two destroyers in operational condition, and both are going straight to Harpoon Island. The idea must be to wait there until your friend shows up. I’m told that one of them is equipped with fairly reliable homing missiles, so. …”

Tarrant understood how Martine had arrived at his estimate of the time until Somerville would be intercepted—that was how long it would take The Rose of York to reach the vicinity of Harpoon Island. Even in the 20th century it had been common for complex warships to spend half their lifetimes in dock, and the South Newzealand Admiralty was grandiosely trying to operate a similar type of vessel—with the result that as many as eight out of ten vessels would be laid up for scheduled and unscheduled repairs at any given time. This loss of technical competence was giving Somerville a brief respite, but it was nothing more than a stay of execution. Commanders who were armed with weapons they could not fully trust would employ the tactics of instantaneous overkill.

“Look,” Tarrant said desperately, “why don’t we go after Somerville in this ship?”

“That’s out of the question.”

“I don’t see why. If we start from the area where you picked me up, we can calculate Somerville’s course and. …” Tarrant broke off as he saw that the geniality had faded from Martine’s face.

“You don’t seem to appreciate your position in this affair,” Martine said. “It’s serious enough that you’re a deserter from the Air Force, but being an accomplice in the theft of a nudear device makes you an international criminal.” He held up one hand to forestall Tarrant’s protest.

“It doesn’t matter that I personally am beginning to believe you had no control over your actions—I have to obey the orders I received from Christchurch. And that means I have to place you under arrest and take you to the authorities.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Tarrant challenged unthinkingly.

Martine looked surprised, then opened the door and nodded to someone outside. Two men with the brown, vein-corded forearms of deckhands moved into view. They were of medium size and build, but something in the half-expectant way they looked at Tarrant told him they had been selected for their ability to deal with trouble.

“I’m supposed to lock you in a store room, but I don’t want to do that,” Martine said. “Instead I’m putting you in an ordinary cabin on this deck. The door won’t be locked, but there’ll be a guard on it at all times and you’ll be doing yourself a favour if you don’t try to get away. If you cooperate in this arrangement I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable.”

“Thanks a lot.” Tarrant tried to gather enough strength to state his case over again with greater force, but the physical reactions to his near-drowning were becoming more insistent and he knew he would have to lie down or risk keeling over. The futility of attempting to do anything more to help Somerville, Myrah and the others bore down on him like a massive weight. He stared dumbly at Martine for a moment, then turned and left the laboratory on legs which buckled gently with every step.

The small room in which he was installed contained a single bunk, a wardrobe, and a table and chair. There was a date, course and speed displayed on one wall—denoting that the accommodation was of officer standard—and in the outer wall there was a fixed porthole. When he was alone Tarrant went to the porthole and stood looking out. The Pacific stretched away to the horizon, vast, empty and uncaring. Feeling utterly defeated, he went to the bunk and lay down. He began to wonder what sort of person Myrah had been in her previous existence, but exhaustion claimed him almost at once, dragging him down into unconsciousness.

Tarrant was summoned back to life by an insistent grip on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and gazed at the blistered metal ceiling. Just when it seemed identity and memory would forever elude him, he focussed on the bespectaded, watchful face of Theo Martine.

Reorientation was both immediate and unwelcome. He looked around the room, saw that the direction of the light had changed very little while he had been asleep, and at once was filled with resentment at having been recalled so soon to a world of responsibilities and insoluble problems.

“I’m awake,” he grumbled, pushing Martine’s hand away. “What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want,” Martine said. “It’s what you want.”

“All I want is some sleep.”

“And what about your friend Somerville?”

“What?” Now fully awake, Tarrant raised himself on his elbows and saw that Martine was holding a radio message slip. “What’s been going on?”

“Quite a lot,” Martine said, his jovial persona again in evidence. “Several computers have been holding a conversation about you.”

“So?” Tarrant stared blankly into the other man’s face.

“When you told me about your flying career you didn’t mention that you had received astronaut training.”

“Astronaut! We called it kamikaze training. That’s why I. …” Tarrant sat upright, his nerves taut with apprehension. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s about saving your friends,” Martine replied. “There’s a way we might be able to do it—provided you’re willing to fly a spaceship.”