Space 1999 #1 - Breakaway Read online

  RUNAWAY MOON!

  Moonbase Alpha is Earth's supreme achievement. Self-sufficient and fully computerized, the fantastic lunar colony is Earth's global watchdog, silently guarding against sneak alien attack. The dark side of the moon—once so mysterious, so unattainable—now stores in its womb containers of smoldering radioactive waste, refuse from Earth.

  Then, in the year of Our Lord 1999, the serene satellite is ripped apart by thermonuclear explosion. And the 311 inhabitants of Alpha whirl through space on a runaway moon—in an orbit of jarring adventure where survival is a game of chance with the life forces of the universe!

  "Attention, all sections Alpha. This is Commander Koenig. Our moon has been blasted out of orbit and we have been cut off from Earth. There is no hope or possibility of return."

  He paused a moment before continuing: "But we are not without hope. We have power, environment and, therefore, the possibility of survival. Meta is close and our path is carrying us toward it. There, perhaps, we shall find a new home.

  "There, or somewhere . . ."

  Books in the Space: 1999 Series

  Breakaway

  Moon Odyssey

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  BREAKAWAY

  Futura Publications edition published 1975

  POCKET BOOK edition published September, 1975

  This POCKET BOOK edition includes every word contained in the original edition. It is printed from brand-new plates made from completely reset, clear, easy-to-read type. POCKET BOOK editions are published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., 630 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10020. Trademarks registered in the United States and other countries.

  Standard Book Number: 671-80184-8.

  This POCKET BOOK edition is published by arrangement with Futura Publications Limited. Series format and television play scripts copyright, ©, 1975, by ATV Licensing Limited. This novelization copyright, ©, 1975, by Futura Publications Limited. All rights reserved. This book, or portions thereof, may not be reproduced by any means without permission of the original publisher: Futura Publications Limited, 49 Poland Street, London, England.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  To Wilma Brandt

  CHAPTER ONE

  It had been a long day and John Koenig was tired. A fatigue born more of mental tension than accumulated muscular toxins; they, at least, could be eased as he sat in the comfortable chair in the passenger module of the Eagle which was taking him to Moonbase Alpha. The ship which was carrying him home.

  Home!

  An odd thought, home was, or should be, the place where he’d been born and raised, but the moon was a long way from Earth, a quarter million miles of emptiness lying between, and yet he thought of it as the place where he belonged. A birthday of a kind, he thought with wry amusement. A day to be remembered. September 9th, 1999—the day he resumed command.

  Command, basically, of a garbage heap.

  On the dark side of the moon were stacked the sealed containers containing the radioactive wastes of the atomic piles which now maintained Earth’s economy. An ever-growing mass of unwanted and potentially dangerous material, buried deep in the Luna rock, watched, monitored, carefully guarded. The major reason for the existence of Moonbase Alpha which hugged the edge of Tycho. From it Earth could be seen—from the dumping grounds nothing but the cold light of the eternal stars.

  A touch and the screen set into the rear of the seat before him sprang to life. A television broadcast from a station on Earth. The newscaster was young, professionally intent.

  ‘It was announced today that the two probe astronauts of the Meta mission, Frank Warren and Eric Sparkman, have contracted a mild virus infection during training. Luna Commissioner Gerald Simmonds assures us, however, that the mission will be delayed for no longer than forty-eight hours. In a few moments the Commissioner will talk to you direct. In the meantime our sponsors . . .’

  Koenig glanced up from the screen aware that he was not alone. The stewardess had entered the module and stood studying the lone passenger it contained.

  He made, she thought, a fine figure of a man. Not young, yet far from old, neatly trim in his uniform with the one black sleeve of command. His face was intense, sombrely handsome, the mouth sensitive, the eyes dark, enigmatic. A man of controlled passions and, she suspected, a lonely one. Lonely with the isolation of command, the responsibility it carried.

  She carried a tray of refreshments. Offering them she said, ‘Commander, touchdown at Moonbase Alpha will be at 23.35 Luna time.’

  Thirty minutes yet to go. Koenig accepted a drink. He was too tense to eat and Simmonds didn’t help.

  Simmonds came on to the screen, hair and beard dark, eyes and mouth hard. A politician who believed that words were deeds. Now he was bland as the newscaster introduced him.

  ‘Commissioner, will you explain the purpose of the Meta mission to our viewers, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’ His face grew large as the cameras scanned close. ‘Meta is a celestial object which is approaching our own solar system from somewhere in space. We know that it is planet-sized and has roughly the mass of Earth. Perhaps it is a world which has broken free of its own primary—or it may even have come from beyond our own galaxy—as yet we simply do not know. One thing is certain, however, our technicians have received signals which seem to originate on Meta itself. Signals which could be an attempt at communication in which case it is fair to assume that the world could contain a high form of life. From Earth’s Space Research Centre at Moonbase Alpha we are going to explore that world using a specially designed probe. The virus infection, previously reported, will cause a slight delay, but . . .’

  Disenchanted, Koenig switched off the screen. Words, palliatives for the masses, empty sounds which meant little or nothing, but which provided a screen to hide the ugly truth.

  On the moon men were dying—it was his job to find out why.

  The Eagle landed, the ship settling lightly on the pad beside the complex of the base. From the entry dome the travel-tube telescoped out towards the door of the passenger module and locked firm. Rising Koenig moved towards the port and entered the car beyond. Bergman was waiting to greet him.

  ‘John!’

  ‘Victor!’ Koenig felt a genuine pleasure at the sight of the familiar face. ‘So you’re still here.’

  ‘Where else would I go?’ Bergman was on the wrong side of middle-age, his uniform devoid of a colour-coded sleeve. A visiting scientist who had stayed on year after year, a man who occupied a unique position at the base, busy on projects impossible to conduct on Earth. His health too had played a factor—he lived only because of a mechanical heart. Handing Koenig a commlock he said, ‘Things are far more serious here than I suspect you’ve been told.’

  Koenig clipped the commlock to his belt. A useful tool it comprised a video-transceiver and an electronic key to operate all doors in the complex. As the car accelerated down its tube he said, ‘I never listen to rumours, Victor. You know that. I’m only interested in facts. Right now I’d like some.’

  ‘People are dying up here, John.’

  ‘I know that. I also know the reason given. A virus infection. Is it true?’

  ‘No.’

  As Koenig had suspected, but there was no time to pursue the matter now.
The car had halted, the door opening to reveal the interior of Main Mission, the heart of the base. It was just as busy as he remembered, technicians at their posts, screens showing a variety of external scenes, the disposal area, the Eagle he had just left, men working on an electronic barrier. Routine monitoring of the complex and all life-support systems.

  Rising from his console Paul Morrow, the Main Mission Controller, extended his hand with the familiarity of old acquaintance. His left sleeve was flame-coloured.

  ‘Welcome back, Commander!’

  ‘Glad to be back, Paul!’

  The truth, already Koenig felt himself slip into the environment, taking up his position as if he had donned an old and comfortable jacket. His office, though, was not exactly as he remembered it, the previous commander had made small changes, things which Koenig would put right within hours. The photograph which Gorski had forgotten, the position of a chair, small things which obtruded his personality.

  Koenig turned, looking back into the busy activity of the control room. Aiming his commlock he activated the doors which swept across the opening. As they sealed his face lost the mask of geniality.

  Men had died and he needed answers. Doctor Helena Russell was, perhaps the one to give them to him.

  He thought about her as he walked towards the medical section, mentally reviewing her file. Once married, husband died five years ago. A skilled practitioner of space medicine who had taken up a position at the base after he’d left. That she was clever he had no doubt. That she was beautiful he hadn’t suspected.

  Beautiful.

  Not pretty, not just pleasant to look at, but beautiful.

  She was a little younger than himself, no shallow girl, but a fully mature woman. Her hair was short-cut above her shoulders, blonde, the deep, natural colour of sun-ripened wheat, a lock falling in a loose curve over her right eye. Her face, almost Slavic in appearance, had high, prominent cheekbones, the cheeks themselves concave. The jaw was finely pointed. The eyes, wide-spaced, were a vivid blue. The mouth was tender, generous, betraying her sensitivity, her passion.

  She watched him from behind her desk as he entered the compartment, the left arm of her uniform a stark white—the colour-code of the Medical Section. A uniform which was taut over the swell of her breasts.

  Conscious that he had been staring Koenig glanced around the room, his face lighting as he saw an old microscope standing on a pedestal. Moving towards it he touched the gleaming brass, the archaic adjustments.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘A mid-nineteenth century instrument. One which could have been used by Pasteur.’

  ‘It’s a replica,’ she said. ‘An award.’ Her voice was strong, musical. ‘What can I do for you, Commander?’

  ‘You can tell me about the trouble here.’ Koenig was deliberately abrupt. Leaving the microscope he moved to stand before her desk, his eyes holding her own. ‘Those men who died and the others who are ill. Are you going to tell me that a virus is the cause?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘In my opinion a radiation-induced form of cerebral cancer.’

  ‘I want facts, Doctor, not opinions!’

  ‘Facts!’ She rose, her voice as hard as his own had been. ‘Commander, there have been eleven cases so far. Nine of them were workers at Nuclear Disposal Area One. Three of them suffered disorientation which led to fatal accidents while another five died in here. The ninth died less than an hour ago. Apparently he went insane and tried to break through the electronic barrier. Thrown back he fell and smashed his face-plate. I saw it all on the monitors—it wasn’t a pleasant sight.’

  ‘You saw it—why?’

  ‘I was monitoring his physical condition. There was a sudden disruption of his brain-wave pattern and—does it matter?’

  ‘For now, no. The astronauts?’

  ‘This is where the consistency ends,’ she admitted. ‘From all reports they could not have been exposed to radiation—certainly they didn’t work at the disposal area, yet they are displaying the same symptoms. Let me illustrate.’

  A med-computer stood to one side, the screen lighting as the woman touched a switch. A second touch and the depiction of a human brain showed in a mass of vivid colour.

  ‘This is from Sparkman, but it is typical of them all. You can see the hot spot where the malignancy is making massive demands on the blood supply. The growth is also impinging on the motor faculties and causing disorientation. And there are other effects which are unusual such as—’

  Koenig didn’t let her finish. He said, sharply, ‘Doctor, I can’t go along with your theory that radiation is responsible. How could it be when the astronauts have not been exposed?

  ‘Thermographic X-rays aren’t theory.’

  ‘They only show the damage, not what caused it. Have you made tests?’

  ‘All standard procedures have been carried out, Commander. As regards normal radiation sickness the findings are negative.’

  ‘And the growths themselves?’

  ‘Also negative.’

  ‘And yet you hold to the opinion that radiation is the cause. An inconsistency, Doctor. How do you explain it?’

  She said, flatly, ‘I have no explanation, Commander.’

  The only answer Koenig was going to get and he knew it. Grimly he said, ‘I want to see the sick men.’

  They lay in a small ward looking like corpses beyond a transparent screen. A likeness accentuated by the flood of blue-tinted ultra-violet light which bathed the area. Monitoring equipment covered them from the chest down, tiny lights winking to signal the functioning of the life-support apparatus. Monitors whose findings were repeated on a large screen set into the console before the partition.

  They looked barely human. Their faces were pale, one side shrunken, distorted as if wax had run beneath intense heat to set in grotesque patterns. Travesties of what human faces should be.

  Koenig swallowed, shaken despite himself, yet unable to look away. These men were to have manned the Meta probe, but that was something they would never do. They were dying, already dead, kept alive only by machines. Killed by the mysterious something which haunted the dark face of the moon. It was a relief to rejoin the living, to hear the small sounds made by busy humanity, the hum and click of active machines. To stand with Captain Alan Carter of Reconnaissance, his left sleeve a vivid orange, to look at his command, the great bulk of meta probe where it hung in orbit.

  The Meta probe and the space station to which it was attached, a cluster of Eagles looking small by comparison.

  Koenig said, ‘Is it all ready to go?’

  ‘We can start the countdown whenever you give the word, Commander. That is as soon as the crew is fit enough to leave.’ His voice held a question.

  ‘Assuming they won’t be fit in the time how long to train another crew?’

  ‘Too long.’ Carter was positive. ‘We can’t afford to wait if we hope to reach Meta, investigate and return. Commander, just how bad are they? Every time I ask I get evasive answers.’

  ‘Can you leave without them?’

  ‘Not if I can avoid it. Eric and Frank are special. They’re trained and experienced—and they’re all we’ve got.’

  A fault, one Gorski should answer for. The previous commander had failed to provide the essential back-up crew for emergency replacement. Cost was the reason, of course, and Simmonds would have been behind the decision. A saving which now would cost dear.

  And Koenig realized he had, in taking on the project, put his own head in a noose. He was now the commander, his would be the failure—Simmonds had provided both himself and Gorski with a scapegoat.

  A hum from his commlock and Koenig glanced at the screen.

  On it the operator said, ‘Commander Koenig there’s an Earth call for you on scrambler. Commissioner Simmonds.’

  ‘Right. I’ll take it in my office.’

  Simmonds was eager to please, a Judas fattening up a sacrifice, an important friend to keep if, b
y some magic, Koenig should clear up the mess he had tried to hide.

  Smiling he said, ‘Settled in yet, John? I just called to wish you well and to get your first impression of the situation.’

  ‘There was another death just before I arrived—did you know that?’

  ‘I heard. John. Nordstrom, a good man, a pity.’

  Koenig added, ‘Doctor Russell thinks the trouble here could be caused by radiation.’

  A touchy subject. Simmond’s face hardened.

  ‘I’ve heard about all that from Gorski. Don’t pay too much attention to her, John. She might be competent when it comes to space medicine, but she’s wrong when she talks about radiation. As a matter of fact I’m sending you a team of top medical advisers to—’

  ‘Forget it, Commissioner,’ interrupted Koenig. ‘I want to be certain that there was absolutely no radiation leakage at that disposal area. I don’t need extra medics for that.’

  ‘The two astronauts never went near it!’

  ‘Maybe not, but nine men have died and I intend to find out what killed them. Until I do I want you to stop sending up anymore atomic waste.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that! It’s one of the biggest problems of our time!’

  Koenig said, flatly, ‘Commissioner, you assigned me here to clear up this mess and that’s what I’m going to do. The dead men and other things—I don’t think I need go into detail. After your little talk on television you can hardly admit the lack of back-up crew now, can you?’ He gave the other no chance to answer, knowing the value of compromise. ‘A trade, Commissioner. You stop sending up the waste and I’ll get your Meta probe launched.’

  A deal and one Simmonds was in no position to refuse.

  Reluctantly he said, ‘A temporary delay is the best I can do, John. If that’s what you need?’

  ‘It’s all I need.’ Koenig stared at the bearded face, his own impassive. ‘Simmonds, why did you lie to me?’