Space 1999 - Earthfall

  THE EPIC STORY OF

  MOONBASE ALPHA

  When the atomic waste dumps on the far side of the Moon exploded, blasting the Moon out of Earth orbit and into another dimension, incredible adventures lay in wait for the utterly unprepared staff of Moonbase Alpha, the elite of Earth’s scientists and technicians.

  Here is the story of the base from that devastating blast out of Earth orbit to the moment when, after heartbreaking disappointment and breathtaking adventures in search of a new home, the second generation of Alphans return to a shattered Earth.

  An epic adventure based on ATV’s spectacular SPACE 1999

  Also available in the Space 1999 series

  #1: BREAKAWAY by E. C. Tubb

  #2: MOON ODYSSEY by John Rankine

  #3: THE SPACE GUARDIANS by Brian Ball

  #4: COLLISION COURSE by E. C. Tubb

  #5: LUNAR ATTACK by John Rankine

  #6: ASTRAL QUEST by John Rankine

  #7: ALIEN SEED by E. C. Tubb

  #8: ANDROID PLANET by John Rankine

  #9: ROGUE PLANET by E. C. Tubb

  From Pocket Books

  #10: PHOENIX OF MEGARON by John Rankine

  An Orbit Book

  First published in Great Britain in 1977 by Futura Publications Ltd.

  Series format and television play scripts copyright © ITC – Incorporated Television Company Limited 1977

  This novelization copyright © E. C. Tubb 1977

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out of otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 0 8600 7940 6

  Printed by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. London and Glasgow

  To: Charles Hickmott

  C H A P T E R

  One

  Koenig didn’t like the office. It was too large, too pretentious and, for him, disquietening. The sculptured abstract on the wall served no useful function, the gilt was too lavish, the carpet too thick, the equipment too neatly placed on the wide desk. A place designed for show rather than for work. One intended to impress and awe and create a calculated mood. But, at least, it had a window.

  Standing before it Koenig looked at the scene below. The field, as always, was busy, double glazing and baffles alone killing the sound of engines and alarms, the whistles and klaxons of normal service. As he watched a truck drove towards a reception area, men running forward to monitor for leaks. Another truck, almost unloaded, lay ringed with foam-dispensers, men tensed to release a blanket of protective film if one of the containers it carried should spring a leak. A rare occurrence, the cans were of thick metal lined with shock-absorbing plastic, painted with corrosion-proof compounds, handled with painstaking care. Those who dealt with them knew too well the power of the man-made hell they contained; the radioactive waste which had been collected from the atomic power stations of Earth to be shipped to their final destination on the moon.

  Koenig glanced at the sky. It was late afternoon but no crescent showed against the still-bright azure. The moon was still below the horizon and would reveal itself only when the stars shone bright in the sky. But the Eagle now rising from the edge of the field would find it without trouble and the load it contained would be buried with the rest. Watching he could imagine the road from its flaming jets, the surge and thrust of power which lifted it up and away into the air, higher into space, across a quarter of a million miles of emptiness until it landed on the surface of Luna itself.

  “Dreaming of the old days, John?” Commissioner Gerald Simmonds had entered the office unnoticed, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his very presence diminished by the scene beyond the window. As Koenig turned he thrust out his hand, bearded lips parted in a smile. “It’s good to see you, John. How long has it been now? A year?”

  “Two.”

  “As long as that?” Simmonds released his grasp and shook his head in mock dismay. His hand was a match for the rest of him, big, broad, too soft and too clammy. His eyes were small, deep-set, watchfully shrewd. His hair was thick, neatly dressed, softly gleaming. About him hung the odor of lavender. “It’s been too long, John. How are you keeping? Well, I hope. And the job? Happy, I trust?”

  Words which stirred the air as he led the way to his desk where he sat and gestured Koenig to take a chair. Sounds without real meaning and questions to which he already had the answers. As Koenig made no reply Simmonds shrugged and, placing his hands and forearms on the surface of the desk, leaned forward.

  “We don’t have to play games with each other, John. Two years is a long time but maybe not long enough to erase bitterness. Do you still blame me?”

  “For robbing me of my command?” Koenig met the other’s eyes. “You are the Luna Commissioner—is there anyone else to blame?”

  “The Council,” said Simmonds, flatly. “The political situation. The entire, crazy set-up on the Moon. The need to weedle, to soothe, to make the right noises at the right time to the right people. They call it expediency, John. I have to live with it.”

  And he was good at it which was why he held the position he did. A minor scientist who had left research and entered the political arena to become the essential oil reducing the friction of jealous nations. A manipulator and arranger. A compromiser. A man who had learned to swallow his pride and to sacrifice those he had once called friends. A lonely man, perhaps, but Koenig, understanding, still could not wholly forgive.

  “We both have to live with it,” he said, harshly. “But for you it was just a job.”

  “And for you almost life itself—is that what you’re saying?”

  “I survived.”

  “You were replaced,” said Simmonds. “You lost your command and were given a position here on Earth. Major Gorski stepped into your shoes. By doing so we kept the Russians happy. There was nothing personal about it, John, you know that. There is no hint of blame or inefficiency attached to your record. It was just—” he broke off, gesturing. “It was just a move.”

  “A matter of expediency,” said Koenig, dryly.

  “Exactly. You think I had a choice?” Simmonds was bitter. “You know better than that, John. You’ve worked on the Moon and know the situation. There are five races and fifteen nationalities up there. Every nation on Earth wants a finger in the pie. It’s the new frontier and no one wants to be left out if anything of value is to be found. And each is watching the other and all are edging to gain an advantage. I spend my time balancing, counter-balancing—I should have been a trapeze artist. And on top of that I have to contend with the Environmentalists, the Conservationists, the Friends of the Universe, the Natural Lifers, all the nuts in creation!”

  And, in a sense, the reason for the base on Luna. Waste radioactives could not be kept on Earth for the fear of contamination—a real and ghastly danger. They must not be thrown into the sun, so powerful lobbies insisted, for fear of disturbing the essential Phoenix Reaction which maintained the solar furnace. They could not simply be fired to drift endlessly in space for the danger of destroying other worlds and races which, though alien, had the right to live. They were something which no one wanted but no one knew just how to deal with. So the compromise of Moonbase Alpha.

  The waste was stored in pits dug into the Lunar surface against the time when it was discovered how to reclaim their valuable elements and use the vast energy they contained. While working on that other projects were in hand all of potential benefit; space medicine, vacuum engineering, the breeding of mutated plants and bacteria, organic research in sterile conditions—short
term projects which held the hope of high reward and one which would take decades even to really begin. The Stellar Probe which would send a vessel and crew into the region of Barnard’s Star.

  Light years of distance crossed by a machine holding men in a sealed environment. Heroes of the New Era—or fools deluded by a dream. Each could make their own choice and many did. Those who regarded them as fools being the most vociferous.

  To Koenig they were heroes and, once, he would have broken his heart to join them.

  “Trouble, John,” said Simmonds, bleakly. “Trouble all around.” Pausing he added, “And now there’s more which is why I sent for you.”

  Koenig said, flatly. “In six days time I get married. I think you know my intended bride.”

  “I do—and I know both she and you will understand. A marriage can wait, this can’t John, you’re needed on the Moon. Your old command.”

  “Gorski?”

  “Was a fair replacement but he isn’t good enough to handle this. Everything has been arranged. He is suffering from a diplomatic illness and you will take over.” His voice reflected his strain. “Please, John.”

  “A matter of expediency, Commissioner?”

  “A matter of life and death. Murder and sabotage. Death and sickness and accidents which shouldn’t have happened. The entire base in danger. A mess, John. An ugly mess. I want you to clear it up.”

  The water was too hot and she adjusted the flow, waiting as the temperature fell, examining herself in the mirrored wall of the bathroom as she stood beside the tub. Tall, but not too tall, and rounded in the places which caught and held a man’s attention. Her hair was lustrous, waved, set with almost mechanical precision, a match for the fine-boned face, the neat whiteness of her teeth. Her hands were long, the fingers delicate, the veins blue traces on wrists and tendons. More veins traced lines over the breasts, and the skin of stomach and hips was crêped a little. Tell-tale signs which caused her to frown then, remembering the advice of her beautician, she hastily smoothed her forehead. Cosmetic operations could eliminate wrinkles as they could fat and ugly veins, but it was better to train muscle and emotion to maintain a healthy façade. Even in this, the last year of the century, medicine was unable to work actual magic.

  “John?” She heard the ring, the movement as her maid answered, the closing of the door. “John, is that you?”

  “Yes, Marcia.”

  “You’ll have to wait. I’m about to bathe. Amuse yourself, my dear. I’ll try to hurry.”

  She tried to keep her promise but when finally she went to join him he was sprawled asleep in one of the big, overstuffed chairs an astronomical magazine lying open on the floor beside him. The article, she noted, was one written by Professor Weimbach on the possibility of the Stellar Probe discovering alien life on the world found to be circling Barnard’s Star. In a handful of decades, if all went well, they might know one way or the other, until then they could only speculate.

  As, looking at Koenig’s sleeping figure, Marcia Gilcrest speculated on a totally different matter.

  She was no longer young and, despite cosmetic medicine, was beginning to show it. It was time to settle and think of her future. The new aristocracy was founded in the realm of scientific achievement with real power being wielded by those who once had been limited to the laboratory and academic world. Industry needed technical skills and politicians need industry to back their governmental aspirations. The once-derided long-hairs and egg-heads were now taking their places in the spheres of influence in which she intended to be prominent. Money alone, now, was no longer enough and Koenig would provide the ladder on which she would climb. And, too, he was a very attractive man.

  As she watched he sighed and turned, a little restless, his cheek pressing hard against the leather of the chair, a lock of hair falling across his forehead its thick darkness accentuating the Satanic arch of his brows. A man of early middle-age, lines of character already impressed into the structure of his face, hard bone and firm muscle forming a pattern of determination. The lips were full and betrayed a controlled sensitivity. The nose was long, straight, the nostrils slightly flared. The eyes, she knew, were a deep brown, wide-spaced, the corners meshed with tiny lines which creased in laughter when he smiled.

  He would climb fast and high, she decided. His late command had proved his administrative ability and his qualifications were on record. A dedicated servant of the Space Research Centre, a man to be trusted, one to lead and to be followed—it was only a matter of time before he was elected to the Council.

  “Marcia?” He was awake and looking at her, a vague puzzlement in his eyes. She moved to stand before the light as he straightened in the chair, conscious of the effect it gave to her hair, the aura it cast about her body. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “I took so long, darling.”

  “I was tired.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Simmonds wanted to see me. He claimed it was urgent and I lost sleep in order to travel.”

  “Was it? Urgent, I mean?”

  “Yes, I guess it was.” Then, as she stood waiting for him to elucidate, he said, abruptly, “How much does marrying me mean to you?”

  “John!”

  “That was badly put.” Rising he stretched and drew a deep breath. “What I mean is how important is it to keep to the schedule you’ve worked out?”

  “All the arrangements are made, darling, You know that.” With an effort she maintained her calm. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the question? Has anything happened I should know about? John, answer me! Why did Simmonds send for you? What did he want?” She stiffened as he told her. “Your old command back? You go to the Moon and take over from Gorski? John, are you insane?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If you accept then you will be proving it. Where is your pride? Your sense? You were replaced, John, and Gorski did it. Now you are thinking of going back. Back, John! Don’t you understand? Back! In politics that is fatal. In Administration the same. Accept Simmonds’s offer and you throw away your career!”

  “I’d be on the Moon.”

  “For how long? A year? Two? For long enough to put things right and take the blame if they go wrong?” She turned and stepped across the floor, turning again to approach him, the light now shining directly on her face, accentuating its hardness, its bleak determination. “Don’t be a fool, John. Can’t you see he wants to use you? Accept and do his dirty work, whatever it is, and then what? Fail and it’s the end, succeed and it’s the same. You’ll be replaced again and dropped into obscurity. You can’t stand that happening twice and I certainly don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “Marcia!” He caught her hands and held them as he looked down into her face from his superior height. “It’s an emergency. I’m needed at the base.”

  “Why you?” She answered her own question with a sneer. “You’ve experience, they trust you, they know you, you can stroke them the right way. And you’ve shown what a good, little, obedient boy you really are. God save me from such a fool!”

  He said, flatly, “Is that what you think me to be?”

  “If you go to your precious moon, yes. What can you hope to gain?” Then, as he hesitated, she said, coldly, “But I can tell you what you’re going to lose. Either we marry as planned or we don’t marry at all.”

  “We can marry,” he said. “And you could come with me.”

  “To the Moon?”

  “Why not? There are other women there and Simmonds would give permission.”

  “No, John.” Light reflected in little shimmers from her hair as, decisively, she shook her head. “What would I do there? Make tea for all those drab little females? Arrange coffee mornings? Live cooped up in a collection of air-tight boxes like some animal in a cage? That isn’t for me.” Her voice softened as she pressed against him, one hand lifting to trail its fingers over his cheek. “And it isn’t for you, darling. Let’s fo
rget this stupid quarrel. We’ll be married as we planned and, after the honeymoon—”

  She broke off as his fingers touched her lips.

  “No, Marcia,” he said, gently. “That’s what I really came to tell you. We can’t be married as planned. I’m going to the Moon.”

  Simmonds had given him a day and the last few hours he spent in making final arrangements. His apartment was in a tower-block, the rent including essential services. The Department would maintain his tenancy but other things needed his personal attention. Mrs Amanda Debayo, a grass widow with a husband working on an irrigation project in Africa, gently stroked the fur of the cat Koenig had given her.

  “A fine animal, Mr. Koenig,” she said. “I love cats of all sizes. When I was a little girl my mother used to take me to the zoo to see the lions. Her grandfather had hunted them and she still had a ring made from the mane of a beast which had killed three men. I swear had I been a boy she would have named me Simba.” Lifting the cat she looked into the staring, startled eyes. “That’s what I’m going to call you, puss. Simba. You hear me, now, when you hear that name you come running.”

  “He’ll be no trouble,” said Koenig. “It’s good of you to take him.”

  “Only until you return.”

  “No, for good. It wouldn’t be fair to keep passing him back and forward.” He picked up a parcel standing at his feet beside the bag containing the things he was taking with him. “Here. Maybe you can use these.” He saw her eyes widen as she looked at the contents; gifts he had bought for the bridesmaids. “I won’t be needing them now.”

  With quick instinct she understood and did not embarrass him with effusive thanks. Instead she said, quietly, “I guess in life most things work out for the best. They may not seem so at the time but it usually works out that way.” Then, smiling, she added, “Well, you’ve got a nice day to start your journey. A real nice day for September. I guess you’ll miss the weather on the Moon?”