relayed his decision and Mars returned with enthusiasm. “Fine. Do that then. We’ll—”
A new voice roared into the circuit, powerful, overriding their contact. “This is Earth Authority monitoring. We hear you. Mars colony, you have no jurisdiction in this matter. Hunter, here are your orders: you will leave the probe exactly where it is. Do not interfere with anything aboard—we’ll send experts to investigate. Transmit coordinates for locating it. Bear in mind that the probe may be booby-trapped—”
Maurey felt cold sweat trickle under his armpits…they had gone over the alien craft without once thinking of that possibility.
Earth Authority continued: “Do you read us, Hunter? Transmit coordinates now.”
Kennedy switched off, said savagely: “If these bastards get it, we’re no better off.”
Maurey almost laughed. Johns and Kennedy, like the majority of colonists on Mars, wanted a complete break with Earth. They wanted to be self-supporting and run their own lives. They badly needed the advanced technology the probe represented.
Johns sighed. “We can’t take it down now—it would be too easy to find. But here, one of a thousand asteroids, its exact position unknown, we buy time.”
Maurey handed round toasted sandwiches, plastic wrapped. “We’ve still got to eat,” he said, and added casually: “We ought to go through, make contact first.”
Johns started. “You figure it’s safe to operate?”
Kennedy said, “Either it’s safe, or it’s not. I like it.”
“Another world. Instant transportation to all kinds of minerals. We’ll break Earth’s monopoly with one blow.”
Both Johns and Kennedy looked pleased with the idea.
And if its booby-trapped, Maurey thought, so what? A spacer risked his life every time he blasted off. For the jackpot, all it took was one more risk.
“You’re ruled out,” Kennedy told him. “We can’t get down without a pilot. Johns and I will toss for it—whoever wins goes straight through. And back, we hope.”
“Not so fast,” Maurey said, “you’re both forgetting something.”
His imagination raced. First contact with intelligent aliens. What was that worth in terms of fame and fortune? Every newscast in the system would want the story, his story. He could write his own contract on that one. His own ship…he knew he’d never retire.
“I’m captain of Hunter, remember? And I say sleep on it, finish your meal, and rest. You can explore when you’re fresh.”
Johns hesitated, reluctant. “That makes sense, I suppose.”
Kennedy nodded agreement.
Maurey relaxed, dreaming of the big time. What would they be like, the aliens? Was communication possible? What sort of cities, society, technology?
He waited for Kennedy and Johns to sleep. It seemed a long wait. Finally, satisfied that both were sound asleep in their cocoons, he left his seat, suited up and passed through the lock.
He crawled over the rough surface of the alien probe, alone, damping his excitement. At the hatchway, he looked back at Hunter silhouetted against a familiar star field, wondering if he’d see either again. Inside, he went directly to the central compartment, opened the door and looked into the black heart of the crystal room.
He reached out a hand and touched nothing; the crystal glowed and vibrated. Holding his breath, he stepped forward into solid blackness; the hum of vibration went up and up…and he stepped through into a second chamber, a duplicate of the one he’d just left. The door was shut. He tried it and it refused to open.
He got his shoulder to it and leaned with his full weight. It shifted slightly, a crack appeared at the edge, faint light beyond. He heaved again, and again, and the door gave enough for him to squeeze through.
He saw now it was a weight of fine dust that had prevented the door opening easily. A dusty landscape stretched before him, a flat plain. He took a few steps and looked up; the pattern of stars was different—he had crossed to another system.
Maurey stared about him.
An empty landscape, no wind stirred the bleak and desolate plain of dust. He saw the crumbling ruins of a fallen monolith. Silence. A wasting desert as far as he could see, all under a dull red sun.
And he sensed the chance of contact had long passed. The probe had taken so many millions of years to reach the solar system that its makers were now extinct.
WRITER FOR HIRE, by Sydney J. Bounds (Writing as David Somers)
Jerome Gentry stepped briskly out from Uxford station, briefcase under arm, and looked about him. It was his first visit; but publishing houses tended to push farther and farther out from city center. Yet the House of Horror had always been here; originally a small printing shop, now grown to a concrete-and-glass tower dominating the suburban sprawl all around it.
He glanced at the high clock—ten minutes to his appointment—and crossed the road between traffic streams, shuddering, he blocked his mind to that thought. He was no longer a fiction writer creating fantasy, but a journalist taking down fact. Horror after horror was recounted until his writing hand numbed and his brain refused to accept a neat compact man sporting rimless spectacles. He mounted black stone steps and pushed in through swing doors, their glass engraved with a pair of griffin, rampant. Inside, the hall was cool with air-conditioning, the floor tessellated in some fantastic decor. Contemporary, no doubt. He marched straight to the row of lifts, studied names, selected his floor and pressed a button.
He rose swiftly to his first meeting with the managing editor, of the House of Horror. A miniskirted secretary met and ushered him into a carpeted office.
Nicholson, bony, with a brooding cast to his olive-skinned face, sat behind an outsized desk flanked by racks of the books he produced: Nightmare, Creeps, Tales of Terror, each glossed with a sexy cover. They were notorious in the trade, but big sellers. The public lapped them up and Gentry had heard they paid above average for material.
Nicholson, appearing harassed, jumped up to offer a skeletal handshake and a chair. “Glad you’re here, Gentry. I’ve interviewed a number of writers but, judging by your letter, you’re the man for us.”
Gentry up zipped his briefcase and pulled out tear sheets and a couple of photocopies. “The genre has always interested me,” he began—but Nicholson waved him down with scarcely a glance at his samples.
“We’re in a jam and need a writer badly. Our last…well, he’s not available any more. I’m under pressure to produce and the important thing is that you can turn out work fast. I’ll explain our method of working. You don’t need to think up plots. We’ll supply outlines—your job is to put flesh on the bones. Get me?”
“I think I know what you mean.”
After discussing terms, Gentry said: “I’ll give it a try.”
“Fine, fine.” Nicholson reached for a flimsy from among the papers on his desk. “Take this with you, let me see a finished job in two-three days. If it’s what I want, you’re in. Okay?”
Gentry walked on air back to the station. Chances of regular writing work were hard to come by and this, if it panned out, looked like being lucrative. He studied the outline on the way back to his flat so that he was ready to sit down at his PC.
He worked late into the night—living alone with no close relative or regular girl-friend to run a check on him—breaking the story-line down into scenes, building each scene with character and dialogue in a natural background. It went well for him, perhaps because the subject took his fancy. (Nicholson must have a sense of humor: the plot concerned a horror storywriter devoured by one of his own imaginary creations.) Absurd, registered part of Gentry’s mind; yet oddly convincing in its given detail. He found himself caught up in the fantasy as