Chapter IV

Rolf turned, tight-lipped, from the communicator panel and said, “_Crehut_, a video white-out. They’re either cripped or dead!”

Lynne said, “What are you going to do?” In the confusion of bringing the ship in, she was unable to sort out the mental messages she was receiving. But she got a wild impression of thoughts and emotions, transcending anything human. It was like being inside some immeasurably vast, utterly lunatic cathedral.

“I’m going to land right beside those other ships--if I don’t go crazy first,” said Rolf. He had to speak aloud, just as Lynne did, because in the turmoil of telepathic disturbance it was impossible to select and tune personal thoughts.

It was a rocky landing, since the apparently level ground proved to be dangerously uneven as they settled down upon it. But although the ship rocked in heart-stopping fashion, he finally got it steady on its pintels and mopped sweat from his brow. For a long moment, he sat before the control panel, letting the strain leave him.

With the thrum of the engines silent, Lynne became aware of another steady pulse of power--unheard, for its pitch was far too great for human eardrums. Her mind seemed to burst with visions of the planets, of the stars, of distant nebulae and galaxies, interspersed with unheard paeans of indescribably magnificent music, of concepts of such surpassing beauty, of such dread and terror and love and ugliness and sheer passion that, inevitably, Lynne found herself recalling Mr. Mole, in Kenneth Grahame’s archaic but still-loved _Wind in the Willows_, when that little animal heard the magic Pipes of Pan and found their song beyond his limited ken.

“I must be mad,” she told Rolf.

He said, “You and I both, _vinral_. But if we both get it, we must be sane. What in _purt_ do you suppose it is?”

Lynne tried to put it into words. “It’s like--like--It’s far beyond anything we’ve ever encountered.”

Rolf got up and told her, “Come on--let’s find out what’s going on. This is like being caught inside an old-fashioned circus calliope going full blast.”

He crossed the tiny cabin, almost floating in the light gravity of the satellite, opened a locker and got a couple of heavy-duty space-suits. It was the first time Lynne had seen such an outfit save in vidar entertainments and, by the time Rolf had locked her into it, she felt like a cross between an Egyptian mummy and a deep-sea diver of several centuries before. It was hot and her nose itched and there was no way to scratch it. But the heavy composition of the suit mercifully blacked out some of the radiant alien messages that had been overwhelming her thoughts.

They rode lightly to the surface on the external elevator, and Lynne’s impression of appalling desolation was reinforced when she looked at the scenery about her from ground-level. Callisto was a nightmare moon for anyone conditioned to the inner planets. The great curving bulk of Jupiter was shadowed but light reflected from its large inner moons made its appalling, ominous immensity all too evident. It looked as if it were going to fall on her and crush her to death.

A couple of heavy-space-suited figures emerged from one of the two big ships a half-kilometer away and slowly descended on an exterior elevator. Rolf, speaking into his suit-mike, said, “Hello there--are you from Earth?”

Lynne staggered under the force of a mental blow that threatened to black her out as Rolf spoke. From the plain beyond the shelter of the rock revetment behind which they had landed, came a sudden lavender flash, followed by a rolling roar. The two space-suited figures beckoned to them and she found herself running clumsily toward them. Moments later, they were being taken aboard the larger ship.

Inside, in the compression chamber, suits were removed and a coarse-haired, pale-faced, young-old man said, “Welcome to headache satellite. I’m Lieutenant Patrick Suzuki, commandant pro tem of what’s left to Callisto Mission. Who are you?”

Rolf explained, adding “I must add that we are unauthorized.”

The lieutenant swore amiably, and added, “Never mind the red tape. Thank the gods of my ancestors you’re here.” He went on to explain that they were completely cut off from communication with the outside. “If we put on any circuit, we draw another blast. One more and the revetment may go and bury us. We can’t leave, we can’t send for help. We wouldn’t dare let anyone else land if we could get to them.”

“What’s the cause of your trouble?” Lynne asked him, glancing around her at the unshaven faces and informal attire of the Earthmen in the big ship’s wardroom, to which they had adjourned after removing their heavy space-suits.

She received impressions of boredom, of controlled fright, of lust toward herself. For the moment, the overpowering entity, whatever it was, was not blanketing all thought, though the pulse of its power never ceased.

Suzuki told them. Callisto had been placed under strict E.I.A. restriction because of the discovery upon that satellite, by geologists of the first expedition to reach her, of a rare new element whose properties promised to outdo any of the radioactives.

“It’s right out there,” he added, gesturing toward the plain. “Right on the surface. We didn’t want to risk an interplanetary rush. So E.I.A. sealed off the satellite and sent Callisto Mission out to make further study and begin test mining operations.”

Listening to him, Lynne wondered why so many otherwise human and reasonably slangy young officials fell into the jabberwocky jargon of government reports once they began discussing their business. It was, she decided, drilled into them during their schooling, a sort of illiterate but precise articulateness.

The element lay over most of the plain, an area of seven square kilometers, much of it right on the surface. It was, Suzuki said, “of a sort of opalescent yellow, soft to the touch despite the cold here. It looked like all we’d have to do was inaugurate operations, take samples and return to home base.”

Proceeding methodically under the leadership of Wing Officer Arthur Mitropoulos, Callisto Mission had set up camp on the plane, right over the mine it intended to open. On the “morning” operations were to begin, Suzuki and the maintenance crew had been alerted to stand by to relay messages to base from the ships. Then had come the blast--utterly destroying camp and machinery and all the men in it.

“We tried to send an S.O.S.,” he concluded, “and were blasted again. Three more times it happened. So we put out the fuel cans and sat tight. Frankly, we’re stumped. We don’t know what to do next.”

Within the metal skin of the ship, Lynne and Rolf could exchange telepathic messages, but it would be impossible to send one out through space with enough power to reach Mars or any possible rescue ship that might be winging its way toward Callisto. Lynne thought, _What about our suits? They didn’t feel like metal._

Rolf’s reply came, _Good_ ZWIRCHY _girl! Maybe we can do it._

When they explained their plan to Suzuki, he shook his head in wonder and said, “I’ve heard of Martian telepathy but I never thought I’d be using it. Do you think it’s safe?”

Rolf said, “We’re following up a telepathic disaster on Mars, induced by this super-monster you’ve found. But as long as we don’t beam our thoughts on it, I think we’ll be all right. Besides, operating in relay, it’s not likely to get both of us.”

_You hope_, Lynne telepathed and received a mental image of fingers firmly crossed.

A half-hour later, she and Rolf stood again on the frozen atmosphere of the big satellite. Again Lynne’s nose itched infuriatingly, but this time she soon forgot her discomfort and she and Rolf linked minds and began sending to Nampura Depot. Around them, the appalling crescendo of unearthly thoughts and dreams rolled disturbingly, making concentration next to impossible.

They tried and failed, then tried again--and again. And, finally, they got _Nampura Depot, Mars, Fenlay. Who are you?_

_Callisto Mission calling, Marcein and Fenlay. Hello Revere._

They were through--and without being blasted. Rolf gave Lynne’s telepathic twin brother the message, stating the conditions on the satellite and asking that rescue ships stand clear until the situation was remedied. He concluded with, _Relay to E.I.A. Headquarters. And stand by for further messages._

Signing off, Revere sent a, _Luck, Lynne--and Rolf. We’ll be here, standing by. Over and out._

They went back to Suzuki’s ship, lest further message sending cause another blast. There, Lynne telepathed Rolf, _Did you feel it--something else, something not alien?_

CREHUT, _now that you mention it._ Rolf turned to Suzuki, said, “Did any of your power instruments survive the blast, Lieutenant?”

Suzuki looked at one of his technicians, a bearded, copper-skinned man called MacDougald. Macdougald scratched his head and said, “I don’t see how--unless the Sodium generator escaped. They buried it pretty deep. And they must have had it on. And once it’s on, nothing but a flip of the switch will turn it off for centuries.”

“Why do you ask?” Suzuki wanted to know.

Rolf and Lynne exchanged quick thoughts and Rolf said, “Because both of us received an impression that this element--this alien force--is suffering an unbearable irritation, which is amplified whenever any sort of power is turned on nearby. It’s--well, it reminds us of some sort of vegetable poisoning that can be stepped up to agony.”

“We’ve got plenty of vegetable poisoning on Callisto, unlikely as it sounds,” said Suzuki. “The verdant stuff is latent all over the place. Goldberg nearly died of it.” He nodded toward a red-headed man whose forearms were swathed in plastibands. “The heat of our operations restored some of the stuff to virulence.”

“Preventive shots no good?” Lynne asked sympathetically. Goldberg said, “They worked for the others, but not for me. It’s the worst itch I’ve ever had.” He winced.

Rolf brought the conversation back on the beam. He said, “This element you’ve discovered is definitely superhuman mentally and emotionally. And it can and does kill when irritated. The picture we get is that here on Callisto it’s been left exposed on the surface and is sensitive to certain irritations. If your Sodium generator is an irritation, it’s got to be turned off before any of us can leave or any relief ship can land safely. Let me see a plan of the generator.”

_What do you mean--here on Callisto?_ Lynne telepathed. _Do you think it exists anywhere else?_

_I don’t know--and don’t bother me_, was the reply, as Rolf bent over the blueprint MacDougald produced from a cupboard. He scanned it, scowling, then flashed a picture to Lynne, showing the generator, where it was buried, where the switch was that alone could turn it off. _Lynne, do you feel strong enough to try it?_ he asked silently.

Lynne knew what he meant. On Earth, with its dense atmosphere and metallic atmosphere vapors telepathy was almost unknown. On Mars, where the air was thinner and purer, it flourished but other telekinetic powers were weak and incapable of being controlled. Here on Callisto, with no atmosphere save what was frozen solid underfoot, there was just a chance.... Perhaps, if they worked together, they could exert sufficient psychic power to turn the switch and put the super-entity out of its misery.

_Why doesn’t it turn the_ FARBISH _thing off itself?_ Lynne telepathed.

_Did you ever hear of any creature, however advanced, removing an alien object from its own brain?_ was the quick response. And somehow Lynne knew Rolf was right. It was going to be up to them.

_We’ll have to keep cover behind the revetment_, she replied, _in case we fumble at first and our friend starts blasting again._

Rolf asked that they be left alone in the compression chamber for a bit. And there they practiced on small objects--a stencil-recorder, a gravity-weight, a set of earphones. It was the hardest kind of work but, even within the metal shell of the ship, they were able at first, by linking up in the tightest of combinations and willing as one, to move aimlessly, then to attain control over the objects and move them about at will, even to lift them briefly from the deck.

Exhausted, they rested, sitting close together on the floor of the chamber, their backs against the wall. And Rolf said, “We’ve got to do a lot better before we can risk a real trial. If we’re wrong--or if we make a mistake....” He let it hang there.

Lynne nodded. Like him, she was too mentally exhausted for telepathy. She said, “I wish I weren’t telepathic. I wish nobody were telepathic. Then none of this would have happened.”

He nodded and told her, “I suppose Columbus wished he’d never tried to cross the Atlantic when his men threatened mutiny. I suppose Henry Condon felt the same way when his spaceship broke down on the first trip to the Moon. I _know_ we’ve all felt that way at times on Mars when things looked bad. But feeling that way isn’t going to save those poor devils upstairs. And it won’t get us off Callisto.”

“I know,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “Let’s go on up and tell them we’re making progress.”

As Rolf helped Lynne to her feet, he said, “Actually, you know, we’ve done amazingly well.”

Lynne lost track of time as she and Rolf slept and practiced, slept and practiced, sheltered from the wrath of the strange entity beyond the rock revetment by the metal skin of the E.I.A. ship. At times, especially when she was tired or distracted, it seemed as if they were never going to master telekinesis at a distance. Staying in the ship, they were sorely limited. But they dared not test outside lest their efforts add to the entity’s irritation and cause it to strike back with renewed fury.

They did not even dare risk another message to Mars.

Finally, when Lynne found herself able to move objects about in the control cabin, abetted by Rolf’s mind-power, she said, “Well, what do you think?”

Rolf nodded and directed a thought at her. _It’s got to be after our next rest period_, VINRAL. _We can’t just sit here forever._

* * * * *

Upstairs, in the cabin, they worked out final plans with Suzuki. He and Goldberg and half the crew were to stay put, while MacDougald and the rest of the E.I.A. survivors were to move to the other expeditionary ship.

“That way,” Rolf suggested, “your chances of getting one ship back will be doubled in case something goes wrong.”

“Got you,” said Suzuki matter-of-factly. “Here, have some of the panktosteak. Cook’s outdone himself on the sauce.”

The atmosphere as they ate what might be their their final meal together was almost gay. After the long period of inactive confinement, the E.I.A. men were welcoming the prospect of a change of condition--even if the change were death. Reading their thoughts, Lynne felt proud to be a human. She had never quite believed in heroes before--they had seemed buried so far back in a pre-scientific human past--yet here she was, with a whole group of them.

Rolf’s thought reached her. _You’re not doing so badly yourself_, VINRAL--and she turned her face toward the wall as her cheeks grew hot.

To her surprise, she slept, and dreamt she was back on Earth, working at the brain-station with her teammates. And then Rolf was awakening her and, after a silent handshake with Suzuki, she was clambering into a heavy space-suit once more. Then, again, she and Rolf were treading on frozen atmosphere, the two of them alone this time, moving slowly along the base of the jagged revetment until they were a good kilometer away from the other ships. Again Lynne’s nose itched unbearably, and this time the itching seemed to be spreading, to include other parts of her body. She had to force herself to ignore it completely.

_Good girl!_ Rolf approved her effort. _Here, I think we’ve gone far enough. Here goes...._

They stood clear of the gaunt rock wall, against the chance of falling fragments, and Lynne looked at the twin tall spires of the E.I.A. ships and at the shorter, stubbier vessel, a half-kilometer beyond them. Then they put their minds as one on the Sodium generator, lying beneath the surface of the plain amid the flattened E.I.A. sheds.

They concentrated with all of their newly-awakened telekinetic power on the switch a few centimeters to the left of the main control panel. And they thought fiercely. Lynne could feel a gathering storm of alien irritation. Thoughts of cathedrals were replaced by hideous concepts of suns exploding into novae, of planets burning to ash.

Then Lynne felt the switch move slightly under the force of the mental shaft she and Rolf were directing upon it. Instantly, she almost blacked out under the countering wave of black anguish that threatened to blanket her thoughts. She wavered, felt for Rolf’s mind, found it. She drew strength from it, felt it push with hers against the switch, felt the switch move further, further, then all the way to _off_--just as a tremendous blast of leviathan outrage knocked her flat on the frozen atmosphere while the rim of the revetment above was seared and shattered by an appalling blast of purple power.

Then the mental pressure was gone, and the pulsing retreated to a soft throb that was almost a purr. There was no gratitude. The entity, whatever it was, had far outgrown such puerile emotion. But the physical turmoil its reaction had created was far from over.

Even as Lynne watched, the rock revetment crumbled from the force of the blow it had received. She felt mounting horror as huge pieces of rock broke off in a mounting torrent that fell without sound in the airless void about them. She saw one of the E.I.A. ships struck and sent toppling on its side, the other’s nose shattered by a grey, wedgelike piece of stone.

Then she and Rolf were tumbling, leaping toward the ships. It was a time of terror, though the source of the terror was under control once more. Frantically, they tugged at the rocks about the toppled ship, seeking to clear the emergency doorway. _Poor Suzuki! Poor Goldberg!_ she thought and Rolf’s thoughts seconded hers.

“Here--let us use the instruments.” The voice came through the earphones, not her mind. Shaken, she looked around to see a trio of space-suited figures behind her, carrying odd-looking instruments. It was MacDougald and the crew of the other E.I.A. ship.

A half-hour, Mars-time, and they had cut their way into the toppled ship. Lynne had to fight against being physically sick inside her spacesuit at what they found. Suzuki and his four-man crew were dead. The ship had been splintered as she fell and their bodies had burst in the airlessness.

When the mess had been cleaned up and they were back at the other E.I.A. ship, MacDougald revealed his Gaelic practicality when he told them, “You did a good job--you licked it. I’m sorry about Suzuki, but he knew what the odds were. We all do. I had one of the men look at your little ship and she’s all right. You’d better be getting the lady back to Mars, Mr. Marcein.”

“But what about you? This ship of yours is in no shape to take off,” Rolf protested.

“Thanks to you, help is on the way,” said MacDougald. Then, eyeing Lynne keenly, “You’d better get the lady off Callisto.”