The Lani People, Jesse F. Bone [best reads TXT] 📗

Kennon reflected, cause a great deal of change in one’s attitude. Although not by nature a plotter, schemes had been flitting through his mind with machinelike regularity, to be examined and discarded, or to be set aside for future reference.

He rejected the direct approach. It was too dangerous, depended too much on personalities, and had too little chance for success. He considered the possibility of letters to the Brotherhood Council but ultimately rejected it. Not only was the proof legally insufficient to establish humanity in the Lani, but he also remembered Alexander’s incredible knowledge of his activities, and there was no reason to suppose that his present didn’t receive the same scrutiny as the past. And if he, who hadn’t written a letter in over a year, suddenly began to write, the correspondence would undoubtedly be regarded with suspicion and would probably be examined, and Dirac messages would be out for the same reason.

He could take a vacation and while he was away from the island he could inform the Brotherhood. Leaving Flora wouldn’t be particularly difficult, but leaving Kardon would be virtually impossible. His contract called for vacations, but it expressly provided that they would be taken on Kardon. And again, there would be no assurance that his activities would not be watched. In fact, it was probable that they would be.

There was nothing that could be done immediately. But there were certain long-range measures that could be started. He could begin preparing a case that could be presented to the Council. And Beta, when it knew, would help him. The situation of the Lani was so close to Beta’s own that its obvious merit as a test case simply could not be ignored. If he could get the evidence to Beta, it would be easy to enlist the aid of the entire Medico-Technological Civilization. It would take time and attention to detail; the case, the evidence, everything would have to be prepared with every safeguard and contingency provided, so that there would not be the slightest chance of a slip-up once it came to court.

And perhaps the best method of bringing the evidence would be to transport it under its own power. The thought intrigued him. Actually it wouldn’t be too difficult. Externally the Egg wasn’t in bad shape. The virtually indestructible durilium hull was still intact. The controls and the engines, hermetically sealed inside the hull, were probably as good as the day they stopped running. The circuitry would undoubtedly be bad but it could be repaired and restored, and new fuel slugs could be obtained for the engine and the converter. But that was a problem for the future.

The immediate problem was to get into the ship in a properly documented fashion.

It took nearly two months, but finally, under the impersonal lenses of cameras and recorders, the entrance port of the God-Egg swung open and revealed the dark interior. Kennon moved carefully, recording every step as he entered the black orifice in the spaceship’s side. His handtorch gave plenty of light for the recorders as he moved inside—Copper at his heels, both of them physically unrecognizable in antiradiation suits.

“Why are we moving so slowly?” Copper said. “Let’s go ahead and find out what’s beyond this passageway.”

“From a superstitious coward you’ve certainly become a reckless explorer,” he said.

“The Egg hasn’t hurt us, and we’ve been around it many times,” she said. “Either the curse has become too old to hurt us, or there never was any in the first place. So let’s see what is ahead. I’m curious.”

Kennon shook his head. “In this business we must hurry slowly—very slowly. You know why.”

“But I want to see.”

“Patience, girl. Simmer down. You’ll see soon enough,” Kennon said. “Now help me set up this camera.”

“Oh, all right—but isn’t there any excitement in you?”

“I’m bubbling over with it,” Kennon admitted, “but I manage to keep it under control.”

“You’re cold-blooded.”

“No—I’m sensible. We want to nail this down. My future, yours, and that of your people depend upon how carefully we work. You wouldn’t want to let us all down by being too eager, would you?”

She shook her head. “No—you’re right of course. But I still would like to see.”

They moved cautiously through the airlock and into the control room.

“Ah!” Kennon said with satisfaction. “I hoped for this, but I didn’t dare expect it.”

“What?”

“Look around. What do you see?”

“Nothing but an empty room. It’s shaped like half an orange, and it has a lot of funny instruments and dials on the walls, and a video screen overhead. But that’s all. Why—what’s so unusual about it? It looks just like someone had left it.”

“That’s the point. There’s nothing essential that’s missing. They didn’t cannibalize the instruments—and they didn’t come back.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe because that curse you mentioned a few minutes ago was real.”

Copper drew back. “But you said it wouldn’t hurt us—”

“Not now. The heat’s practically gone, but when whoever flew this crate came here, the whole shell could have been as hot as a Samarian summer.”

“But couldn’t they have come back when it cooled?”

“Not with this kind of heat. The hull was probably too radioactive to approach from the outside. And radioactivity cools off slowly. It might take several lifetimes for its level to become low enough to approach if there was no decontamination equipment available.”

“I suppose that’s why the early ones thought the Egg was cursed.”

Kennon nodded. “Now let’s check—oh! oh! what’s this?” He pointed to a metal-backed book lying on the control panel.

“It looks like a book,” Copper said.

“I’m hoping it’s the book.”

“The book?”

“Yes—the ship’s log. It’s possible. And if it is, we may have all the evidence we need—Copper!—Don’t touch it!”

“Why not?”

“Because its position has to be recorded first. Wait until we get the camera and recorders set up.”

* * *

Gingerly Kennon opened the ancient book. The sheets inside were brittle—crumbling with age—but he could make out the title U.N.S.S. Wanderer with the date of launching and a lower line which read “Ship’s Log.” Kennon was thankful for his medical training. The four years of Classical English that he had despised so much were essential now. Stumbling over unfamiliar words and phrases, he moved slowly through the log tracing the old ship’s history from pleasure craft to short-haul freight tractor to obsolescence in a space dump orbiting around a world called Heaven.

There was a gap of nearly ten years indicated by a blank page before the