The white rain came
Then the frozen sweeps of Callisto were flattening out beneath them,
its frozen air lying in great white drifts in the Moonlike chasms
between the jagged peaks that splintered the horizon on every hand.
It was, Lynne thought, the most desolate sight she had ever seen. She
turned away, shuddering, from the screen, only to be recalled by an
urgent thought-summons from Rolf.
They were over one of the satellite’s few comparatively level surface
areas--and approximately in its center was an unmistakable Earthmen’s
camp--or what had been an Earthmen’s camp! It looked as if it had
been flattened out by a tremendous blow with the heel of some giant
hand. Only a pair of spaceships, sheltered behind a natural craggy
embankment, seemed to have survived intact. And on the frozen air
of the planet, close alongside the desolation, the letters SOS were
spelled out with empty fuel tins.
“Looks as though maybe I followed the right hunch coming out here after
all--with or without E.I.A. authorization,” said Rolf.
Lynne said nothing--she was too scared to talk.
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