SEQUENCE

By noon Carston had made his daily inspection circuit of the drome. He had surveyed the commissary, loitered past the new structure that was to house the courts and exchanged a few pleasantries with the sergeant of the constabulary. He had checked the oxygen and humidity gauges on the big board outside the power building. And he had climbed to the drome’s Central Observation Platform within the quartz bubble, where he stood now, gazing out at the incredible landscape of Nida 255.

A jigsaw pattern of tumbled monolithic rocks in a myriad of pastel colors stretched before him as far as he could see. Off to the left where the rock formations descended into a low bluish plain, a mass of girders and steel ribs crouched like some huge spider—all that was left of the Centauria. As Carston looked at the dismantled space ship now, a wave of repugnance swept over him.

Ten years! Ten years he had spent in that ugly hulk while it had bored through space, crossing the incalculable distances from Earth to this planet. He had lived perhaps an eighth of his life imprisoned with two thousand others in a man-constructed projectile that was such a leviathan not even he nor his officers had completely explored its galleries, its courts, its corridors, its great hydroponic growing chambers.

But success, such as it was, could partially be claimed theirs. They had reached this new System and they had landed on Nida 255, not because conditions were ideal—they were far from that—but because the planet was on the outer fringe of the unknown. Beyond lay mystery. Here they could establish a base for deeper exploration, and here they would perhaps be sighted by the next vessel from Earth, if one ever came.

Carston prided himself that his company of two thousand had accomplished a lot since their landing five months ago. First and foremost, they had erected this huge drome over the settlement, protecting themselves against the outside rarified atmosphere and the fierce herds of two legged goat-like creatures that seemed to migrate constantly from one pole to the other. Second they had maintained their social structure without a hitch. Five marriages, one divorce, three petty crimes—all had been settled, including an election of minor officials, in as smooth a procedure as if they had been still back on Earth. Within the drome, houses had been built, streets laid out, shrubbery planted. But at a cost!

Material for the drome had been obtained by ologizing a form of igneous rock that was abundant on the planet and spinning it into a film-like composition that slowly hardened when exposed to light. The superstructure that was required to support this huge envelope, however, had to be taken from their ship, the Centauria. It had meant dismantling the vessel, and it had meant burning their last bridge behind them. They were marooned on Nida 255 now, for better or for worse.

A buzzer sounded abruptly and a light glowed on a small panel at Carston’s side. He pushed a stud and watched the view panel illuminate with the likeness of young Stewart who was on duty at East Tower. Stewart had been a lad of eleven playing hand ball in the upper galleries when the Centauria had started its voyage. Now he was a fine strapping young man of twenty-one. It didn’t seem possible…

“Yes?” Carston spoke into the disc.

“Hello, Davis, you old walrus. How’s tricks? Hourly report. Stewart speaking.”

Carston smiled. “Davis isn’t here,” he said. “I gave him temporary relief. This is Captain Carston.” He switched on his own reflector screen.

There was a pause and Stewart’s face grimaced in embarrassment at his blunder. “Oh, beg pardon, sir. I didn’t…”

“All right, Stewart,” Carston smiled again. “Go on with your report. I’ll take it.”

“Yes, sir. East Tower 12:15. Visibility…five. Sectors one, two, three, and four…okay. Probascope reading: zero-zero.”

“All right, Stewart,” acknowledged Carston. “I’ll record it. Yes, what’s wrong?”

On the panel, the young watch-officer’s face showed some anxiety. “If you please, sir, I’d like to have someone take my place for a few hours. My eyes have been bothering me a bit, sir.”

“Scanner strain?”

“I don’t think so. I seem to see streamers of white light, little pin points, that is. It’s probably only a temporary condition.”

Carston personally gave the order for Stewart’s relief, and then sat there a moment, frowning. At twelve thirty West Tower reported in, and Carston recorded it as he had Stewart’s. When the watch-officer had finished, Carston asked:

“How’re your eyes, McIver?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then: “Now that you mention it, sir, they’ve been giving me a little trouble. Little streaks of light. I expect it will pass shortly.”

By now Carston’s worst fears were realized, and he went into action at once. He pulled over the mike of the P. A. system, and an instant later heard his voice go resounding over the entire drome-settlement.

“Attention! It is quite possible we are being observed by enemy craft. I want each one of you to remain calm but be ready for any emergency. The settlement is now under martial law and will remain so until further orders from Central Tower.”

Twice he repeated this statement, then clicked off the mike and glanced at the general view screen. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction to see that his orders had produced no hysteria. Like a well-oiled machine the settlement dropped its civil routine and geared itself for the unexpected.

Carston remained in Central Tower three hours more, watching the wan daylight cast by Nida’s distant sun slowly fade. With the coming of darkness he went down the lift to the street level, and walked the short distance to his quarters. He had left word to be called at the first sign of any trouble, but what sort of trouble did he expect? He had said ‘enemy craft’ but he had used that expression for mundane rationalization only. They were on the brink of the unknown. Who could tell what cosmic horrors lay out there? Or had he suddenly become over-cautious?

At eleven fifty-two a call from Central Tower brought him to that watch post on the double. He arrived to find Williamson, the night watch officer in a state of tense excitement.

“We spotted them, sir, but so far there’s only one ship. That is, I guess you could call it a ship. It’s an odd looking disc with a cylinder-like midsection and at intervals it gives off a powerful light.”

Carston looked through the probascope, and for a moment saw nothing but black sky and the myriads of stars that paraded through it. Then a lighter shadow focused itself in his vision, advancing toward him slowly it seemed, but at a rate which he could not even estimate.

“Where do you suppose they’re from?” Williamson asked nervously.

Carston said nothing. He was thinking, curiously, of his home back on Earth and the sunlit mornings he had tramped down a dusty road with the call of a meadowlark sounding in his ears. He was thinking of green fields and red-roofed houses and the fragrant honey locust trees in blossom. Williamson’s voice cut into his reverie.

“They’re heading directly toward us, sir.”

“Light the landing platter,” Carston ordered. “Full power. Light all tower beacons.”

One look at the powerful ship had convinced him that the settlement’s defenses—two comparatively small ato-guns taken from the dismantled Centauria, one weakened warp-impinger—were inadequate and a bold move of welcoming the stranger the only alternative.

But somehow as he waited for the ship to acknowledge his signal, his mind kept reverting to the past. Ten years ago he had not had to face any emergencies such as this. He was a military man, yes, but a military man retired from active service at the age of thirty-two because of a bad left arm, caused ironically, by a fall down a flight of stairs. Then had come the Centauria and a recommendation for him to command by his old friend, Senator Stanley. His jaw tightened suddenly. He didn’t intend to lose everything now that the project was on the verge of accomplishment. He would use trickery, cunning, diplomacy, everything at his command, if the approaching craft were hostile, and somehow he would…he must…win out.

And now the strange ship had checked its forward impetus and was hovering just above them. Gently as a falling leaf, it descended to the landing platter and came to a standstill. A drum-shaped object protruded from a trap on the side and slowly revolved while a diffused red light gleamed above it.

“Testing us for something,” mused the Captain. “Perhaps they’ll attack without coming out.”

Presently, however, the hatch opened, a ladder was slung over the side and two figures climbed down. They were heavily encased in queer-shaped space suits with rectangular helmets. Carston, staring in the glare of the white lights, could not be sure whether or not the two figures were human, though they seemed man-size with four appendages. Three more figures climbed out, and then the five began to move slowly, cautiously across the platter to the drome entrance chamber.

Not until then did Carston leave his post. He rode down the lift quickly and hurried across to the drome-side door. Before entering, he touched a lever on a panel, saw a dull-surfaced metal wall roll across from one side to the other effectively dividing the room into two parts. That wall was constructed of the new aluminum alloy that would permit him to see and hear everything on the opposite side of that wall and yet remain invisible to the strangers, as well as safe from any weapon discharge. He took his place in the chair behind the metal desk and waited.

A moment later the five strangers entered the chamber on the other side of the wall. They remained standing, one slightly in advance of the others. Their helmets presented a solid metal surface completely hiding their features. Carston reached out, pulled over the thought transcriber on its bracket and began to direct his thoughts into it.

“You are on an inhabited planet. As commanding officer of this settlement, I bid you welcome. Will you please state your mission and where you are from.”

He was following the Spaceways Manual to the letter, following the paragraph which read: In contacting any form of alien life suspected of not previously being in contact with Earthians, reveal as little about yourself as possible but attempt to elicit at once such information as will enable you to appraise those aliens with a view to a common ‘esprit de corps’.

But the leader of the strangers was likewise noncommittal. The transcriber recorded his reply,

“We have lost our way and are not sure of our present position. What planet is this and to what race do you belong?”

“Do you come from far?” Carston parried.

“From far and near. Our origin is far out in space. Will you reveal yourself, sir?”

“Where?” Carston persisted.

The strangers bent their heads together, held a consultation. At last the helmeted leader looked up. Slowly the transcriber recorded his answer.

“We come from a planet called Earth.”

Earth! A pulse began to throb in Carston’s temple. He stared at the transcriber, half rose in his chair while beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. So the cycle was complete. Not one but two ships had crossed the trackless void. The expedition could now be considered a success from all angles. Carston reached toward the panel at his side. Move back that damned wall and greet your fellow men with the warmth and hospitality they deserved. Shake their hands! Clap their backs! …But wait…!

Earthmen wore no such outlandish space suits, did not build queer disc-shaped ships like that one out on the platter. Another paragraph in the Manual came back to him. In contacting aliens always establish positive identity and beware of false claims of origin. Cases have been known where outlanders learning of conditions on Earth, have attempted to pose as inhabitants of our System. All at once Carston’s brain became crystal clear, and he weighed the facts and sought the truth. The Centauria had landed here but five months ago. At the time of their departure from Earth no other ship capable of making such a voyage had been in process of construction. On the other hand the strangers had all the attributes of Earthmen in spite of their shapeless suits.

Far back in Carston’s mind an impossible thought began to whisper for recognition. He turned to the transcriber again.

“Your place of departure on the planet, Earth, of which you speak… It has a name?”

“Carstonville,”

Cold sweat bathed the Captain from head to foot.

“Your date of departure?” he demanded.

“July sixth, just forty-nine days ago. Our ship is equipped with the new Ganlor Drive, of course, or this speed would not have been possible.”

Behind the metal desk Carston was staring with glazed eyes. A mirthless laugh sounded in his throat.

“Ten years…” he muttered hoarsely. “Ten years…”