thinking. But their faces wore the masks of everyday.
Clark, the space construction engineer, clutched a field book in his hand and his face was set and stern. There was no foolishness about Clark…ever.
Anderson, anatomist, big and rough, was lighting up his pipe, and for the moment that seemed, to him, the most important thing in all the world.
Blackburn, the psychologist, frowned at the glowing tip of his cigarette, and Shulcross, the language expert, sprawled sloppily in his chair like an empty sack.
They found something, Adams told himself. They found plenty and some of it has them tangled up.
'Clark,' said Adams, 'suppose you start us out.'
'We looked the ship over,' Clark told him, 'and we found it couldn't fly.'
'But it did,' said Adams. 'Sutton brought it home.'
Clark shrugged. 'He might as well have used a log. Or a hunk of rock. Either one would have served the purpose. Either one would fly just as well as, or better than, that heap of junk.'
'Junk?'
'The engines were washed out,' said Clark. 'The safety automatics were the only things that kept them from atomizing. The ports were cracked, some of them were broken. One of the tubes was busted off and lost. The whole ship was twisted out of line.'
'You mean it was warped?'
'It had struck something,' Clark declared. 'Struck it hard and fast. Seams were opened, the structural plates were bent, the whole thing was twisted out of kilter. Even if you could start the engines, the ship would never handle. Even with the tubes O.K., you couldn't set a course. Give it any drive and it would simply corkscrew.'
Anderson cleared his throat. 'What would have happened to Sutton if he'd been in it when it struck?'
'He would have died,' said Clark.
'You are positive of that?'
'No question of it. Even a miracle wouldn't have saved him. We thought of that same thing, so we worked it out. We rigged up a diagram and we used the most conservative force factors to show theoretic effects…'
Adams interrupted. 'But he must have been in the ship.'
Clark shook his head stubbornly. 'If he was, he died. Our diagram shows he didn't have a chance. If one force didn't kill him, a dozen others would.'
'Sutton came back,' Adams pointed out.
The two stared at one another, half angrily.
Anderson broke the silence. 'Had he tried to fix it up?'
Clark shook his head. 'Not a mark to show he did. There would have been no use in trying. Sutton didn't know a thing about mechanics. Not a single thing. I checked on that. He had no training, no natural inclination. And it takes a man with savvy to repair an atomic engine. Fix it, not rebuild it. And this setup would have called for complete rebuilding.'
Shulcross spoke for the first time, softly, quietly, not moving from his awkward slouch.
'Maybe we're starting wrong,' he said. 'Starting in the middle. If we started at the beginning, laid the groundwork first, we might get a better idea of what really happened.'
They looked at him, all of them, wondering what he meant.
Shulcross saw it was up to him to go ahead. He spoke to Adams:
'Do you have any idea of what sort of place this Cygnian world might be? This place that Sutton went.'
Adams smiled wearily. 'We aren't positive. Much like Earth, perhaps. We've never been able to get close enough to know. It's the seventh planet of 61 Cygni. It might have been any one of the system's sixteen planets, but mathematically it was figured out that the seventh planet had the best chance of sustaining life.'
He paused and looked around the circle of faces and saw that they were waiting for him to go on.
'Sixty-one,' he said, 'is a near neighbor of ours. It was one of the first suns that Man headed for when he left the Solar system. Ever since it has been a thorn in our sides.'
Anderson grinned. 'Because we couldn't crack it.'
Adams nodded. 'That's right. A secret system in a galaxy that held few secrets from Man any time he wanted to go out and take the trouble to solve them.
'We've run into all sorts of weird things, of course. Planetary conditions that, to this day, we haven't licked. Funny, dangerous life. Economic systems and psychological concepts that had us floored and still give us a headache every time we think of them. But we always were able, at the very least, to see the thing that gave us trouble, to know the thing that licked us. With Cygni it was different. We couldn't even get there.
'The planets are either cloud-covered or screened, for we've never seen the surface of a single one of them. And when you get within a few billion miles of the system you start sliding.' He looked at Clark. 'That's the right word, isn't it?'
'There's no word for it,' Clark told him, 'but sliding comes as close as any. You aren't stopped or you aren't slowed, but you are deflected. As if the ship had hit ice, although it would be something slicker than ice. Whatever it is, it doesn't register. There's no sign of it, nothing that you can see or nothing that makes even the faintest flicker on the instruments, but you hit it and you slide off course. You correct and you slide off course again. In the early days, it drove men mad trying to reach the system and never getting a mile nearer than a certain imaginary line.'
'As if,' said Adams, 'someone had taken his finger and drawn a deadline around the system.'
'Something like that,' said Clark.
'But Sutton got through,' said Anderson.
Adams nodded. 'Sutton got through,' he said.
'I don't like it,' Clark declared. 'I don't like a thing about it. Someone got a brainstorm. Our ships are too big, they said. If we used smaller ships, we might squeeze through. As if the thing that kept us off was a mesh or something.'
'Sutton got through,' said Adams, stubbornly. 'They launched him in a lifeboat and he got through. His small ship got through where the big ones couldn't.'
Clark shook his head, just as stubbornly. 'It don't make sense,' he said. 'Smallness and bigness wouldn't have a thing to do with it. There's another factor somewhere, a factor we've never even thought of. Sutton got through all right and he crashed and if he was in the ship when it crashed, he died. But he didn't get through because his ship was small. It was for some other reason.'
The men sat tense, thinking, waiting.
'Why Sutton?' Anderson asked, finally.
Adams answered quietly. 'The ship was small. We could only send one man. We picked the man we thought could do the best job if he did get through.'
'And Sutton was the best man?'
'He was,' said Adams, crisply.
Anderson said amiably, 'Well, apparently, he was. He got through.'
'Or was let through,' said Blackburn.
'Not necessarily,' said Anderson.
'It follows,' Blackburn contended. 'Why did we want to get into the Cygnian system? To find out if it was dangerous. That was the idea, wasn't it?'
'That was the idea,' Adams told him. 'Anything unknown is potentially dangerous. You can't write it off until you are sure. These were Sutton's instructions: Find out if 61 is dangerous.'
'And by the same token, they'd want to find out about us,' Blackburn said. 'We'd been prying and poking at them for several thousand years. They might have wanted to find out about us as badly as we did about them.'
Anderson nodded. 'I see what you mean. They'd chance one man, if they could haul him in, but they wouldn't let a full-armed ship and a full crew get within shooting distance.'
'Exactly,' said Blackburn.
Adams dismissed the line of talk abruptly, said to Clark, 'You spoke of dents. Were they made recently?'
Clark shook his head. 'Twenty years looks right to me. There is a lot of rust. Some of the wiring was getting pretty soft.'
