The Phobos Transcripts by Cherry Wilder

The dispossessed of this Earth yearn for a home. If an intelligent entity were dispossessed of a body as well as a planet would not the yearning for communication with old friends, the personal awareness of another mind, become intolerable? No one knows what space holds for the future. The exploration of space has often been likened to the exploration of the seas, and many and wonderful were the tall tales brought back from the far oceans. Even from so close a fellow world in the ocean of space as Mars, and his satellite Phobos, this tall tale would be looked at with scepticism by the official mind - and with credence enough to take comfort from the thought of a covenant.

* * * *

Quentin D. Thomas, MD., DSM., PhD (Columbia)

Director of Psychological Testing and Studies,

Sheppard Rehabilitation Centre,

Department of Space Medicine,

Houston, Texas

to

Air Commodore Margaret A. Voss, MA (Princeton)

Assistant Director of Public Relations,

United States Space Service,

Washington, DC.

... You'll find my reports on the file, Margot, but I want to make a few of the more important points over again in this covering letter. There has been too damned much speculation and gossip in the service about the so-called 'Phobos transcripts'. Before long ... certainly when Morris receives his medical discharge.. .the public will get hold of the story.

I am enclosing copies of all the relevant statements and tests in this file, including recent film of the site, taken by a local reconnaissance team from Marsport, and a strip of video tape showing the alleged fight. I'd like to make two things quite clear: I consider the whole experience as detailed by Erikson and Morris entirely subjective and hallucinatory triggered off by the delirious outbursts of Gale. Secondly: there is no question of conscious deception on the part of John Gale. There is nothing in the three short speeches transcribed from tape that could not emanate from the mind of a young space crewman, nourished I'm sure on Sci-Fi cassettes and even books.

There is no need to postulate for one moment an 'alien' intelligence. Cases come to mind from last century: Bridie Murphy, not to mention the lad on the 'Jet-Propelled Couch.' Most striking of all is the resemblance to the Elvira Wyatt humbug of the nineties. The only remarkable thing about the Phobos transcripts is that they were obtained under service conditions on a satellite... if three farmers in Arkansas had told the same story they'd be laughed out of court!

You must also consider that these men, along with the twelve service personnel on the mothership, were under 'stress of time and distance' ... a space probe of eighteen months.

In Gale's monologues notice the lofty tone, the archaic, not to say biblical turn of phrase, the latin base for the proper nouns. Certainly the young man's mind has hidden depths; we need look no further than his personal background. His father, G. H. B. Gale, is an emeritus professor of Anthropology, living in Perth, Western Australia; his mother writes verse. The actual transcription from tape was done first by John Gale, then independently by myself ... the spelling of 'alien' names was the same.

* * * *

TRICLAMADAN to the lost entities of the Four Worlds, Greeting! This is a crude and practical tongue not more than two thousand years old. It is rich in metaphor... I speak a tongue, I speak with a tongue, a differentiated fleshy member, strung in the mouthpiece of this skull. I have encountered this speech and others like it several times since their inception. The brain size of this species has not altered but the physique has improved and the technology has, I admit, grown up like grass. In many respects they resemble the Moruia of Torin but the Moruia are more innocent. The Men of Earth have music to their credit and number and some simple systems of communication.

Last time I greeted you, my friends, it was in the great reading 6,700 degrees, in the galactic reading Amfur to the seventh; it was 169 degrees 46 minutes below the apex of the orbit of an un-named planet... un-named by us, these cautious travellers call it Uranus. I am shuttling about, as you perceive, in and out of this distant galaxy. I do not know when I will have a voice again. But time is our special treasure, our ocean, our tide, our solace, our perpetual meditation, and I am content in time to take what time brings to me. I am Triclamadan; waking I speak; I recall, I bear in me the marvellous certainties, the lights and sounds of the Four Worlds. Message discontinued but not ended.

* * * *

In the moment before the thrust roared Morris sat forward, straining at his seat belt.

'Hear that?' he said.

Erikson listened but he could hear nothing unusual: nothing loose, no channels open; then as he picked up a faint trace of sound the rockets roared. Both men were set back into their recliner chairs. He shouted to Morris through his chest mike

'What did you hear?'

Morris shouted back

'Nothing... some kind of vibration, maybe.'

The shuttle grated on rock and bumped, with the broken strut taking hold. The emergency landing was a hazardous procedure in such a light craft but both men were experienced. They had been in each other's company for eighteen months, crew members of a distance probe.

Theta Nebraska swung in space like a loose blimp not more than 5000 kilometres away; all systems going, going gone. The rest of the crew were waiting, suited up, as the residual air grew thinner. Erikson and Morris were on a rescue mission, taking the shuttle into Marsport. They had other freight: John Gale, the youngest crew member, measuring his stuporous length in the cramped shuttle cabin. Slight concussion and a broken collar-bone.

Erikson thought of the boy and loosened his straps.

'Might have been Johnny talking.' He said.

'I'll take a look.' said Morris.

Erikson was already working his way aft.

'Wait!' said Morris. 'He'll keep, won't he?'

Erikson didn't like Morris. He had worked with him closely and well on the probe mission but he still couldn't stand the guy and remarks like that had something to do with it.

'The kid is in bad shape,' he said.

'So are we!' snapped Morris. 'Take a look. Have you got out of position on this goddamned hunk of rock?'

'Phobos.' said Erikson.

He brought up their position on the console and opened the scanner. Outside it was dark as crude oil; the beam from the scanner showed a patch of grey sand, a rock, another rock...

'They had a mess of satellite retrieval gear about four kilometres south ...' said Erikson. 'Place ain't much bigger than a satellite itself.'

Morris was jumpy. 'If we can't make contact with Mars-port we'll rot here.'

'We'll make contact.'

'Some rescue mission...' Morris peered into the oily darkness. 'Why the hell did we have to draw shuttle duty!'

'Quit griping!' growled Erikson. 'Start checking for that fuel blockage. I'll see to Johnny.'

Morris ran a hand over his forehead and over the bristles of his crewcut in a gesture that Erikson had seen a hundred times. He choked down his unreasoning dislike of the man; Morris worked well, he was a first-class maintenance engineer even if he beefed all the time. Erikson edged past the grey hump of the LSS housing and slid open the cabin door.

Johnny was quiet. Erikson felt a surge of helpless anxiety when he saw the kid flat out on the steel cot but he told himself firmly that Johnny would make it. There was a fairly heavy routine sedation for shock that held him comatose. Liz Marshall, the MO, had sent Johnny on the shuttle to avoid foul air, but the real danger was still shock. 'Relatively minor injuries sustained during distant service,' whispered the manual, 'may result in death from delayed shock ...' Erikson himself had seen a Lieutenant Navigator on one of the Russian ships die at his console in minutes three weeks after he suffered a broken wrist.

John Gale's colour seemed better, his breathing more normal in the clear air of the shuttle. His right arm and shoulder were in a casein sling and now Erikson saw that be had freed his left hand from the restraining straps on the cot. His fingers rested easily on the communication panel as if he had been calling them on the intercom. Strange lights winked from the panel; Johnny's fumbling fingers had locked into a weird range of frequencies, plus voice transmission and record. Erikson smiled as he switched off.

Yet the idea of a sick man talking at random to the depths of space made him queasy. Erikson squeezed his eyes shut for a second: this was no time to show strain; Trant and Liz and the others were waiting back there ... he had to complete the mission. He flexed his muscles and stared around at the tiny cabin, looking for comfort, for hope where there was none, only the walls of regulation aqua. He saw that Johnny had opened his eyes.

'Hey there!' he said cheerily. 'Johnny?'

Johnny was not himself, Erikson could see that, but his eyes were alert.

'Where?' the whisper was clear.

'In the shuttle, man...' explained Erikson. 'We're taking you in to Marsport.'

'What do you call this place?' Johnny stared fixedly at Erikson.

'Phobos.' Erikson admitted. He filled him in a little about Theta, the rescue mission, and added: 'So we're down on Phobos, one of the moons, with a fuel link problem.'

'Is that a Greek word?

'What? Oh sure. Phobos is a Greek word, I guess.'

'What fuel does this craft use?'

'Lithium!' replied Erikson, surprised. Johnny had certainly drawn a blank with the fall and the sedation.

Then his suit speaker crackled and the voice of Morris whispered urgently:

'Erikson? Paul? Get back in here, will ya ...'

'Coming.'

Erikson was not sure Gale should be left alone. The kid was staring around the cabin, taking everything in as if he were seeing it for the first time.

'Take it easy.' said Erikson. 'Liz ordered more medication for 15.30 hours. Do you have any pain?' 'Pain?' Johnny considered. 'Yes. No. Discomfort would describe it better.'

Another screwy answer.

'Hang in there...' said Erikson, lamely. 'I'll be back.' Johnny closed his eyes and lay still. His left hand moved through a tentative five-finger exercise on his chest. Erikson had the insane idea that Johnny was faking somehow, playing possum. The moment he was out of the cabin that hand would move across and lock into that curious range of frequencies ...

Erikson shook his head to drive away the absurd image--this emergency was affecting him more than he realized. There was a time, he told himself ruefully, when he was convinced that Morris was some kind of a psycho. He went forward.

'How's the kid?' asked Morris.

'Spooky!' said Erikson.

'What?'

Morris was tense and irritable. He had been checking the fuel system and now he was moving the scanner slowly across their landing area.

Erikson slid into his seat and activated all his broadcast channels.

'Did you find the trouble?'

He was about to give the call to Marsport when the interior of the control room was plunged into darkness. It took him a second to realize that Morris had thrown the switches.

'What the hell...?'

'Ssh!'

Morris was straining across the panel as if he wanted to press his nose against the forward plexiglass. The beam of the scanner inched over rocks and sand.

'What are you playing at?' growled Erikson.

Morris said in a shaking voice:

'There is something out there.'

'What...?'

Erikson didn't believe it; but the desolation of the place was working on him. He didn't need Morris's horrified explanation:

'Something that moves, Paul. Some creature. Something alive.'

They stared in silence at their own beam of light. The blackness that lay beyond it was impenetrable.

'It's not possible!' said Erikson. 'That's a lunar surface out there. Airless. About the size of the Pentagon but moving a helluva lot faster. You called it a hunk of rock. Glen!'

'I saw something...' whispered Morris. 'A shadow. Something. I know it's out there.'

Erikson began to feel a twinge of sympathy for the man. They were all past breaking point... why not admit it?

'Hey now ...' he said. 'Take it easy. We have to make Marsport, remember.'

'You don't believe me!'

Erikson did not reply directly. He switched on the console lights and began working on his transmitting bands again. He left the cabin dark so Morris could keep an eye open for his 'creature'.

He gave the call signal to Marsport and the whole range of space distress calls. He switched in all his frequencies in turn; he called every place in the Universe; he called Armstrong Base and Houston and the Pentagon and Greenwich and Woomera and Khabarovsk. He called SOS and Mayday. He spoke, bleeped, pulsed whistled, echoed, pinged and wowed for twenty minutes: part of the time he listened, desperately fading the static.

Space was a noisy place; there was nothing dead about it. There seemed to be eddies of sound close by, right in the corner of his ear. Once he snatched off the head-set ready to tell Morris to shut up, but Morris was not saying a word.

* * * *

O Enclata, Thorss and Marilurian, old time companions, friends of the Four Worlds, lost and most dear, closest, indivisible, hear again the voice of Triclamadan, the wanderer, who knows not day or night but only star space, exile, the deeps of time. Assure me in turn of the perfection of our choice the beauty of our equations. I am embodied. I am impressed, borne in upon all sides, walled in flesh. Yet it is workable and the nervous system highly developed. This fellow must bear with my indulgence; at worst he will be left with a sense too many.

I begin to feel in the tips of these fingers the sense of my former incarnations. And I recall that furthest time, time of first youth. Look back, Triclamadan, along these endless spirals to the helix blossom beside the lake; thin darkness of the equinoctial dawn; warmth of the air. O lost, O Marilurian, Daughter of Light...'

* * * *

Erikson let out his breath sharply, slid the quivering needle of light back across the dial and locked on to the wavering signal. It came again; letters grouped in the printout slot; there was no doubt about it.

'Marsport.' he said. 'Glen, we have Marsport.' Morris reacted cautiously. They bent over the print-out like doctors monitoring a renewed heartbeat. Then with smooth precision Erikson took the frequency and repeated his brief distress call. Marsport answered again, still using international code.

'What about it?' whispered Erikson. 'I might try voice contact. It's really no distance. A transatlantic call.'

'No!' Morris gripped his arm. 'You could lose them. Use code.'

'Maybe you're right.'

Erikson was already sending the expanded distress call. Position of Theta, nature of the emergency. Marsport responded after a longer interval. Erikson reckoned there was an operator on the other end by this time; space distress calls weren't handled automatically after the first few seconds. The guy in Marsport was undoubtedly trying voice contact and wondering what in hell was going on ... the discrepancy in distance would have him puzzled. He continued to send: 'SDPUS-T1074, Theta Nebraska, all systems failing. Theta shuttle grounded Phobos. Assist mothership soonest.' He gave the bearings of Theta for the fourth or was it the fifth time, and then their own. Marsport replied bluntly 'Wilco', then creaked into a long repetition of the ship's bearings.

Erikson felt dizzy with relief; he sagged in his chair.

'That's it!' he said. 'We got through. Glen, old buddy, we got through! You heard the man ... Wilco. Most beautiful non-word in the language!'

'Quiet!' said Morris. 'You think I'm crazy? Well, you're acting crazy yourself. You don't believe a thing I've told you. We have an alien out there. Some creature. I saw something.'

'Again?' said Erikson, warily. 'Where?'

Morris pointed to a shadowy corner between two rocks and for a moment Erikson's heart thumped. A movement? Then he shook his head; it had been the reflection of his own shoulder in the plexiglass.

'No,' he said. 'I can't buy it, Glen. You're jumping at shadows. Relax, man! We can call the ship now... tell 'em help is on the way.'

Morris passed a hand over his face; he brought up the lights again.

'Okay, sure.' he said. 'Sorry, Paul!'

'How's the fuel linkage coming?

'Fine. It was simple... coupla gas bubbles.'

'That's great!' Erikson was ashamed to have doubted Morris; he wondered if he had been riding the poor guy too hard.

'Before you call the ship,' continued Morris, 'help me do one thing. Help me through the lock. I have to check the exterior fuel coupling.'

'You're going out there?'

'I have to make this one check.'

'Okay.' said Erikson. 'Take a look at the damaged strut while you're out. I'm doubtful if it will retract when we move this barge out.'

He watched Morris going through the exit procedures with some sort of admiration. No doubt about it the man had guts. He insisted on going out on to the lunar surface just as strongly as he had insisted that there was a creature out there. Was the man testing his own delusion? He spun the taps on the lock and Morris, suited up, crawled into the pressure chamber. Presently there came the unmistakable resonance of the hatchway.

Erikson turned to the scanner and watched Morris descending the ladder with traditionally small and weighty steps.

'Glen?' he tuned in.

'This is really something, Paul!' exclaimed Morris. 'Like a ride on a ferris wheel. Mars is near enough to touch.'

'Temperature?'

'Rising.' said Morris. 'You should come out here Paul.' He was out of range of the scanner; Erikson could see one silver boot hard up against the base of the ladder.

'Glen,' he said, 'it's 15.30. I have to give Johnny his medication.'

'I'm fine.' Morris came into view again. 'Go ahead Paul. This place is deserted, like you said.'

'Do you have good visibility?'

'Sure. Dawn light. You should come and see for yourself.'

Erikson made his way back to the cabin and found Johnny wide awake. His colour was normal and he struggled to sit up, but his smile was not working too well.

'Cheer up!' said Erikson. 'All systems go. And stop bouncing around... Doc Marshall's orders.'

'You communicated with Marsport?'

'We raised 'em!' said Erikson happily, counting out capsules. 'Here ... this one is for the pain, I guess. These are antibiotic and the green one is the stabilizer.'

'The man called Glen Morris...'

Johnny's voice had hardened and deepened.

'Morris is along ...' soothed Erikson. 'He's doing a walk, checking a couple of things.'

'He is insane!'

The tones of the voice were so strange that the hackles began to stir on the back of Erikson's neck.

'Johnny?'

'Glen Morris is insane. He is planning to kill you.'

'Aw, come on!' shouted Erikson in sheer exasperation. 'Who's crazy around here? I reckon Phobos has spooked every man on this shuttle!'

'You may be right.'

Erikson went to the locker where the rations were kept and sucked down a whole pack of orange concentrate with supavite.

'Johnny,' he said, gently, 'you're a sick man.' The answer was equally gentle:

'I'm trying to help you, Paul Erikson.'

Erikson stared at Johnny Gale.

'Against my better judgment.'

Johnny lay still on the cot and the words rolled out of his mouth.

'This man has remarkable powers of recovery and the drugs you gave him are already taking effect. Neither he nor I feel any pain or even the discomfort I mentioned earlier.'

'This man...?' Erikson sat down.

'John Gale.'

'Johnny... please. Take it easy, man!'

'I am not a man.'

'You're sure as hell not a woman!' cracked Erikson feebly.

'Semantics! I am not human.'

Erikson spread his hand and gave a helpless laugh.

'What can I say? You're confused in your mind!'

'His mind!'

'Okay,' said Erikson. 'I'll buy it. Who are you?'

'It is difficult to tell you.'

There was a dull sound directly under Erikson's feet and he jumped. Someone, something outside had bumped or scraped the hull of the shuttle.

'Jesus ...' exclaimed Erikson. 'If that's Morris what is he playing at?'

He dived out of the cabin and Johnny's voice, his new voice, came after him.

'Take care... Take great care...'

Erikson reached the scanner; the light was brighter now, an echo of the magnificent Martian dawn: amber and deep rose. There was no sign of Morris... but wait!

Erikson bent closer. In the foreground were a series of small objects, black against the buff coloured rock. Erikson enlarged the picture...yes, a spanner, a Yamada tension tool; the contents of Glen Morris's tool kit lay scattered on the surface of Phobos.

'Glen? Glen?'

Erikson scanned steadily through the whole ninety degree field.

'I have no visual. Glen. Get in the field. Glen ...' He suddenly hated the sound of his own voice, pleading and frightened. He scanned in silence. Even the red light of dawn left shadows, places in the rock big enough to hide ... what? An alien, a man's body, something bigger than a breadbox. 'I have to go out there,' thought Erikson, 'and I'm scared.'

He reached out and for the first time since the emergency landing he called the mothership. Who would be on duty? Tracy maybe, or the Skipper ... probably not Liz. After a long four minutes there came a weak and flickering burst of the old international code. He spoke and was acknowledged. They could hear his voice.

'Help coming.' He said. 'Marsport alert. Hang on you guys.'

And the best answer was tapped out feebly over the gulfs of space: 'Do our best'. Erikson swallowed hard and recognized the symptom. He was choking with compassion and grief, with mother-to-child anxiety for the human beings on the dark ship, saving their breath. His duty was to lift morale, not to be comforted.

'We're all fine. Johnny is in good hands.' he said. 'Repeating ... Help summoned 5.13, Theta time. Acknowledge.' For acknowledgment there was only a fading identification '... Theta...'; then Erikson was alone again.

He turned back to the scanner and ran through the empty field. He changed the setting and to his surprise the arc cleared the horizon and showed beyond it, unbelievably close, the bulk of Mars. He pushed on through the space walk routine, full of bleak anxiety. What conditions did prevail out there on this lunar lollipop? Had Morris fallen off the edge? Was there some gravitational hang-up on a satellite this small? He set everything on automatic, activated the lock, checked his tank and felt the rim of his helmet suck into place as the vacuum strips took hold. He stepped into the pressure chamber and worked awkwardly by the headlight of his suit. He set the time for thirty minutes and stepped out of the hatchway into the hot brilliance of the dawn.

There were five steps on the ladder and the bottom step was a long one. Erikson came out ungracefully, butt first, clinging to the handgrips: one step. Jesus but it was a weird little dishpan of a satellite, rainbow coloured through his visor, with the perpetual bulk of the planet swimming above and below, wherever he looked. Two steps. He could almost see under the shuttle, the area he wanted to examine most. He had an idea in his head that Morris had gone there to fix the strut... out of range of the scanner.

Erikson saw that part of the ground was clear in the ruby shadow of the hull. Then he glanced upwards at the hatchway and saw the black lens of the camera swivelling down. His descent was being recorded on video. The inside control? No, it was not activated. That left the remote control unit ... Morris must have it But that was crazy! Had he been going out to film his 'creature'? It didn't seem like a good reason for filming Erikson. He placed one leaden boot then another on the third step and it sliced neatly into three pieces beneath his weight.

He hung and kicked for a lower step but his weighted feet swung in awkwardly under the hull. He went sprawling backwards as the steps slewed and buckled. Erikson began falling a long, slow way down to the hard ground of Phobos and twisted desperately to save his tanks, his life, his air-supply, from contact with the rock. The dawn flared up around him but he grounded firmly without losing consciousness. No damage done? His right arm and shoulder ached; he guessed they were badly bruised. Before he could begin to heave himself up he saw Morris, a pair of heavy silver boots, edging out from under the shuttle.

Erikson could not get his right arm from under his body; with numb fingers inside his unyielding glove he fumbled for the dials of the communication system on his chest.

'Lie still. Watch what he does.'

The voice was intense and soft, so close that it could have been the crackle of his suit fabric or the creation of his brain. Yet Erikson lay still.

He could see Morris full length now, plodding the few steps with that comically deliberate gait to where Erikson lay. Morris held some object in his gloved hands. He swung towards the shuttle and then towards Erikson as if measuring the distance of his partner from the steps. Light bounced from the object he carried; Erikson identified it with a surge of doubt. An anodized unit about the size of a ration tube: the remote control for the video camera. Morris was getting him in focus.

Erikson found the right spot on the dial.

'It's okay, Glen ...' he panted. 'One step gave out.' Morris replied in a voice that was normal but not reassuring.

'Stay where you are, Paul. I'm coming.'

Erikson was having trouble finding his feet. The voice came in again, sure as static.

'Move now! Get moving, Erikson!'

Erikson struggled, bounced sideways like a ball, trying to bend his knees and get his boots back on the ground. Morris growled:

'Where the hell are you heading, Paul?'

He put the remote control unit in the kangaroo pocket of his suit and came after Erikson. He overstepped, which was easy, and came right up to Erikson, who caught his arm for support. He could see Morris's face quite clearly through the visor of his helmet; but it told him nothing. Morris took hold of Erikson's left arm with both mitts and began to urge him along.

He pushed Erikson towards the shuttle, then still in an eerie radio silence, put out one hand and began feeling for the connecting tubes from Erikson's tanks.

'He means to kill you!' The voice was insistent and at last Erikson admitted to himself whose voice it was. 'Save yourself, Paul Erikson!'

'Johnny!' called Erikson and Morris heard him.

'What about Johnny?' Morris was fierce, ingratiating. 'Get back there, Paul. Get back over there.'

Erikson pushed Morris's hand away instinctively and found his feet at last.

'Glen ... quit shoving...' he said feebly. 'My arm hurts.'

Morris came after him, arms outspread, in a slow dancing movement.

'Are you hurt, Paul?' he asked innocently. 'Your tank is fouled. Let me...'

'No!' said Erikson, all his trust ebbing away. 'Fix the steps. Get inside.'

'Johnny's lying!' said Morris, out of the blue. 'He doesn't know what he's saying.'

'Are you disabled?'

'My arm ... bruised I guess.' said Erikson. The pain was sharper now that the numbness from the fall was wearing off. 'Johnny, is that you?'

'Not exactly,' murmured the voice.

'What wavelength have you?' asked Erikson.

'Yours.'

Morris was coming after him again, uphill. The ground was striated in rainbow patterns under their feet.

'Come back!' he demanded. 'Where are you going, Erikson?'

'I don't need any help.' said Erikson. 'Get the steps straight. I can make it...'

'No baby...' breathed Morris. 'No baby... I'm gonna see you choke to death. I'm gonna have that helmet off!'

'What are you saying. Glen!' Erikson shouted and deafened himself.

'Choke!' said Morris. 'Suffocate. Maybe your skull will implode like a video screen. Right here where the camera is watching. Camera can't lie, Paul old buddy...'

Erikson stood still and Morris lunged at him.

'Are you convinced?' asked the voice in Erikson's head.

'Yes!' said Erikson wildly. 'Yes! Help me! Johnny?'

'Johnny can't help you ...' crooned Morris. 'I already took care of him once. Come to poppa...'

He caught Erikson around the knees in a flying tackle of seven metres and they went rolling down in another crazy almost weightless fall. Erikson spun to his left, burying his sound arm up to the elbow in a drift of sand that spun up around the pair of them in a glittering cloud. It was hot; he could feel the warmth through his silversuit. He tried to balance on one hip and scoop the sand at Morris. But Morris was crowding over him, with his gauntlets hooked like metal claws, aiming for the tubes on Erikson's back. The blur of sound inside Erikson's helmet was his own voice crying out in fear.

The flash of light was blinding. Erikson felt it flare up around them as they fought and wash over their bodies. Both men spun slowly apart and turned towards the light. Erikson's first thoughts were of an explosion aboard the shuttle but he felt no shock wave. The shuttle was intact; it stood out, glowing faintly, against the tawny rocks. Then, as he watched, a source of light inside the craft began to grow brighter. The radiance spread in waves and curtains of cool, vigorous light. The outlines of the shuttle's casing faded or became translucent, while the marvellous light grew and pulsated.

Erikson felt better. His bruised arm was no longer painful; the efforts of the fight, the ordinary tension of a moon-walk, all were eased. His brain felt clear and alert; he knew that the light was operating upon him: his sense of well-being tinged with awe was a property of the light. He turned towards Morris. His partner had bent forward against a rock in a clumsy approximation of a kneeling position. Broken whispers came through Erikson's intercom. Morris was praying.

Then in the midst of the light flowing out from the shuttle Erikson made out a human form, standing upright. Gale ... it must be Johnny Gale, transfigured. The thought of a human being, the young crewman he knew, possessed by a being, an intelligence so powerful, even if it were benevolent, sobered him a little.

'Who are you?' Erikson demanded.

And the answer came in Gale's voice, as it had warned him, tied in some strange way to his own intercom system.

'I am Triclamadan.'

'Where do you come from?'

'The planets of a distant star.' Triclamadan gave the impression of choosing his words with care, like a linguist experimenting in a language he knew but had not much occasion to use.

'The light of this star is still visible from the limits of your galaxy but the star itself has gone out, grown cold, long ago.'

'Then you have nowhere...'

Erikson was suddenly conscious of the heat of the ground all around him; vibrant solar heat. Phobos was not altogether an alien place.

'No,' agreed the extraordinary resonant voice. 'I have nowhere.'

There was no disguising the note of sadness. Erikson could have sworn that under stress of emotion the light radiating from the shuttle was dimmed momentarily.

'I have no home. I belong nowhere, nor do I wish to do so. It is as we have chosen.'

'Why did you come here, then?' asked Erikson. 'What do you want with John Gale?'

'A voice,' said Triclamadan simply. 'A brief incarnation. I wanted to talk to my friends.'

'Can we return to the shuttle?' Erikson was restless. 'What will become of Morris?'

He saw his partner slumped in an attitude of prayer against the rock.

'Suppose he were to die?' inquired Triclamadan.

'No!' exclaimed Erikson. 'No... he can get treatment. You don't kill a man for freaking out. I'm only worried he will try something again ...'

There was no reply but presently a beam of light flicked out from the glowing arc around the shuttle and touched Morris on the helmet. He flinched and Erikson was alarmed. Then Morris got up, quite docile, and moved like a sleepwalker towards the shuttle. Erikson, automatically checking his suit, plodded after him. They entered the light and it receded before them; the outlines of the shuttle became solid. Erikson reassembled the steps as best he could while Morris stood patiently waiting. The sense of well-being had left Erikson now; he felt let down, jumpy. The whole episode was taking on the aspect of a matter-of-fact but unsettling dream.

'Wait!' said Triclamadan, as Erikson turned to guide Morris up the steps. 'I will be leaving your craft.'

'You're going?' Erikson was dismayed. Hut I want to know...'

'I will go. I am already breaking a covenant.'

Erikson was filled with a furious curiosity ... his head whirled with questions. What was the form, the origin, What were the capacities of this being? But there was one thing he must ask.

'Please!' he said. 'Can you help our mothership... Theta Nebraska. Is there any way... I'll give you her position.'

Triclamadan laughed.

'Helpless and demanding!' he grumbled. 'Children ... Mortals...'

'You needed a voice.' Erikson was stubborn.

'No more!' ordered Triclamadan wearily. 'Get on board.'

* * * *

Our covenant is not easily kept. How can I, however briefly embodied, send out a human being to face death? It may be that in some timefall we are destined to help this race or one like it. But for this time our choice, made in lost ages, will remain inviolate. For the sake of the Four Worlds, now dark, whose only light is in their children, irretrievably lost, let us, each one, maintain the covenant. Triclamadan returns to the deep and only true delight of contemplation and calculation in time. Triclamadan will speak no more.

* * * *

The control room was cool and full of sweet air. Erikson took off his helmet and watched cautiously as Morris fumbled with his own.

'Glen?'

Morris stared vacantly at Erikson and smiled.

'What happened, Paul?'

'Are you feeling all right?'

'Sure, but I don't remember...'

'Can you start take-off procedures?' asked Erikson.

'Of course. Right away!'

'Go ahead then.' said Erikson. 'I must see to Johnny.'

The shuttle was suffused with light for an instant... the cabin partition glowed crystalline, transparent. Then the light was gone. Erikson dived for the scanner and tracked wildly up, over the ship, but he saw nothing. What had he expected ... a fireball, a meteor, a gas cloud?

Morris uttered a strange cry:

'I saw...!'

'What?'

'You saw it too!' Morris was weeping. 'Forgive me Paul, forgive me ...'

'I do forgive you.' said Erikson. 'Take it easy, Glen.'

'We had a vision!' said Morris. 'We've been blessed. Oh God, God help me!'

'We saw something all right.' said Erikson.

'We are Elect!' said Morris. 'We've been singled out ... don't you understand that? Nothing can ever be the same again. I've been cured. I was a madman, now I've been made whole again!'

'Steady ...' said Erikson. 'Let's get to Marsport.'

'Yes... Yes... We have to leave.'

Morris went eagerly to his seat and began take-off procedures.

Erikson went into the cabin. Johnny Gale was sitting up on the cot and eating a cheese stick.

'Hi man!' he said. 'Where is everyone? I had the wildest dreams!'

'Johnny?' Erikson did not need to ask. 'How do you feel?'

'Great. Is that Morris you have out there?'

'That's right.'

'Paul, that guy is crazy. He was fighting me when I fell down the companion way, back there on Theta. Say ... how are those guys?'

'We contacted Marsport. They should have help by now.'

'We're not in Marsport yet?'

'Phobos.' said Erikson. 'We had a fuel link problem. We'll be moving out right away.'

'But this Morris...'

'He won't give any more trouble. I know he's crazy, or he was, but something happened.'

'I know.' said Johnny. 'I can't put it together... but something did happen.'

They stared at each other. Erikson remembered what Morris had just said: nothing will ever be the same.

'What do you recall?' he asked.

'There was someone else here,' said Johnny. He lay back on the cot and fixed his eyes on the low ceiling. 'Someone else. It wasn't...'

'Go on...'

'Not human.' said Johnny. 'How would you say it...'

'A being.' said Erikson. 'I don't know. Morris has been freaked right out. He thinks he saw God.'

'No.' said Johnny. 'This was some kind of free-floating intelligence. Something from out there.'

'That's what he said. 'The planets of a distant star.' '

'You spoke to it?' Johnny breathed deeply. Then I guess it was using my voice.'

'You were conscious?'

'Not really.'

'Was it bad? Painful?'

'Hell no. It was a good trip. I have pictures in my head, Paul. Pictures of places I've never been.'

'He was broadcasting,' said Erikson. 'Using that panel in some combination of frequencies...'

He remembered the lights that winked at him from the panel.

'Record!' he exclaimed. 'He was using record...'

Johnny stabbed playback; they both caught their breath. Johnny turned up the volume a little.

'My voice...' he whispered.

The door slid back and Morris came in, bright-faced.

'Listen...' he said. 'It's the Messenger, isn't it? The angel...'

Johnny switched off abruptly.

'Keep away from me!'

'Johnny,' pleaded Morris. 'I'm sorry for what I did. I was mad, I was evil... but now there has been an Intervention.' He turned to Erikson.

'Paul... were those words spoken by the Messenger?'

'That's right, Glen.' Erikson was embarrassed.

'Johnny's been blessed. He was the Instrument.' Morris looked from one man to the other with an awful humility. 'I'd deeply appreciate hearing every word on that tape.'

'Okay Johnny,' said Erikson. 'He's right. We'd better hear it.'

'Paul...' said Johnny Gale. 'What do we do about this whole deal? Can we put in reports?'

'I guess we have to.' said Erikson.

'They'll crucify us,' said Johnny.

'Yes!' said Morris eagerly. 'But we must leave out nothing.'

'My own voice!' cried Johnny. 'They'll say it was some kind of fever dream!'

'I was crazy!' said Morris. 'I have to admit... so much. I wasn't responsible ...'

'Where does that leave me?' asked Erikson. 'I've got no excuses.'

He felt a kind of grim exhilaration.

'Play the tape!' he said. 'We have to complete this mission.'

* * * *

Dr Thomas to Air Commodore Voss

... The most puzzling case of all is Lieutenant Erikson. He was neither drugged nor disturbed; his service record rates him highly on courage, coolness and initiative. I'm sure you understand, Margot, that in view of this incident we will have to go very cautiously in the matter of his psychological clearance. After Morris we can't afford any more slip-ups. This is a pity because Erikson has a service background ... his grandfather was one of the 'Mars Pioneers'. I believe the MO from Theta Nebraska, Elizabeth Marshall, has been making representations to the top brass regarding Erikson's future assignment. She has a personal interest here of course.

John Gale will be watched closely during the period of his convalescence and there has been talk of giving him limited clearance afterwards. It has been suggested that the kid should be taken to Duke for a barrage of psi tests at the Rhine Institute ... I'm not sure that I will go along with this. His 'entity' did mention 'an extra sense' but so far the only remarkable thing about Gale is his robust good health.

In some ways the crewman Glen Morris, who experienced a conversion, has benefited most from the Phobos affair. It seems clear now that our department let this man . .. and how many others ... get by all our screening. There are hints of instability in his record. On his own admission he pushed Gale down a companionway on Theta after picking a fight. He harboured a grudge against Erikson... but did he actually try to kill him? Did he in fact attempt to lure Erikson on a moon-walk, first by reporting 'a creature', then by scraping on the hull? It is a little far-fetched. Morris, of course, is the only one of the three men with a religious background: his aged parents live in upper New York State and pay tithes to the New Age Gospel Church. The video film I mentioned certainly shows Morris and Erikson on their moon-walk but their actions on camera are inconclusive.

One of the most interesting aspects of the whole case is the behaviour of the crew of Theta Nebraska. Ever since their rescue Captain Trant and the others have exhibited a touching loyalty to the three crewmen who travelled on the shuttle, to the point of mass hallucination if not deliberate perjury. Stress of time and distance weld these little knots of personnel too closely together ... I've always thought so. The affidavits of the crew are not included in this file I'm sending you but briefly they tell the following story.

The life support systems of Theta Nebraska failed partly as a result of one faulty electrical system. This block of circuits, they claim, mysteriously 'began to function again' around 16.00 hours, Theta time, some twenty minutes before the lighter from Marsport made contact. At this time the men and women aboard Theta were on quarter flow suit oxygen and some were in a stuporous condition. As might be expected a crewman happened to be gazing from a porthole and he saw 'a strange light' playing around the ship's markings. The whole complement of Theta Nebraska survived their ordeal; they made contact with the shuttle crew in Marsport base hospital. So much for independent corroboration.

Margot, I will admit to you that the screening of these three men and the tests and assessments involved have been a tough assignment. Security has been breathing down my neck all the way; there have been several of these 'alien infiltration' scares in the last ten years and they are naturally very wary. I cannot help feeling that this case will have repercussions for many years to come. On the present evidence ... and I stress that... I cannot accept the incarnation of Triclamadan' as an independent reality. Here stand I... I can do no other.

Gale's cheerful certainty weighs heavily upon me ... so does the enthusiasm of Morris. Erikson's good sense torments me most of all. If I take comfort from anything during these periods of doubt it is in the supreme impartiality of the wretched transcripts... the expressed wish not to become involved in human affairs. I am tempted, particularly at night, in my Sycamore, flying home over the metropolitan seaboard, to bring up those curious frequencies ... which of course Gale remembered ... and conjure anything that might be listening to maintain the covenant and keep its distance.