Гарри Гаррисон: Planet Of No Return

As the small spacecraft plunged into the first thin traces of the planet’s atmosphere it began to glow and burn like a falling meteor. Within seconds the glow spread, quickly changing from red to white as the fractional heat increased. Although the alloy of the metal skin was unbelievably strong it had never been intended to resist temperatures as high as these. Sheets of flame radiated from the nose cone as the metal was torn away, incinerated. Then, just when it appeared that the entire ship would be engulfed in fire and destroyed, the even brighter flames of braking jets lanced through the burning gas. If the craft had been falling out of control it would surely have been destroyed. But the pilot knew what he was doing, had waited until the last possible moment before destruction before firing his engines. To slow the ship’s fall just enough to keep the temperature from rising any higher.

Down through the thick clouds it dropped, down towards the grass covered plain that hurtled ever closer with alarming speed. When it appeared that a fatal crash was inevitable the rockets fired again, hammering at the ship with multiple G deceleration. Still falling rapidly, despite the roaring jets, the ship struck the ground with a resounding crash, depressing the landing shock absorbers to their limit.

As the clouds of steam and dust blew away, a small metal hatch at the apex of the bow ground open and an optic head slowly emerged. It began rotating in a slow circle, scanning the vast sea of grass, the distant trees, the seemingly empty landscape. A herd of animals moved in the distance, bounding away in panic and quickly vanishing from sight. The optic head moved on — finally coming to rest on the nearby ruins of the shattered war machines: a vast area of destruction in the cratered plain.

It was a scene of disaster. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the crumpled and gigantic weapons of war were scattered over the battlefield. All of them punctured, bent, torn by immense forces. It was a graveyard of destruction that stretched away almost to the horizon. The optic head scanned back and forth over the rusted hulks, stopped, then drew back into the ship and its cover plate snapped shut. Long minutes passed before the silence was broken by the squeal of metal on metal as the airlock ground slowly open.

More time passed before the man emerged slowly from the opening. His motions were cautious, the muzzle of the ion rifle he held was questing out before him like a hungry animal. He wore heavy space armour with a sealed helmet that used a TV unit for vision. Slowly, without taking his attention from the landscape or his finger from the trigger, the man lowered his free hand and touched the radio button on his wrist.

“I’m continuing my report from outside the ship now. I’m going slow until I get my breath back. My bones ache. I made the landing in free fall and held it at that for just as long as I could. It was a fast landing but I took at least 15 G’s on touchdown. If I was detected on the way down there is no evidence of it yet. I’m going to keep talking as I go. This broadcast is being recorded on my deep spacer up above me in planetary orbit. So no matter what happens to me there is going to be a record kept. I’m not going to do an incompetent job like Marcill.”

He didn’t regret saying it, putting his feelings about the dead man in the record. If Marcill had taken any precautions at all he might still be alive. But precautions or no the fool should have found a way to leave some message. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing to indicate what had happened, not a single word that might have helped him now. Hartig snorted through his nostrils at the thought. Landing on a new planet was a danger every time, no matter how peaceful it looked. And this one, Selm-II, was certainly no different. Far from peaceful looking. It had been Marcill’s first assignment. And his last. The man had reported in from planetary orbit and had recorded his proposed landing position on the surface. And nothing else after that. A fool. He had never been heard from again. That was when the decision had been made to call a specialist in. This was Hartig’s seventeenth planet contact. He intended to use all of his experience to see to it that it wasn’t his last as well.

“I can see why Marcill picked this spot. There’s nothing but grass, empty plain stretching out in all directions. But right here, next to this landing site, there has been a battle — and not too long ago either. The remains of the fighting are just in front of me. There appear to be war machines of various kinds, pretty impressive things at one time, but all of them blasted apart and rusting now. I’m going to take a closer look at them.”

Hartig sealed the lock and started warily towards the littered battlefield, reporting as he went. “These machines are big, the nearest one to me must be at least fifty yards long. It has tractor treads and is mounted with a single turret with a large gun. That’s destroyed now. No identification visible from this distance. I’m going to take a closer look at it. But I can tell you frankly that I don’t like this. There were no cities visible from space, no broadcasts or transmissions on any of the communication bands. Yet here is this battlefield and these wrecks. And they’re not toys. These things are the products of a very advanced technology. Nor are they any kind of illusion. This thing is solid metal — and it has been blown open by something even solider. Still no insignia or identification anywhere on it that I can see. I’m going to take a look inside. There are no hatches visible from where I’m standing, but there is a hole blown in the side big enough to drive a truck through. I’m going through it now. There may be documents inside, certainly ought to be labels of some kind on the controls …”

Hartig stopped, frozen, one gloved hand clutching the jagged rim of metal around the opening. Had he heard something? With careful motions he raised the gain on his external microphone. But all he could hear now was the wind sighing through the metal skeletons. Nothing else. He listened for awhile, then shrugged and turned to climb through the gaping wound into the machine.

With startling suddenness a distant mechanical clanking echoed from the metal corpses of the battlefield. Hartig turned and dropped, his gun pointing and ready.

“There’s something out there, moving. Can’t see it yet — but I can hear it clearly enough. I’ve switched the external mike to this circuit so the sound will be recorded too. It’s getting louder, wheels, treads maybe, squeaking and clanking. A machine … there!”

With a crash of metal against metal the thing appeared from among the ruined machines. It was smaller than most of the others, no more than five yards long, and hurtled along with frightening speed. Smoothly black and sinister. Hartig raised his gun, then eased his finger from the trigger when he saw that it was turning away from him. Twisting about and accelerating at the same time.

“It’s heading towards my landing ship! It may have detected it when I sat down. Found it by radiation, radar, something. I’m using my remote unit to set all the defences aboard. As soon as that thing gets within range it will be blasted … there!”

Explosion after explosion sounded as the rapid-fire guns aboard the lifeship poured out their deadly fire. The ground shook and fragments of rock and dirt where hurled into the air. The guns stopped and in an instant began firing again as the machine emerged from the dust. Apparently unharmed.

“That thing is fast and tough, but the primaries will get it.”

An even greater explosion shook the ground, clanging through the metal walls around him; a shower of red dust floated down. Hartig stared out, frozen, then began talking again in a toneless voice.