Basil Copper: The Great White Space

So the days slowly passed in this strange spot with all the gentle inconsistency of a hashish-eater's dream and one evening Scarsdale announced that we would be setting out for the distant fastness of Nylstrom the following morning. We had spent the day testing the tractors and taking on fresh supplies so it was no real surprise but one had become so used to the present life that it was something of a shock to realise that we would shortly be fighting at the levers of the tractors and sweltering in the tropical heat.

The Mir had assigned to us one of the more prepossessing of his subjects, the dwarf Zalor, who knew the people of Nylstrom and, what was more important, the nomadic desert tribes, and who, the ruler thought, would be useful to us on our travels. He would remain at Nylstrom and return to Zak with the monthly caravan which traded between these two places. I personally was unimpressed with our guide who had the cold eyes, pointed head, and thick lips endemic to his race and who was, moreover, like all his fellows, completely without a sense of humour.

Uniquely, however, he spoke perfect English and a smattering of the desert tongues in addition to his own language, so he was obviously a valuable addition to the expedition. To my regret, however, Scarsdale said that he would be traveling in our tractor for the first day. Scarsdale had a habit, when we were under way, of dividing his time between the tractors; in that way he could see how each of us handled the machines and, what was more important from his point of view, discover how we dealt with the various emergencies that inevitably came up during the course of each day. So I was relieved to know that the formidable figure of the Professor would also be aboard; I should have all my time fully occupied in controlling the machine and I did not relish the somewhat malignant figure of the dwarf hovering over my shoulder during all of the difficult day.

It was a morning of shouting wind and brilliant sunshine, the second week in September, when we left Zak; the Mir had graciously consented to see us off in formal style and I took photographs of him shaking hands with Scarsdale and Van Damm and otherwise recorded the historic moment for posterity. The sullen people of the city, as was their habit, showed as little enthusiasm for the occasion as they had for our coming and there were only about a couple of dozen people, mostly officials and administrators from the Palace staff, who had come to salute us into the unknown.

They stood in a semi-circle as the whine of the tractor's motors cut through the noise of the wind, and raised their strange, three-pronged wands of office in grave farewell. Van Damm's vehicle, with pennants bravely fluttering, was first off, though this was merely a piece of show. As soon as we were under way my tractor, which would carry the guide, would be in the lead position and the others would take station on us. In the meantime the dwarf Zalor pointed out the general direction to Van Damm; we were heading south, but would have to shift and tack across the great sand wilderness to avoid certain geological features.

At last, with the other three great machines lumbering across the ridge and making for the distant point where the earth ran out into browny-grey sand, Scarsdale stood on the steps of Number 1 Command vehicle and waved a dignified farewell. I recorded the moment for the official archives and then turned to follow him into the machine; Zalor was in front of me and he missed his footing on the shallow metal steps. Something tinkled down to his feet. I bent to the ground and picked it up and handed it back to him. His dark eyes looked malignly at me and he thrust the article back into the pocket of his blouse without a word.

I went to my padded leather seat and waited for the Professor's instructions; he was already on the radio to the other vehicles we could see as faint clouds of dust about a mile ahead of us. The air was full of static and muttered instructions. Zalor came and stood by the chart-table and conferred with Scarsdale.

The Professor touched me on the shoulder and I looked up at the illuminated map on the bulkhead which showed our progress as a tracing. Zalor was turning the repeater arrow to put my compass on course. I noted due north and my true course and pulled at the levers to incline the tractor blades in the right plane. Scarsdale switched on the powerful electric motors and nodded to me. I put the machine in gear and with a barely perceptible shudder the tracks were engaged and we were off. Dust blew about and I could see in the panoramic rear mirror the Mir and his party slowly disappearing as though a sponge of sandy particles had wiped them away.

Then we were crawling over a slight ridge and the towers of Zak were lost over the horizon. Far ahead the three clouds of dust that were our companions dipped and wallowed like ships at sea as they tried conclusions with the first wavelets of the vast sea of sand on which we would shortly be embarked. I adjusted my gloves, braced myself in my leather armchair and brought the two compass needles in line as Scarsdale set the true course.

I was so busy I hardly had time to think about the article the dwarf had dropped before we set off. Though he had almost snatched it from me in his haste to secrete it back on his person I could hardly have failed to realise its significance. It was nothing more than a square fragment of ancient stone. A type of stone with which I was becoming familiar. It bore the faintly obscene hieroglyphs found on the Patterson Expedition to the Antarctic and on which the Professor had spent such detailed study over the past few years.

Dust obscured the windscreen as I settled Number 1 on course and we passed the other three machines, which fell obediently into line astern. It would be tedious to relate all the incidents of the next days; days of hellish heat and sand; of lurching misery within the tractors. Yet despite all the difficulties — we retired to rest every night at the early hour of nine p.m., completely exhausted after a day spent controlling the bucking, pitching vehicles — we completed the two hundred kilometres of baking desert within four days, a tribute to the design of the machines.

Both Scarsdale and Dr Van Damm were delighted with the performance of the tractors and though one of the spare machines piloted by Prescott had given some trouble necessitating changing the bearings on the main tracks, all four vehicles arrived safely at Nylstrom on the evening of the fourth day. Zalor, though my suspicions of him had hardened if anything, had proved a good guide, navigating unerringly, even in the middle of swirling sandstorms which added to our discomfort.

Every night we camped on the most level terrain we could find, the tractors drawn up in a hollow square to keep off the icy wind which sprang up with the advent of sunset. We could not have fires — there was no fuel with which to ply them — so two large types of Primus stove developed by Scarsdale were brought into use. These served the dual purpose of heating our little party and brewing our tea and other small luxuries, and though we enjoyed the social occasion of this hour after sunset, the gritty sand which flew about took away what small pleasure the picnic had given and after that first evening we took to gathering within Scarsaale's command tractor for the communal meal, before dispersing to our beds for the night.

Zalor, for some reason best known to himself, did not like the tractors when at rest, though he was comfortable enough when they were mobile, and wrapping himself in his cloak slept under the command vehicle, in a sort of nest he scratched for himself in the sand. This suited me perfectly and the first evening I locked the door after him, content in knowing that he would be spending the following day in Van Damm's vehicle. The doctor would be leading and all I need do was follow in his wake.