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.”
