Free The Red Planet by Charles Chilton Page A

might be the case, sir,” came back Frank’s voice; “and I took the matter a little farther.”
    “Oh. How?”
    “I checked back on the recorder to that date, too.”
    “Well?”
    “The recordings of Control’s messages during that transmission are missing.”
    “You mean that Whitaker didn’t record them after all?”
    “Oh yes, he did, sir, but the tape has been cut and that particular section removed.”
    “Has it? Well, that proves a lot. Nice work, Frank--and thanks.”
    “Thank you, sir.” There was a click as Rogers disconnected his transmitter.
    It was quite clear now what had happened. We had, indeed, heard Control--but not from Earth. What we had heard was the recorded voice of Control relayed to us by Whitaker from Freighter No 6. He had recorded Control’s voice while he was in Number Two and carried the tapes on him. Had Jet not transferred him to Number Six, it would no doubt be Freighter Number Two which was missing now.
    Had he known all along that the ionised gas lay ahead of us and that when we passed through it communication between the Fleet would be impossible, thus affording him the chance to abscond with No 6? Or had he merely taken an opportunist’s chance to make off with her? And, either way, who was Whitaker and what was he up to? Why was there so much mystery about his identity and why did he wish to prevent the Fleet reaching Mars which, we could only conclude, was his intention?
    We talked it over for a couple of hours but came no nearer reaching a solution. Every ship was put on a rota to keep watch on Control’s frequency---to report to the Discovery the moment anything was heard, whether the call was thought to be a spurious one from the missing Number Six or a genuine one from Control itself. But, in spite of the constant watches, no contact was made with anybody outside the Fleet.
    Another two weeks went by, two uneventful weeks during which we covered another ten million miles, bringing our total since takeoff to one hundred and twenty-nine million. We were rapidly approaching the half way mark.
    The Fleet still kept perfect formation, except for the gap between Freighters Five and Seven that should have been occupied by Number Six. We were travelling at something over thirty thousand miles an hour, but to all appearances the ships still hung motionless in the star-studded, velvet black sky.
    For nineteen days after the mysterious call from Whitaker nothing untoward was noted in the log and then Lemmy, who, for the sake of a change, had taken over radar watch from Mitch for a spell, had something to report.
    “There’s something out in front of us, Mitch,” said the Cockney. “I’m getting a signal on the screen.”
    “What is it?”
    “How should I know? But it isn’t very large. Minute as sizes go out here.”
    When Jet was told of Lemmy’s find he ordered all ships to keep watch and make regular reports. Before long we were able to place the mysterious object at no more than four thousand miles ahead of us. Further calculations told us that we were overtaking it at roughly a thousand miles an hour which would put its speed at approximately twenty-nine thousand. However, we had no hope of making even a moderately accurate guess at the identity of the object until we got closer.
    When the gap had narrowed to around two thousand miles, Mitch declared that he thought he could detect the object through the telescope. He wasn’t sure, he said, because what he could see was not much larger than a pinpoint and, with all the stars in the background, what he was seeing could well be a star, too. But ten minutes later he was convinced that he had got it, for his ‘pin-point’ had grown slightly in size.
    Jet called over to me to ask if I’d picked up anything on the televiewer, but I had to admit that I hadn’t. By now Jet and Mitch were taking turns at the telescope. The object was getting steadily larger and just about an hour after
    Mitch had first picked up the