The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [59]
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It was a fine, clear morning when Discovery dropped down through the atmosphere. Her inertial drive was working sweetly, but inevitably noisily, and Grimes wondered what the colonists would be thinking of the irregular beat of his engines, the loud, mechanical clangor driving down from above. Their own machines—with the exception of the few jet planes—were so silent. In the periscope screen the large island, the continent that had been named New Australia, showed in its entirety. Its outline was not dissimilar to that of the original Australia, although there was no Tasmania, and Port Jackson was on the north and not the east coast The coastal fringe was green, but inland there were large desert areas, the sites of the solar power stations.
Grimes glanced at the control room clock, which was now keeping local time. There was time to spare; he could afford to take things easily.
"Target," announced Tangye. "Bearing 020, range fifty. Closing."
"Altitude?" asked Grimes.
"It's matching altitude with us, sir."
"It can't be one of the airships this high," said Grimes. He added nastily, "And, anyhow, we don't have Major Swinton at fire control this time."
He turned away from his console to look out of the viewports on the bearing indicated. Yes, there the thing was, a silvery speck, but expanding, closing fast.
"What if they are hostile, Captain?" asked Brabham. "We're a sitting duck."
"If they are hostile,"-Grimes told him, "we'll give them the privilege of firing the first shot."
"It's one of their jets," said Tangye.
"So it is," agreed Grimes. "So it is. They're doing the right thing; laying on an escort."
The aircraft closed them rapidly, circled them in a slowly descending spiral. It was, obviously, a passenger plane, with swept-back wings. Grimes could see men in the forward control cabin. They waved. He waved back, then returned his attention to handling the ship. He hoped that the jet pilot would not attempt to approach too close.
He could see Port Jackson plainly enough in the screen now, a great irregular bite out of the northern coastline. He could see the golden beaches with a cream of surf outlining them and—very small, a mere, crawling insect—one of the big schooners standing in toward The Heads. And there were two more targets announced by the radar-watching Tangye—airships this time, huge brutes with the sunlight reflected dazzlingly from their metal skins.
A familiar voice came from the speaker of the control room transceiver. "That's a noisy bitch yer've got there, Skip. Sounds like umpteen tons of old-tin cans fallin' downstairs. Just as well yer didn't come in at sparrer fart."
"Do you have sparrows here?" asked Grimes interestedly.
"Nah. Not reel sparrers. But it's what we call one o' the native birds. Don't know how it got by before it had human bein's ter bludge on."
"Mphm. Excuse me, Mavis, but I'd like to concentrate on my pilotage now."
"That's what me late husband useter say. He was skipper o' one o' the coastal schooners. Oh, well, I can take a hint."
Grimes could see the city now—red roofs and gray, a few towers of pseudo-Gothic appearance. He could see the airport, with one big dirigible at its mooring mast like an oversized wind sock. And there, just beyond it, was the Bradman Oval, a darkly green recreation area with spectators' stands around it and, he was pleased to note, a triangle of red flashing lights, bright even in the general brightness of the morning. The radio beacon had been set up as requested by Grimes, but he preferred to use visual aids whenever possible.
The Oval expanded to fill the screen. The stands, Grimes saw, were crowded. He thought sourly, These bastards have more faith in my innies than I do. If the inertial drive were to break down, necessitating the use of the emergency reaction drive, there would be a shocking tragedy. But the beat of the engines still sounded healthy enough. He applied a touch of lateral thrust, brought