Destroyer of Worlds by E. C. Tubb

other frequency. The set may have been damaged when I fell.’ He waited then snapped, ‘Well?’
    ‘Nothing.’ Martyn’s voice held a shrug. ‘Maybe that olive stuff’s a barrier of some kind. What is it, anyway? Metal of some kind?’
    West struck at it with one of the tools clipped to his belt. The edge barely scratched the surface. He tried again, using more force this time, then replaced the tool. Metal or not the stuff was harder than rock and more stubborn than a tempered alloy.
    Martyn said, ‘Skipper, do we go on?’
    A decision and West knew he had to make it. Safety dictated that he should return, set up a relay-point then recommence the investigation only after making certain that all possible precautions had been made. But Martyn, impatient, was already moving down the passage.
    For a moment longer West hesitated. The matter was urgent, to return and summon the others would take precious time and probably be a waste. This passage would end soon and then would be the time to make decisions.
    ‘Wait!’ West stepped after the other man. ‘Martyn, not so fast!’
    ‘Look!’ The man had halted to stare at an engraved design. ‘Look at that, Skipper! If that isn’t a schematic of a rocket engine, I’ll eat my helmet! And this — an electronic circuit?’
    Accidents, the both of them, a trick of light and an over-active imagination, but there were resemblances and certainly the shaft and passage showed the impact of a sophisticated technology. Someone or something must have built them both and those same people or things could have graced the bare walls with their concept of decoration.
    ‘Let’s see what lies lower down.’ Martyn forged ahead, grunted as the passage forked, unhesitatingly took the left hand corridor.
    ‘Wait!’ West swore as the other made no answer. ‘Martyn, blast you, wait!’
    The man had gone, racing ahead, following fancied discoveries, moving on before West could catch up with him. Turn after turn, the corridors branching, forking, each exactly alike, forming a maze in which West realised, too late, they were lost.
    ‘Martyn!’ He lunged ahead, caught the man’s shoulder, pulled him back to slam hard against the wall. ‘You fool! Why don’t you answer me?’
    He saw the startled face beyond the face plate of the helmet, the moving lips. Metal rang in his ears as he jammed his own helmet against that of his co-pilot.
    ‘Now can you hear me?’
    ‘I — yes. What’s the matter, Skipper? The radio —’
    ‘Doesn’t work. Or doesn’t seem to be working. Check and report. Now!’ West moved back, lifting his helmet, breaking contact, the bridge over which sound vibration had passed. Again he saw the lips move but his speakers carried nothing but a soft hum. ‘Blast!’
    The radios were out, but the silence could be broken. Suits were designed to cater to emergencies and, at times, radio-silence was an advantage when too many men were working in an electronically ‘noisy’ situation. West plucked at his belt, caught the terminal and unreeled the wire from its spool. Plugging it in to Martyn’s receptor he said, ‘Better now?’
    ‘Fine.’ The man sighed his pleasure at again being in vocal contact. ‘Wonder what killed the radios?’
    A question which could wait for an answer. The battery-powered direct connection was, in effect, a telephone and would serve. The next thing to do was to get out of the maze of tunnels.
    ‘This must be an old mine of some kind,’ mused Martyn. ‘Or an underground shelter. ‘I’ve seen pictures of bombproofs and this could be one. Those diagrams could be maps of various sectors and storerooms.’ His arm lifted to point. ‘That could be one, Skipper. To me it looks like a door.’
    The man had sharp eyes. West examined the spot, seeing the thin lines tracing an octagonal area, a sunken point containing a knurled wheel surrounded by a ring of individual designs. A combination lock? If so it had to be built by aliens, but all