The Secret of the Ninth Planet | Page 4

held in quiet, without benefit of newspaper reporters or audience.
There was no longer any doubt. The radiation of the Sun reaching the face of the Earth
had decreased. The facts were indisputable. Where a day should have registered, in some
places, at least 90¡ in the Sun, a reading of only 84¡ was noted. Measurements definitely
showed that the face of the Sun visible to man on Earth had dimmed by just that margin.
This might not prove serious at first, but as the scientists called in by the Security Council
pointed out, it promised terrible things as the year went on. A difference of five or ten
degrees all over the Earth could mean the ruin of certain crops, it could mean an increase
in snowfall and frost that could very rapidly destroy the economies and habitability of
many places on the Earth's teeming surface.
"But what," asked the Chairman of the Council, "is causing this decrease in solar
energy?"
This the astronomers could not answer. But they pointed to one factor. The reports from
the U.S. Moon Base did not agree with the observations from Earth. Moon instruments
claimed no decrease whatsoever in the amount of sunlight reaching the arid, airless
surface of the Earth's only satellite.
The cause was somewhere on Earth. And the Security Council requested the careful
scanning of the Earth from space platforms and the Moon to determine the center of the
trouble.
Burl Denning had not found the next valley of much interest, either. Evidence of an Inca
road over the mountain had petered out. There were signs there had been human
dwellings, but they were not Inca just reminders of the onetime passage of an unknown
band of primitives who had grazed their sheep, built temporary tents, and pulled up stakes
perhaps a hundred years before.
So again at night, Burl, his father, and Gonzales took counsel. They were debating which
way to proceed next; Mark Denning reasoning that they should go further inland,
following tales natives had told; Gonzales urging that they retrack their path and proceed
northward toward the regions where Inca ruins abounded.
For the past week Burl had not been able to get radio reception. The static had increased
as they had gone eastward over the mountain, but not a word of news or any human voice
came through. The Moon was rising on the horizon as Burl sat playing with the antenna.
Finally he gave up and switched it off.
The discussion had died away and the three men were quiet. The Indian guides had
retired to their own campfire, and one of them had taken out his pipes and was blowing a
soft, plaintive tune.

Burl stared at the full Moon in silence, wondering if he would ever have a chance to walk
its surface, or if his own future was to lie in probing mankind's past rather than surveying
the grounds of his future. As he watched, he thought he saw a faint light among the
brightening stars where none had been before.
He squinted, and, sure enough, he saw that one tiny white light was swinging more and
more toward the center of the sky. He pointed it out to his father and Gonzales. "Too fast
to be a celestial object," he said. "Is it one of the space platforms or a sputnik?"
The two men gazed at it in curiosity. Suddenly it seemed to grow brighter and sharper
and to twist toward them in its path.
"Look!" gasped Burl, but the others were already on their feet.
The light plunged down. There was a sudden outburst of yellow flame that caused the
three to duck instinctively, and brought the Indians to their feet with yells. The glare
brightened until they could see that something was just above them. The fire vanished as
swiftly as it came, but a white spot of light remained.
"It's a parachute!" Burl shouted. "It's a rocket or something, braking to a stop above us,
and coming down by parachute!"
In the pale light of the full Moon they saw that something metallic and glistening hung
from the white mushroom of a parachute. There was a clanging sound as it hit the rocky
earth with a soft, sighing whoosh. The cloth of the parachute settled.
They ran across the dry stone of the valley floor, but Burl's long, athletic legs
outdistanced the others. He reached it first.
It was a cylinder of metal, about three feet long and a foot in diameter.
"It's the nose of a message missile dropped from a guided missile," Burl announced.
"And look!" He dramatically pointed the beam of his flashlight upon its side.
There, written in black, heat-resistant paint, were the words: To the Denning Andes
Expedition, from U.S. Air Force Base, California