“Missus Parry to you, Miz’ Sigafoos, if you don’t mind. Now the both of you be gone, be gone, be gone.”
At last we are alone.
“Now,” Mrs. Parry grunts, “maybe we can get back to farmin’. Such foolishness and me a busy woman.” She looks at me closely and says: “I do believe the old fool was right. You’re as white as a sheet.” She feels my forehead. “Oh, shoot! You do have a temperature. You better get to bed. If you ain’t better in the morning I’ll call Doc Hines.”
So I am in the bedroom writing this letter, Mr. Marino, and I hope you will help me out. Like I said I never ast no favors but this is special.
Mr. Marino, will you please, please go to the judge and tell him I have a change of heart and don’t want no probation? Tell him I want to pay my debt to society. Tell him I want to go to jail for three years, and for them to come and get me right away.
Sincerely,
Anthony (Tough Tony) Cornaro
P.S. On my way to get a stamp for this I notice that I have some gray hairs which is very unusual for a person going on seventeen. Please tell the judge I wouldn’t mind if they give me solitary confinement and that maybe it would help me pay my debt to society.
In haste,
T.T.
Takeoff
In many countries of the world there are Interplanetary or Rocket Societies whose members, fired with Man’s age-old dream of space flight, can do little more that plan on paper the vital statistics necessary for the first flight to the Mo on. This story, second in last year’s International Fantasy Award, tells of one such Society suddenly endowed with unlimited capital.
Part One of Three Parts
I.
Morning of a bureaucrat.
On the wall behind his desk D aniel Holland, general manager of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, had hung the following:
His diploma from Harvard Law, ’39;
A photograph of himself shaking hands with his hero, the late David Lilienthal, first A.E.C. chairman;
His certificate of honorable active service in the Army of the United States as a first lieutenant, in the Judge Advocate General’s Department, dated February 12,1945;
A letter of commendation from the general counsel of the T.Y.A., which included best wishes for his former assistant’s success in the new and challenging field of public administration he was entering;
A diploma declaring in Latin that he was an honorary Doctor of Laws of the University of North Carolina as of June 15, 1956;
A blowup of The New Republic’s vitriolic paragraph on his “Bureaucracy versus the People” (New York, 1956);
A blowup of Time magazine’s vitriolic paragraph on his “Red Tape Empires” (New York, 1957);
Signed photographs of heroes (Lilienthal, the late Senator McMahon); industrialists (Henry Kaiser, the late Charles E. Wilson of General Motors, Wilson Stuart of Western Aircraft, the late John B. Watson of International Business Machines); scientists (James B. Conant, J. Robert Oppenheimer); and politicians (Chief Justice Palmer, Senator John Marshall Butler of Maryland, ex-President Truman, ex-President Warren, President Douglas);
An extract from the Jaiyiary 27, 1947, hearings of the Senate half of the joint Senate-House Committee on Atomic Energy—held in connection with confirmation of the President’s appointees to the A.E.C., particularly that of Lilienthal—which ran as follows:
Senator McKellar (to Mr. Lilienthal): Did it not seem to you to be remarkable that in connection with experiments that have been carried on since the days of Alexander the Great, when he had his Macedonian scientists trying to split the atom, the President of the United States would discharge General Groves, the discoverer of the greatest secret that the world has ever known, the greatest discovery, scientific discovery, that has ever been made, to turn the whole matter over to you: who never really knew, except from what you saw in the newspapers, that the Government was even thinking about atomic energy?
The Chairman: Let us have it quiet please.
Senator McKellar: You are willing to admit, are you, that this secret, or the first history of it, dated from the time when Alexander the Great had. his Macedonian scientists trying to make this discovery, and then Lucretius wrote a poem about it, about two thousand years ago. And everybody has been trying to discover it, or most scientists have been trying to discuss it, ever since. And do you not really think that General Groves, for having discovered it, is entitled to some little credit for it?
“Read that,” said Holland to his first caller of the morning. “Go on, read it.”
James MacIlheny, Los Angeles insurance man and president of the American Society for Space Flight, gave him an inquiring look and slowly read the extract.
“I suppose,” MacIlheny said at last, “your point is that you wouldn’t be able to justify granting my request if Congress called you to account.”
“Exactly. I’m a lawyer myself; I know how they think. Right-wrong, black-white, convicted-acquitted. Exactly why should A.E.C. ‘co-operate and exchange information with’ you people? If you’re any good, we ought to hire you. If you aren’t any good, we oughtn’t to waste time on you.”
“Are those your personal views, Mr. Holland?” asked MacIlheny, flushing.
Holland sighed. “My personal views are on the record in a couple of out-of-print books, a few magazine articles, and far too many congressional-hearing minutes. You didn’t come here to discuss my personal views; you came for an answer to a question. The answer has got to be ‘no’ ”.
“I came on your invitation——” MacIlheny began angrily, and then he pulled himself together. “I’m not going to waste time losing my temper. I just want you to consider some facts. American Government rocket research is scattered all over hell—Army, Navy, Air Force, Bureau of Standards, Coast and Geodetic Survey, and God-alone-knows-where-else. You gentlemen don’t let much news out, but obviously we’re getting nowhere. We would have had a manned rocket on the moon ten years ago if we were! I’m speaking for some people who know the problem, a lot of them trained, technical men. We’ve got the drawings. We’ve had some of them for fifteen years! All that’s needed is money and fuel, atomic fuel——”
Holland looked at his watch, and MacIlheny stopped in mid-flight. “I see it’s not getting through,” he said bitterly. “When the Russian or Argentine lunar guided missiles begin to fall on America you’ll have a lot to be proud of, Mr. Holland.” He started for the door. Before he was out, Holland’s secretary was in, summoned by a buzzer.
“Let’s hit the mail, Charlie,” Holland said, lighting a cigarette and emptying his overflowing “in” basket on his desk.
Ryan’s bid on the Missoula construction job. “Tell him very firmly that I want him to get the contract because of his experience, but that his bid’s ridiculously high. Scare him a little.”
Damages claim from an ex-A.E.C. employee’s lawyer, alleging loss of virility from radiation exposure. “Tell Morton to write this shyster absolutely nothing doing; it’s utterly ridiculous. Hint that we’ll have him up before his state bar association if he pesters us any more. And follow through if he does!”
Dr. Mornay at Oak Ridge still wanted to publish his article arguing for employment of foreign-born scientific personnel in the A.E.C. “Write him a very nice letter. Say I’ve seriously considered his arguments but I still think publication would be a grave error on his part. See my previous letter for reasons and ask him just to consider what Senator Hoyt would make of his attitude.”
The governor of Nevada wanted him to speak at a dam dedication. “Tell him no, I never speak, sorry.”
Personnel report from Missoula Directed Ops. “Greenleaf’s lost three more good men, damn it. Acknowledge his letter of transmittal—warm personal regards. And tell Weiss to look over the table of organization for a spot we can switch him to where he’ll stay in grade but won’t be a boss-man.”
Half-year fiscal estimate from Holloway at Chalk River Liaison Group in Canada. “Acknowledge
it but don’t say yes or no. Make copies for Budget and Comptroller. Tell Weiss to ride them for an opinion but not to give them any idea whether I think it’s high, low, Or perfect. I want to know what they think by tomorrow afternoon.
Messenger query from the A.P. on Hoyt’s speech in the Senate. “Tell them I haven’t seen the text yet and haven’t had a chance to check A.E.C. medical records against the Senator’s allegations. Add that in my personal experience I’ve never met an alcoholic scientist and until I do I’ll continue to doubt that there is any such animal. Put some jokes in it.”
The retiring Regional Security and Intelligence Office agent in charge at Los Angeles wanted to know Holland’s views on who should succeed him. Records of three senior agents attached. “Tell him Anheier looks like the best bet.”
The Iranian ambassador, with an air of injured innocence, wanted to know why his country’s exchange students had been barred even from nonrestricted A.E.C. facilities. “Tell him it was a State Department decision. Put in some kind of a dig so he’ll know I know they started it with our kids. Clear it with State before I see it.”
A rambling petition from the Reverend Oliver Townsend Warner, Omaha spellbinder. “I can’t make head or tail of this. Tell Weiss to answer it some way or other. I don’t want to see any more stuff from Warner; he may have a following but the man’s a crank.”
Recruiting programme report from Personnel Office. “Acknowledge this and tell them I’m not happy about it. Tell them I want on my desk next Monday morning some constructive ideas about roping better junior personnel in, and keeping them with us. Tell them it’s perfectly plain that we’re getting the third-rate graduates of the third-rate schools and it’s got to stop.”
Letter from Regional Security and Intelligence officer at Chicago; the F.B.I. had turned over a derogatory information against Dr. Oslonski, mathematical physicist. “Hell. Write Oslonski a personal letter and tell him I’m sorry but he’s going to be suspended from duty and barred from the grounds again. Tell him we’ll get his clearance over within the minimum possible time and I know it’s a lot of foolishness but policy is policy and we’ve got to think of the papers and Congress. Ask him please to consider the letter a very private communication. And process the S. and I. advisory.”
A North Dakota senator wanted a job for his daughter, who had just graduated from Bennington. “Tell Morton to write him that Organization and Personnel hires, not the general manager.”
Dr. Redford at Los Alamos wanted to resign; he said he felt he was getting nowhere. “Ask him please, as a personal favor to me, to delay action on his resignation until I’ve been able to have a talk with him. Put in something about our acute shortage of first-line men. And teletype the director there to rush-reply a report on the trouble.” A red-bordered, courier-transmitted letter from the Secretary of the Department of the Interior, stamped Secret. He wanted to know when he would be able to figure on results from A.E.C.’s A.D.M.P.—Atomic Demolition Material Programme—in connection with planning for Sierra Reclamation Project. “Tell Interior we haven’t got a thing for him and haven’t got a date. The feeling among the A.D.M.P. boys is that they’ve been off on a blind alley for the past year and ought to resurvey their approach to the problem. I’m giving them another month because Scientific Advisory claims the theory is sound. That’s secret, by courier.”
Hanford’s quarterly omnibus report. “Acknowledge it and give it to Weiss to brief for me.”
Messenger query from the Bennet newspapers; what about a rumour from Los Angeles that the A.E.C. had launched a great and costly programme for a space-rocket atomic fuel. “Tell them A.E.C. did not, does not, and probably will not contemplate a space-rocket fuel programme. Say I think I know where the rumour started and that it’s absolutely without foundation, impossible to launch such a programme without diverting needed weaponeering personnel, etcetera.”
Field Investigations wanted to know whether they should tell the Attorney General about a trucking line they caught swindling the A.E.C. “Tell them I don’t want prosecution except as a last resort. I do want restitution of the grafted dough, I want the Blue Streak board of directors to fire the president and his damn cousin in the dispatcher’s office, and most of all I want Field Investigations to keep these things from happening instead of catching them after they happen.”
And so on.
MacIlheny went disconsolately to his room at the Willard and packed. They wouldn’t start charging him for another day until 3.00 p.m.: he opened his portable and began tapping out his overdue “President’s Message” for Starward, monthly bulletin of the American Society for Space Flight. It flowed more easily than usual. MacIlheny was sore.
Fellow Members:
I am writing this shortly after being given a verbal spanking by a high muckamuck of the A.E.C. I was told in effect to pick up my marbles and not to bother the older boys: the Government isn’t interested in us bumbling amateurs. I can’t say I enjoyed this after my hopes had been raised by the exchange of several letters and an invitation to see Mr. Holland about it “the next time I was in Washington.” I suppose I mistook routine for genuine interest. But I’ve learned something out of this disheartening experience.
It’s this: we’ve been wasting a lot of time in the A.S.F.S.F. by romancing about how the Government would some day automatically take cognizance of our sincere and persistent work. My experience today duplicates what happened in 1946, when our campaign for the Government to release unnecessarily classified rocketry art was the flop of the year.
You all know where we stand. Twenty years of theoretical work and math have taken us as far as we can go alone. We now need somebody else’s money and somebody else’s fuel. A lot of people have money, but under existing circumstances only the A.E.C. can have or ever be likely to have atomic fuel.
The way I feel about it, our next step is fund-raising—lots of it—hat-in-hand begging at the doors of industrial firms and scientific foundations. With that money we can go on from the drawing board to practical experimental work on bits and pieces of space ship, lab-testing our drawing-board gadgets until we know they work and can prove it to anybody—even an A.E.C. general manager.
When we have worked the bugs out of our jato firing circuits, our deadlight gaskets, our manhole seals, our acceleration couches, and the hundred-and-one accessories of space flight, we’ll be in a new position. We will be able to go to the A.E.C. and tell them: “Here’s a space ship. Give us fuel for it. If you don’t, we’ll hold you up to the scorn and anger of the country you are blindly refusing to defend.”
James MacIlheny
President, A.S.F.S.F.
MacIlheny sat back, breathing hard and feeling more composed. There was no point to hating Holland, but it had been tragic to find him, a keyman, afraid of anything new and even afraid to admit it, hiding behind Congress.
He still had some time to kill. He took from his brief case a report by the A.S.F.S.F. Orbit Computation Committee (two brilliant youngsters from Cal Tech, a Laguna Beach matron to punch the calculating machine and a flow-analysis engineer from Hughes Aircraft) entitled “Refined Calculations of Grazing Ellipse Braking Trajectories for a Mars Landing After a Flight Near Apposition.” Dutifully he tried to read, but at the bottom of its first mimeographed page the report ran into the calculus of variations. MacIlheny knew no mathematics; he was no scientist and he did not pretend to be one. He was a rocket crank, he knew it, and it was twisting his life.
He threw himself into a chair and thought bitterly of the United States moon base that should have been established ten years ago, that should be growing now with the arrival of every monthly rocket. He knew it by heart; the observatory where telescopes—of moderate size, but unhampered by Earth’s dense and shimmering atmosphere—would solve new stellar mysteries every day; the electronics lab where space-suited engineers would combine and recombine vacuum-tube elements with all outdoors for their vacuum tube; the hydroponics tanks growing green stuff for air and
food, fed exhaled carbon dioxide and animal waste, producing oxygen and animal food under the raw sunlight on the Moon.
And he could see a most important area dotted with launchers for small, unmanned rockets with fission-bomb war heads, ready to smash any nation that hit the United States first.
He could see it; why not they? The scattered, unco-ordinated, conservative rocketry since World War II had produced what?
Army guided missiles, roaring across arcs of the Pacific every now and then on practice runs.
Air Force altitude jobs squirting up on liquid fuel from the deserts of the Southwest. There was a great, strange, powder-blue city of half a million souls at White Sands, New Mexico, where colonels spoke only to generals and generals spoke only to God. They were “working on” the space-flight problem; they were “getting out the bugs.”
The Coast and Geodetic Survey firing its mapping rockets up and over, up and over, eternally, coast to coast, taking strips and strips of pictures.
The Bureau of Standards shooting up its cosmic-ray research rockets; for ten years they “had been developing” a space-suit for walking on the Moon. (There were space-suit drawings in the A.S.F.S.F. files—had been for fifteen years.)
The Navy had its rockets too. You could fire them from submarines, destroyers, cruisers, and special rocket-launching battlewagons that cost maybe sixty-odd what a space ship would stand you.
MacIlheny glumly told himself: might as well get to the airport. No point hanging around here.
He checked out, carrying his light overnight bag and portable. An inconspicuous man followed him to the airport; he had been following MacIlheny for weeks. They both enjoyed the walk; it was a coldly sun-bright January day.
II.
Collected Short Fiction Page 194
