by Earl
Ten minutes later, although reeling from loss of blood from his shoulder wound, Professor Hobson had finished smashing the machine to pieces. The secret of destructive beam transmission would die with him; the world was better off without it.
Then he leaned pantingly against the work-bench and looked again at the two huddled bodies on the floor, both hideously mangled. When the police came, they would want to know what had exploded every cartridge in the guns the two men had earned, killing them both instantly.
“They’ll never know,” muttered Professor Hobson to himself, “that in putting the cathode electronizer in place, I put it into a reverse position, making a common static machine out of it. The built-up twenty thousand volts then jumped to the nearest metal, which was their guns, as I planned.” He laughed weakly, almost hysterically.
“I was explaining beam transmission, and all the while it was spark transmission . . . static . . .”
1937
S O S IN SPACE
Hemmed in by two bands—cat off from both Earth and Mars. Cause: unknown!
Aboard the Space liner Antares, Earthbound from Zarno, Mars, December 23, 2:05 p.m., Earth time.
General Message to Marsbound Ships: Area of electrostatic disturbance located in Fourth Quadrant, Sunline A-6, of unprecedented intensity. Believed to be caused by concentrated electron streams from Sun spots. Our main electric line was short-circuited and we are in total darkness except for emergency battery light. No danger. Tests by reflection of radio waves indicate that the band of disturbance may occupy the entire Fourth Quadrant. Suggest that Marsbound ships swing up into Third Quadrant to escape this electron band. That is all.
Captain Robert Bernshaw,
per Sylvester O’Brien,
Chief Radio Operator,
S.L. Antares.
Aboard the Space liner Sirius, Marsbound from Chicago, Earth, December 23, 2:18 p.m., Earth time.
QX to S.L. Antares: Acknowledging warning of electron band in Fourth Quadrant, Sunline A-6. Thanks. Unofficial: What would they call you for short? Syllie?
Jerre McRoy,
Chief Radio Operator,
S.L. Sirius, W.L. 0.56 meters.
S.L. Antares,
2:23 p.m., Earth time. Unofficial to SX. Sirius: My dear Mr. J. McRoy, if you are trying to be funny, let me warn you that I have a temper as Irish as my name. I am six-feet two, weight 198 on the hoof—i.e. on Earth; on Mars, 75 Earth pounds—and am conceded the best boxer in Pilot Co. 24, Zarno. If you care—or dare—to look me up at Space Pier 24’s gymnasium any time, say the word.
Hopefully yours,
Syl O’Brien,
S.L. Antares.
P.S. Say, are there any pretty girls left in Chicago? I haven’t been there in two years, since being on the Venus-Mars lines. If you can slip me a visiphone number or two, I’ll forgo the duty and pleasure of knocking your sassy block off. S.O.
S.L. Sirius,
2:29 p.m., Earth time.
Unofficial to S.L. Antares: My very dear Syl O’Brien, you seem a very belligerent sort, but I’m not afraid of you. On Mars you would outweigh a man of 175 by only 7 pounds, which is hardly any advantage at all. However, if you’ll get off your high horse for a moment, I’ll explain that I’m simply a lonely human being looking for a little radio pal. Our third radio operator took sick on the space bends, and as a result the other two of us are on alternate eight-hour shifts, and, believe me, that’s not funny. I’ve tried out one other chap as a radio pal—S.L. Vega—but all he could talk about was the weather, and Heaven knows there’s no weather out here! In other words he bored in more than taking down the meteor and direction-beam reports. I’d like to try you out, Irish. What can you talk about?
Roamer of the Ether,
Jerre, S.L. Sirius.
P.S. yourself. As for pretty girls in Chicago, your standards are probably much lower than mine, so I couldn’t help you out. By the way, I understand a very charming red-haired girl has recently signed up at Space Pier 18. If you’re interested, you can try working through a call to Co. 18, Chicago, and find out her ship and schedule.
J.M.
S.L. Antares, 2:37 p.m.
Unofficial: Dear Jerre, are you Sirius? Now that I’ve vented my Irish temper on you with that bad pun, I’m willing to call off the dogs and chew the proverbial rag. But since you seem to be a choosy sort, I suppose first of all I’ll have to pass the test as to whether I’m boring or not.
Well, to start it off I’ll give you some inside low-down on that electron band we’re passing through. Our lights are still out—I’m reading your message by flashlight—but the electrician thinks he’ll have the trouble fixed in an hour or so. Naturally, we aren’t getting any directional beam signals, as we’ve drifted away off course, in a flat, unpowered arc. We’re getting the meteor warnings on auxiliary battery power, like the radio—but they are useless since we’re not on the course they apply to! All in all, the Antares is just blundering along, somewhere in the Fourth Quadrant.
It is very weird in a way, this passing through an electron band, which I understand is like a huge geyser of speeding electrons gushing out into space from a group of Sun spots on old Sol. I passed through a small one a year ago, but nothing like this, where our whole ship is glowing with an eerie purple light. From the side port window the curve of the hull has millions of little violet lights dancing helter-skelter over it, and every now and then there is a shower of white-hot sparks, as if we had touched the end of a live wire.
Some of the passengers—we’re carrying 245—were a bit scared and thought the hull was being pierced and that we were in peril. Captain Bernshaw, a fierce old impatient rascal—for Jupiter’s sake, Jerre, don’t let these asides slip into the official records; needless warning I hope!—got mad when timid souls kept pounding at his door, so he called a general meeting in the main salon and gave them a speech. It was a civil enough speech—for him—but I saw plenty of people flush under his veiled scorn for their fears. He plainly enough told them that we were in absolutely no danger; just entering an area of electrostatic disturbance. He likened it to St. Elmo’s Fire, the phenomenon that sometimes occurred on sailing vessels in tropical regions of Earth. And he said it was harmless.
But I can’t blame the passengers for getting a little worried. A general prickling of the skin has been noticeable since we’ve encountered the thing, and it’s beastly irritating, to temper as well as comfort. It may account for my sudden rage—I was really mad!—when I got your first message. Anyway, it was just as Cap Bernshaw got through quieting their fears that the lights burned out, all over the ship at once!
That was quite a sensation! One moment light—the next an utter, intense darkness that you could almost feel. I’ll admit it made me gasp. Then, a few minutes later, our eyes adjusted themselves and we were able to see by the light of the stars that came in the ports. And on the Sun side, Cap Bernshaw had the Sun shutters removed so that part of the ship was bathed in that too-effective illumination.
I had been in the crew’s quarters at the time. One of the officers came up from below and related that at least a dozen women had fainted in the salon, and a general mixture of moans and screams arose from all. Our engines began to splutter a little later, too—interference in the sparking chambers—and at present we are going along unpowered. We have the same velocity, of course, that we had when we hit the electron band—good old Newton!—but we are losing time and will be a number of hours late at our Chicago dock.
That is, I hope it will be just hours, and not a day or two. Yet if this damned fountain of electrons fills the whole Fourth Quadrant, we’re going to be delayed plenty. The engines won’t function till we pass out of it. If you’re wondering how my radio wave is working through, with all this electrostatic interference, so am I. It may be that——QXN—stand by! . . .
Hello, Jerre, still there? If so, give me a power sig. . . .
O.K. The 5-minute break there was to take in an official message from Zarno
. They report that the Orion, Venus bound, just emerged from a similar electron band out that way. Damned Sun spots seem to be raising general hell. Those electron streams, emanating from the Sun spots, which are like sores on the Sun, and spraying out into the solar system like a conical searchlight beam, are the things, you know, that account for the Aurora Borealis on Earth. And for the still more famous and brilliant Venus Glow. Seems the electrons mix it up with a planet’s magnetic lines of force and produce ionization phenomena.
Have you ever been fortunate enough to see the Venus Glow during the so-called Cool Season—cool at 130 degrees!—from the latitude of Szosh-Kanso, near the north pole? A rare sight! As the great Venusian poet put it, “The robe of the cosmo-queen spectrum lined, shimmering in some celestial wind.” Earth’s vaunted Aurora Borealis is a candle to it.
Well, here I am going off on a bat about the Venus Glow; but, in case you’re getting any wrong impressions, let me refer you to my first message. And my offer still holds good! Oh, hell, I didn’t want to say that! I guess it’s this rotten prickling that’s giving me fits of temper. In fact, all of us aboard the Airfares here are pretty jumpy from it, let alone the lights being out and the engines blotto.
Anyway, I note it is close to 3 o’clock, and my relief comes then. I’ll just have time to take in a brief reply from you. That ought to be in keeping with your Scotch name. Besides, my fingers are getting stiff and the keys feel like pincushions. Well, did I pass the test, or did you fall asleep?
Syl O’Brien, S.L. Antares.
P.S. Did you say “charming” redhaired girl pilot at Space Pier 18? My boy, I’ve seen and met dozens of female spacemen—or spacewomen!—and not one, not a solitary one of them, was even remotely “charming.” Space hags, every one of them—hard-bitten, cold, and ugly as Pluto. So, thanks for nothing. Syl.
S.L. Sirius, 2:55.
Unofficial: You passed the test with flying colors, pal! Colors like the very Venus Glow itself! Sissy! That riposte about my Highland name drew blood, too, so when, and if, we meet, it’ll be war! But in the meantime, let’s be neutral and use up some more unofficial kilowattage. As luck would have it, my relief is at 3 o’clock also, so I’ll be ready for your QX sig any time after 11 p.m. Au revoir—or, as they say on Mars, “Till separation ends.”
Jerre, S.L. Sirius.
Time for a P.S.? About the redheaded “charming” girl spaceman, she probably wouldn’t want to meet you, either, I can just picture you as an overgrown gorilla with a squashed pan, one ear cauliflowered and the other frozen off from space-suit work, and with a voice like a Jovian Bellow Frog. Radio waves tell no tales! J.M.
Antares, December 24, 12:15 a.m.
Unofficial: Hi, Scotty! Pardon the hour’s delay, but I just had a run of official QX’s. Just got your O.K. sig in reply to my power QX, so I know you’re there at the keys on the Sirius. We have to be careful, you know, that our unofficials get to each other. Cap Bernshaw is Scotch, too, and if he knew I was wasting a few watts on unofficials, he’d have me on the carpet. In fact, he’d stuff me right out the stern hatch, he’s that fussy for discipline.
Anyhow, Jerre, here I am, and let’s hear the news from you first. Is the Sirius going to to the dogs? Syl.
P.S. You left out one little detail of my description—I’m bow-legged! Now this “charming” space girl with the red mop—she’d be tall and gawky and bony, with a sour, chinless face, big, flabby feet, and a voice like a scratchy phonograph record. I know the type too well. Probably as lovable as a Uranian Cactus Rat. S.O.
Sirius, 12:23: Greetings, Shamrock! I’m not bothering to paragraph this, and you cannot bother doing the same, so we’ll both save time and recording paper. I used to do the same when I had a typewriter—run everything together. News? No news here on this wagon, except that a young and sensitive girl passenger ran a fit of the usual space fear—her first trip—and caused some commotion before they could get her to the med ward for a dose of sleeping drug that’ll keep her under for the rest of the trip. Remember in the old days—a century ago—before they really knew what it was all about, how people used to get an attack of space fear and go crazy? Even though it was so long ago, and hasn’t happened in the last century, I still shudder to think of that battered old liner that pulled into port with only one sane man aboard! But enough of that. Let’s hear your news. There must be plenty more than I have. How’s the Antares doing with the electron business?
P.S. Say, Irish, you sure have it in for space femmes, don’t you? I’d laugh if you met the red-haired one and found out she was really pretty!
Jerre.
Antares: Got your message, Jerre.
Stand by for answer later. Cap Bernshaw on a rampage. Loading me with official QXs. Will give you sig.
Syl.
P.S. Haw!
Antares, 3:15 a.m.: O.K., Scotty boy, got your return sig. Yes, I know it’s three hours since last time. And ring me Saturn if it hasn’t been the busiest, sweatingest three hours I’ve ever tapped keys on a radiotyper. Zarno wanted a complete report on what we’ve encountered so far, so Cap Bernshaw had me pour out all our troubles.
Jerre, things don’t look so good. Our lights are still out! They were fixed for a while and then—blooey! out again! It seems this electron band is bigger than any of us thought possible. We’re still in the thick of it. Engines blotto. We may be in for another 24 hours of this blasted skin prickling and sans light. I caught a few all-wave QXs on the automatic, and Zarno is calling all ships back till this clears away. Chicago, on the other hand, is routing some freighters via the First Quadrant, on long schedule, but ready at a moment’s notice to call them back, if these lanes become blocked.
Cap Bernshaw is charging around like a bull, shouting and roaring. He’s worried. I understand he had a secret meeting of ail officers and told them to be ready for emergency. He’s put us all on extra duty, cutting our sleeping time. I don’t mind that so much, though, because sleep is almost impossible anyway. Have you ever had your foot fall asleep and then come back to life with a million needles jabbing away? That’s about how our whole skin surface feels, only worse.
Our hull outside is glowing hideously violet, with a constant pyrotechnic of sparks and zigzags of blue electricity. Something tells me we’re charged with about a trillion volts, and if we happen to pass close enough to another ship—God forbid!—there would be some terrific exchanges of electrical energy, like a lightning flash from charged cloud to cloud. There’s no ionized air here to conduct current, but enough free electrons serve the same purpose.
As the electrician put it, we’ve walked into an inconceivably large batch of static energy, and we might just as well be a stick of dynamite plunging through space. You’re lucky I can’t shake hands with you now, Scotch boy. All the static electricity that has gradually accumulated in me since we’ve entered the electron band would shoot over to you—like that! Result—a cinder formerly named Jerre McRoy.
Of course, our fuel tanks are safely insulated in their bi-vacuum cradles. All the feed pipes have been drained. We won’t be able to start our engines till we’ve passed out of this cloud of electrons and waited for our charge to dissipate. That may be another 24 hours.
Probably no decent sleep in 24 hours! I’m glad I’ve got you to talk to, Jerre. I’m pretty jittery. Even the food tastes like it had volts in it—sort of sandy like. My radiotyper here is glowing like a turquoise. Lord, this general blueness and sick lavender is getting on my nerves. How I’d like to see yellows and reds for a change. Even the red of our girl friend’s top-notch. Say, come to think of it, you’ve harped about her quite steadily, and just why? There—have to cut it. More officials. Will sig you later. Syl.
P.S. Do you know her? I’ll bet she’s your sister and you’re trying to lure some man into her scrawny clutches! S.O.
Unofficial to Antares, automatic recording: My sympathies for your predicament. Hope it will be less than 24 hours. The carrot-top girl, being a “spaceman” herself, proba
bly wouldn’t look at anything less than a first mate or captain, so have no fears. J.M.
Antares, 7:14 a.m., December 24th: O.K., Jerre, got your QXJM. The past 4 hours have been a nightmare. Official QXs by the dozen, mostly warnings to avoid the Fourth Quadrant, to Mars, Earth, Venus, and even Jupiter. You’ve probably had some of the rebounds from Earth. Is your ship cutting away from the Fourth? I timed your return power sig at 20 seconds—that’s 2,000,000 miles between us. You’re a long ways from the Third Quadrant, where you should be. How come? Syl.
Sirius, 7:18: We’ve bad a little excitement here just this last hour in finding that something is haywire with our instruments. We’ve been cutting toward what we took to be the Third Quadrant for 6 hours. But when we crossed a directional beam signal, it showed we were deeper in the Fourth! Syl, that electron band is playing bigger tricks than just unpowering and short-circuiting your ship. It has bent the directional beams! Either that or it has gummed up our instruments, even though they’re insulated to the limit. Anyway, we’re off course, just like you are—about 5,000,000 miles. We’re still powered, but we must be near the band you’re in, because our radium-faced dials are shooting out inch-long sparks. We’re decelerating at present. I don’t know quite what Captain Rollway has in mind—whether he’s turning back for Earth, or cutting for what he hopes is the Third Quadrant. How are things in the Antares? Jerre.
Antares: If I could growl over the ether, I would. My second assistant operator is in the med ward in the throes of some damned fever, along with 26 of the passengers. That means half time at the radio for me. It seems to be some sort of nerve cramp induced by the high-tension field we’re existing in. Cap Bernshaw is frankly worried now. No telling what hellish thing may happen if we don’t have relief soon. We can’t eat, sleep, or even sit still. You’ve probably noticed that I’m coming through in jerks. That’s because my hands are actually twitching at the keys. How is my wave coming in?
