Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Blake poked a finger at a line sketch with which Graves had illustrated his description. “You actually intend to try to ascend the Pillars in that?"

  Eisenberg replied. “Not him, captain. Me."

  Graves reddened. “My damned doctor —"

  “And your colleagues," Eisenberg added. “It’s this way, captain: There’s nothing wrong with Doc’s nerve, but he has a leaky heart, a pair of submarine ears, and a set of not-so-good arteries. So the Institute has delegated me to kinda watch over him."

  “Now look here," Graves protested, “Bill, you’re not going to be stuffy about this. I’m an old man; I’ll never have another such chance."

  “No go," Eisenberg denied. “Captain, I wish to inform you that the Institute vested title of record to that gear we brought aboard in me, just to keep the old war horse from doing anything foolish."

  “That’s your pidgin," Blake answered testily. “My instructions are to facilitate Dr. Graves’ research. Assuming that one or the other of you wish to commit suicide in that steel coffin, how do you propose to enter the Kanaka Pillar?"

  “Why, that’s your job, captain. You put the sphere into the up column and pick it up again when it comes down the down column."

  Blake pursed his lips, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that."

  “Huh? Why not?"

  “I will not take my ship closer than three miles to the Pillars. The Mahan is a sound ship, but she is not built for speed. She can’t make more than twelve knots. Some place inside that circle the surface current which feeds the Kanaka column will exceed twelve knots. I don’t care to find out where, by losing my ship.

  “There have been an unprecedented number of unreported fishing vessels out of the islands lately. I don’t care to have the Mahan listed."

  “You think they went up the column?"

  “I do."

  “But, look, captain," suggested Bill Eisenberg, “you wouldn’t have to risk the ship. You could launch the sphere from a power boat."

  Blake shook his head. “Out of the question," he said grimly. “Even if the ship’s boats were built for the job, which they aren’t, I will not risk naval personnel. This isn’t war."

  “I wonder," said Graves softly.

  “What’s that?"

  Eisenberg chuckled. “Doc has a romantic notion that all the odd phenomena turned up in the past few years can be hooked together into one smooth theory with a single, sinister cause — everything from the Pillars to LaGrange’s fireballs."

  “LaGrange’s fireballs? How could there be any connection there? They are simply static electricity, allee samee heat lightning. I know; I’ve seen 'em."

  The scientists were at once attentive, Graves’ pique and Eisenberg’s amusement alike buried in truth-tropism. “You did? When? Where?"

  “Golf course at Hilo. Last March. I was —"

  “That case! That was one of the disappearance cases!"

  “Yes, of course. I’m trying to tell you. I was standing in a sand trap near the thirteenth green, when I happened to look up —" A clear, balmy island day. No clouds, barometer normal, light breeze. Nothing to suggest atmospheric disturbance, no maxima of sunspots, no static on the radio. Without warning a half dozen, or more, giant fireballs — ball “lightning" on a unprecedented scale — floated across the golf course in a sort of skirmish line, a line described by some observers as mathematically even — an assertion denied by others.

  A woman player, a tourist from the mainland, screamed and began to run. The flanking ball nearest her left its place in line and danced after her. No one seemed sure that the ball touched her — Blake could not say although he had watched it happen — but when the ball had passed on, there she lay on the grass, dead.

  A local medico of somewhat flamboyant reputation insisted that he found evidence in the cadaver of both coagulation and electrolysis, but the jury that sat on the case followed the coroner’s advice in calling it heart failure, a verdict heartily approved by the local chamber of commerce and tourist bureau.

  The man who disappeared did not try to run; his fate came to meet him. He was a caddy, a Japanese-Portygee-Kanata mixed breed, with no known relatives, a fact which should have made it easy to leave his name out of the news reports had not a reporter smelled it out. “He was standing on the green, not more than twenty-five yards away from me," Blake recounted, “when the fireballs approached. One passed on each side of me. My skin itched, and my hair stood up. I could smell ozone. I stood still —"

  “That saved you," observed Graves.

  “Nuts," said Eisenberg. “Standing in the dry sand of the trap was what saved him."

  “Bill, you’re a fool," Graves said wearily. “These fireball things perform with intelligent awareness."

  Blake checked his account. “Why do you assume that, doctor?"

  “Never mind, for the moment, please. Go on with your story."

  “Hm-m-m. Well, they passed on by me. The caddy fellow was directly in the course of one of them. I don’t believe he saw it — back toward it, you see. It reached him, enveloped him, passed on — but the boy was gone."

  Graves nodded. “That checks with the accounts I have seen. Odd that I did not recall your name from the reports."

  “I stayed in the background," Blake said shortly. “Don’t like reporters."

  “Hm-m-m. Anything to add to the reports that did come out? Any errors in them?"

  “None that I can recall. Did the reports mention the bag of golf clubs he was carrying?"

  “I think not."

  “They were found on the beach, six miles away."

  Eisenberg sat up. “That’s news," he said. “Tell me: Was there anything to suggest how far they had fallen? Were they smashed or broken?"

  Blake shook his head. “They weren’t even scratched, nor was the beach sand disturbed. But they were — ice-cold."

  Graves waited for him to go on; when the captain did not do so he inquired, “What do you make of it?"

  “Me? I make nothing of it."

  “How do you explain it?"

  “I don’t. Unclassified electrical phenomena. However, if you want a rough guess, I’ll give you one. This fireball is a static field of high potential. It englobes the caddy and charges him, whereupon he bounces away like a pith ball — electrocuted, incidentally. When the charge dissipates, he falls into the sea."

  “So? There was a case like it in Kansas, rather too far from the sea."

  “The body might simply never have been found."

  “They never are. But even so — how do you account for the clubs being deposited so gently? And why were they cold?"

  “Dammit, man, I don’t know! I’m no theoretician; I’m a maritime engineer by profession, an empiricist by disposition. Suppose you tell me."

  “All right — but bear in mind that my hypothesis is merely tentative, a basis for investigation. I see in these several phenomena, the Pillars, the giant fireballs, a number of other assorted phenomena which should never have happened, but did — including the curious case of a small mountain peak south of Boulder, Colorado, which had its tip leveled off 'spontaneously’ — I see in these things evidence of intelligent direction, a single conscious cause." He shrugged. “Call it the 'X’ factor. I’m looking for X."

  Eisenberg assumed a look of mock sympathy. “Poor old Doc," he sighed. “Sprung a leak at last."

  The other two ignored the crack. Blake inquired, “You are primarily an ichthyologist, aren’t you?"

  “Yes."

  “How did you get started along this line?"

  “I don’t know. Curiosity, I suppose. My boisterous young friend here would tell you that ichthyology is derived from 'icky.’ “

  Blake turned to Eisenberg. “But aren’t you an ichthyologist?"

  “Hell, no! I’m an oceanographer specializing in ecology."

  “He’s quibbling," observed Graves. “Tell Captain Blake about Cleo and Pat."

  Eisenberg looked embarrassed. “The
y’re damned nice pets," he said defensively.

  Blake looked puzzled; Graves explained. “He kids me, but his secret shame is a pair of goldfish. Goldfish! You’ll find 'em in the washbasin in his stateroom this minute."

  “Scientific interest?" Blake inquired with a dead pan.

  “Oh, no! He thinks they are devoted to him."

  “They’re damned nice pets," Eisenberg insisted. “They don’t bark, they don’t scratch, they don’t make messes. And Cleo does so have expression!"

  In spite of his initial resistance to their plans Blake Cooperated actively in trying to find a dodge whereby the proposed experiment could be performed without endangering naval personnel or material. He liked these two; he understood their curious mixture of selfless recklessness and extreme caution; it matched his own — it was professionalism, as distinguished from economic motivation.

  He offered the services of his master diver, an elderly commissioned warrant officer, and his technical crew in checking their gear. “You know," he added, “there is some reason to believe that your bathysphere could make the round trip, aside from the proposition that what goes up must come down. You know of the VJ-14?"

  “Was that the naval plane lost in the early investigation?"

  “Yes." He buzzed for his orderly. “Have my writer bring up the jacket on the VJ-14," he directed.

  Attempts to reconnoiter the strange “permanent" cloud and its incredible waterspouts had been made by air soon after its discovery. Little was learned. A plane would penetrate the cloud. Its ignition would fail; out it would glide, unharmed, whereupon the engines would fire again. Back into the cloud — engine failure. The vertical reach of the cloud was greater than the ceiling of any plane.

  “The VJ-14," Blake stated, referring occasionally to the file jacket which bad been fetched, “made an air reconnaissance of the Pillars themselves on 12 May, attended by the U. S. S. Pelican. Besides the pilot and radioman she carried a cinematographer and a chief aerographer. Mm-m-m —only the last two entries seem to be pertinent: 'Changing course. Will fly between the Pillars — 14,’ and '0913 — Ship does not respond to controls — 14.’ Telescopic observation from the Pelican shows that she made a tight upward spiral around the Kanaka Pillar, about one and a half turns, and was sucked into the column itself. Nothing was seen to fall.

  “Incidentally the pilot, Lieutenant-m-m-m-m, yes — Mattson — Lieutenant Mattson was exonerated posthumously by the court of inquiry. Oh, yes, here’s the point pertinent to our question: From the log of the Pelican. '1709 — Picked up wreckage identified as part of VJ-14. See additional sheet for itemized description.’ We needn’t bother with that. Point is, they picked it up four miles from the base of the Wahini Pillar on the side away from the Kanaka, The inference is obvious and your scheme might work. Not that you’d live through it."

  “I’ll chance it," Eisenberg stated.

  “Mm-m-m — yes. But I was going to suggest we send up a dead load, say a crate of eggs packed into a hogshead." The buzzer from the bridge sounded; Captain Blake raised his voice toward the brass funnel of a voice tube in the overhead. “Yes?"

  “Eight o’clock, Captain. Eight o’clock lights and galley fires out; prisoners secured."

  “Thank you, sir." Blake stood up. “We can get together on the details in the morning."

  A fifty-foot motor launch bobbed listlessly astern the Mahan. A nine-inch coir line joined it to its mother ship; bound to it at fathom intervals was a telephone line ending in a pair of headphones worn by a signalman seated in the stern sheets of the launch. A pair of flags and a spyglass lay on the thwart beside him; his blouse had crawled up, exposing part of the lurid cover of a copy of Dynamic Tales, smuggled along as a precaution against boredom.

  Already in the boat were the coxswain, the engineman, the boat officer, Graves, and Eisenberg. With them, forward in the boat, was a breaker of water rations, two fifty-gallon drums of gasoline — and a hogshead. It contained not only a carefully packed crate of eggs but also a jury-rigged smoke-signal device, armed three ways — delayed action set for eight, nine and ten hours; radio relay triggered from the ship; and simple salt-water penetration to complete an electrical circuit. The torpedo gunner in charge of diving hoped that one of them might work and thereby aid in locating the hogshead. He was busy trying to devise more nearly foolproof gear for the bathysphere.

  The boat, officer signaled ready to the bridge. A megaphoned bellow responded, “Pay her out handsomely!" The boat drifted slowly away from the ship and directly toward the Kanaka Pillar, three miles away.

  The Kanaka Pillar loomed above them, still nearly a mile away but loweringly impressive nevertheless. The place where it disappeared in cloud seemed almost overhead, falling toward them. Its five-hundred-foot-thick trunk gleamed purplish-black, more like polished steel than water.

  “Try your engine again, coxswain."

  “Aye, aye, sir!" The engine coughed, took hold; the engineman eased in the clutch, the screw bit in, and the boat surged forward, taking the strain off the towline. “Slack line, sir."

  “Stop your engine." The boat officer turned to his passengers. “What’s the trouble, Mr. Eisenberg? Cold feet?"

  “No, dammit — seasick. I hate a small boat."

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’ll see if we haven’t got a pickle in that chow up forward."

  “Thanks, but pickles don’t help me. Never mind, I can stand it."

  The boat officer shrugged, turned and let his eye travel up the dizzy length of. the column. He whistled, something which he had done every time he had looked at it. Eisenberg, made nervous by his nausea, was beginning to find it cause for homicide. “Whew! You really intend to try to go up that thing, Mr. Eisenberg?"

  “I do!"

  The boat officer looked startled at the tone, laughed uneasily, and added, “Well, you’ll be worse than seasick, if you ask me."

  Nobody had. Graves knew his friend’s temperament; he made conversation for the next few minutes.

  “Try your engine, coxswain." The petty officer acknowledged, and reported back quickly:

  “Starter doesn’t work, sir."

  “Help the engineman get a line on the flywheel. I’ll take the tiller."

  The two men cranked the engine over easily, but got no answering cough. “Prime it!" Still no results.

  The boat officer abandoned the useless tiller and jumped down into the engine space to lend his muscle to heaving on the cranking line. Over his shoulder he ordered the signalman to notify the ship.

  “Launch Three, calling bridge. Launch Three, calling bridge. Bridge — reply! Testing — testing." The signalman slipped a phone off one ear. “Phone’s dead, sir."

  “Get busy with your flags. Tell 'em to haul us in!" The officer wiped sweat from his face and straightened up. He glanced nervously at the current slap-slapping against the boat’s side.

  Graves touched his arm. “How about the barrel?"

  “Put it over the side if you like. I’m busy. Can’t you raise them, Sears?"

  “I’m trying, sir."

  “Come on, Bill," Graves said to Eisenberg. The two of them slipped forward in the boat, threading their way past the engine on the side away from the three men sweating over the flywheel. Graves cut the hogshead loose from its lashings, then the two attempted to get a purchase on the awkward, unhandy object. It and its light load weighed less than two hundred pounds, but it was hard to manage, especially on the uncertain footing of heaving floorboards.

  They wrestled it outboard somehow, with one smashed finger for Eisenberg, a badly banged shin for Graves. It splashed heavily, drenching them with sticky salt water, and bobbed astern, carried rapidly toward the Kanaka Pillar by the current which fed it.

  “Ship answers, sir!"

  “Good! Tell them to haul us in — carefully." The boat officer jumped out of the engine space and ran forward, where he checked again the secureness with which the towline was fastened.

  Graves tapped him on the s
houlder. “Can’t we stay here until we see the barrel enter the column?"

  “No! Right now you had better pray that that line holds, instead of worrying about the barrel — or we go up the column, too. Sears, has the ship acknowledged?"

  “Just now, sir."

  “Why a coir line, Mr. Parker?’ Eisenberg inquired, his nausea forgotten in the excitement. “I’d rather depend on steel, or even good stout Manila."

  “Because coir floats, and the others don’t," the officer answered snappishly. “Two miles of line would drag us to the bottom. Sears! Tell them to ease the strain. We’re shipping water."

  “Aye, aye, sir!"

  The hogshead took less than four minutes to reach the column, enter it, a fact which Graves ascertained by borrowing the signalman’s glass to follow it on the last leg of its trip — which action won him a dirty look from the nervous boat officer. Some minutes later, when the boat was about five hundred yards farther from the Pillar than it had been at nearest approach, the telephone came suddenly to life. The starter of the engine was tested immediately; the engine roared into action.

  The trip back was made with engine running to take the strain off the towline — at half speed and with some maneuvering, in order to avoid fouling the screw with the slack bight of the line.

  The smoke signal worked — one circuit or another. The plume of smoke was sighted two miles south of the Wahini Pillar, elapsed time from the moment the vessel had entered the Kanaka column just over eight hours.

  Bill Eisenberg climbed into the saddle of the exerciser in which he was to receive antibends treatment — thirty minutes of hard work to stir up his circulation while breathing an atmosphere of helium and oxygen, at the end of which time the nitrogen normally dissolved in his blood stream would be largely replaced by helium. The exerciser itself was simply an old bicycle mounted on a stationary platform. Blake looked it over. “You needn’t have bothered to bring this," he remarked. “We’ve a better one aboard. Standard practice for diving operations these days."

  “We didn’t know that," Graves answered. “Anyhow, this one will do. All set, Bill?"