Operation Interstellar (1950)

by George O. Smith

  “Throw him out!”

  “Liar!”

  The stairways at either end of the stage filled with hoarsely shouting men who came up slowly but with determined step, gaining confidence as they advanced.

  “Throw him out!” screamed a voice.

  “Out!”

  “Away!”

  Thorndyke hammered on the pulpit with his gavel. He might as well have snapped his fingers at the hurricane. The rap of authority was lost in the disorderly cry of an angry mob. Men of learning, wisdom, education, their civilized veneer hurled away by disappointment, anger, and the smell of fraud, came forward with animal hatred, intellectually naked.

  Paul looked wildly around the stage as the foremost of the mob came to the top of the steps. This was the time for escape, whether he was right or wrong, honest or the fraud and liar they called him. No time for argument, only flight.

  He faded back against the curtain. They came forward at him, warily awaiting some move of his. Had Paul moved fast, they would have leaped like predators; so long as he oozed back with no overt move, they prowled instead of jumping. Perhaps the only remaining vestige of their lifetime of training was their desire to wait until he struck at them first, that they wanted Paul to strike the blow that would invite them to strike back. This was a ‘mob, lynching mad.

  Paul looked over their heads to the fire exit. It was the only avenue of escape, but blocked by twenty madmen. He pressed back against the curtain, wondering if lie would get out of this alive.

  Then the howling died like the turning off of an overloaded sound amplifier.

  For out between the curtains stepped a burly policeman.

  His nightstick was firm in his right hand, the thong wrapped tight around his wrist. The business end of the heavy stick rested in his left palm. His revolver hung in the holster, its safety strap unsnapped.

  He was the very essence of Authority, Big, Uniformed, Immobile.

  The advance upon Paul stopped.

  Paul breathed a prayer of thanks.

  “You’re Paul Grayson?” he asked, I am.

  The policeman’s voice was flat, hard, and dry. “Did you know there was a dead man aboard your spacecraft?”

  Paul blanched. Stacey had said—

  “Uh-huh. Y’do. Paul Grayson, I arrest you for implications in the murder of John Stacey. Better come quietly. And remember that anything you say may be used as evidence against you!”

  Stacey!

  The world took a quick spin about Paul’s head.

  Stacey!

  There was sudden motion and the quick, lashed Snap! of handcuffs while Paul’s tired mind was still racing in the dreamworld of complete disbelief. He went woodenly with the policeman.

  Behind him, he heard Haedaecker say, “And now it is murder, to boot!”

  CHAPTER 10

  There is something about a pair of handcuffs far above and beyond the mere chaining of wrist to wrist. Mobility is not decreased, and the flailing of hands against an enemy is not greatly impaired. But the idea of being manacled presents a condition in psychology of complete defeat.

  In completely bewildered defeat, Paul Grayson looked down at the chromium handcuffs with an air of blankness. John Stacey —Z-wave—Nora Phillips—

  The policeman led Paul Grayson from the hall amid a complete quietness. Only when they were beyond the curtain arid heading towards the stage door did the buzz of outraged conversation start, almost covering the pounding of Thorndyke’s gavel.

  Then the outer door closed behind them and the noise was cut off. Something in Paul’s inner mind felt grateful that the car awaiting was a standard model of police car instead of the traditional patrol wagon. There is something even more damning in being carted away in the paddy-wagon.

  The completely stunning abruptness; the positive cliff of success from which he had fallen into the chasm of absolute futility shocked Paul into a feeling of unreality. He felt like an outsider, watching a complete stranger being led in docility towards a police car by a uniformed policeman, obviously the perpetrator of some outrageous, illegal, immoral, unethical act. He could not identify this illicit individual with himself. It was a horrible dream—

  And in this dreamlike state, Paul took note of a series of completely non-sequitur details which his mind recorded in minute detail. He noted a woman in an outlandish hat; a man in tuxedo with a wrinkle across the facade of his boiled shirt. The sidewalk was rough under his feet. The street was asphalt instead of concrete. Mars and Venus were in quadrature—it must be quite early because Venus sets not too many hours after Sol. There was a light blanked out in an electric sign advertising some obscure brand of cigarettes—Merr cool—and Paul wondered quickly whether the missing space represented ‘y’ ‘i’ or ‘o’ because he did not smoke that brand. A convertible coupe roared past with a redhead’s hair blowing back, there was a dent in the left-front hubcap. The police squad car was Number 17. A woman that Paul instantly catalogued as the Boston-Type Dowager sniffed and turned away. A girl giggled as her boy friend led her towards a cocktail lounge. The handcuffs jangled and caused more attention than the presence of the policeman. Down the street a theatre marquee flashed, advertising a stage production called ‘The Bright Young Man!’ As it caught Paul’s eye, the box office closed and the theatre marquee went dark—

  Then having noted more of his urban surroundings during thirteen seconds spent in crossing a sidewalk than he had in several years of living there, Paul found himself installed in the front seat of the police car between two burly officers. Paul was not a small man but he felt like a midget between them.

  There was no noticeable grinding of gears nor jerkiness as the car swooped away from the curb, and the siren wailed to clear the street before them. Expertly the driver maneuvered through a red light and turned against traffic, swerving in and among the hesitant cars like a fencer.

  Then they were beyond tire busy thoroughfare and racing down a quiet street, their own siren creating a shrill that could be heard for blocks. Even inside of the car it was loud; outside it must have been terrific.

  The radio broke into life; “Attention! Attention! All cars—

  Attention!”

  The driver and the other policeman stiffened slightly. The driver turned another corner onto a traffic street. Three or four blocks along, the bright blue lights of the police station called like a lighthouse, marking the Journey’s End.

  “Attention! Attention!” said the radio. “All cars be on the lookout for Police Squad Car Seventeen. Stolen—”

  The policeman not driving was fumbling in a pocket; found a jangling set of keys and fumbled with them uncertainly. Then Grayson’s manacles fell away as the squad car drove up in front of the police station.

  “Lively, Grayson,” snapped the driver as the car came to a quiet halt.

  Still in a complete daze, Paul obeyed stiffly. He followed the driver out of the squad car from the driver’s side, squeezing under the steering wheel and forced by the pressure of the other policeman behind him. He was unceremoniously hauled into a waiting sedan, pushed again from behind, and then before he could get his balance the car lurched forward and away.

  “That’ll kill ’em,” chuckled the policeman that had rescued him from the stage.

  “Dump their rig and the drunken cops right in front of the station,” chuckled the driver of the police car. Both were shucking their blue uniforms. And the driver of the large sedan was not driving like a maniac. He kept to sane speeds, but used side streets.

  “Stolen—?” murmured Grayson. Paul was still dazed. Something was going on but he did not know what. He had been ridiculed, charged with murder, arrested, and—but he had not really been arrested for these were not officers of the law. “Wha —what—?” he blurted.

  Both of the erstwhile officers laughed. One of them hauled a small flask from his hip pocket and handed it to Paul. “You’ve had a rough time,” he said. “Take a bracer.”

  Paul took a big swallow; it was g
ood whiskey that burned just right on the way down. The glow in Paul’s stomach took some of the troubled puzzlement; some of the daze from him, but the dizziness and the feeling of unreality remained.

  “What’s it all about?” asked Paul uncertainly.

  “You’ll find out later.”

  “Why not now?”

  “And spill before the boss tells his tale?” laughed one of the men. “Just pull yourself together, Grayson. Be happy that we got you out of a bad spot.”

  “I am, but I don’t understand.”

  “You will soon enough. Take it easy.”

  Paul relaxed. It was obvious that they would tell him nothing. Some of the daze left, but it left Paul with mixed emotions. Convinced of his own innocence of any crime; equally convinced of his correctness regarding Haedaecker’s Theory but completely bewildered as to the latest mixup with Z-wave Central; angry about Stacey—Paul Grayson was convinced that the right way to handle false charges was and is to face them firmly and display the fact that you have nothing to fear. He had always felt that the very display of self-confidence and obvious indignation over the accusations would carry some weight in his favor. He had read of cases in the newspapers where the murderer was found with the smoking gun in his pocket and the blood on his hands but still protested complete innocence in a baby-faced, wide-eyed manner, but Paul felt that such protestation could carry no weight because the lawbreaker could not be convincing with the truth in his mind working against him. Like everybody, Paul felt that he was different; this was a different case. They would believe him.

  So Paul disliked the idea of running. Running away was itself an indication of guilt. He had never been able to define the, proper line between the desire for privacy and the necessity of keeping something under cover. Like many other idealists, Paul felt that any man whose life was blameless should not object to scrutiny.

  But in this particular case, even while Paul was objecting to the idea of running; preferring to face the music with his convincing innocence, Paul was also aware that one man facing the anger of a mob can do very little to make them listen. He shrugged as a more pleasant thought came to him. He could easily show proof that his escape was not the flight caused by guilt but the honest fear of bodily harm from a mob incited to lynch-heat by the machinations of a personal enemy.

  Paul sat up a bit relieved. He looked out of the window and recognized the street; they were about half way between the middle of the city and the spaceport.

  Maybe now he might be able to collect some more information. Still the idealist, Paul could not understand why any man would work violently against a common blessing that could cause no harm. Paul believed that the possibility o£ opening communications with Neoterra was such a blessing.

  But merely starting with a hope and an idea to help Mankind —and make himself famous—Paul had triggered off some inexplicable train of events which included murder, theft, falsification of evidence, impersonation—

  Impersonation!

  Not only once, but twice—thrice! Twice had Paul been impersonated for some reason or another. Now there had been the impersonation of policemen. Twice this impersonation could have been directed only at Paul’s discomfort. Now—

  He looked at the two men that sat on either side of him. Friends—or enemies? Had they helped him or had they captured him for themselves? And in either case, what were they going to do with him, after they had taken him—where?

  The car turned a sharp corner, slowed in front of a large house, and turned into the driveway.

  The address was 7111 Bridge Street!

  The elderly gentleman eyed Paul quietly. Stacey had described the man as a doddering old fogy, if this were really Hoagland, or really the same man that Stacey met. But somewhere Stacey’s unusually-sharp evaluation of people must have fallen flat, for Hoagland was only one-third of Stacey’s description. He was neither doddering nor a fogy. He was old in Grayson’s eyes.

  He looked sixty-odd. He might have been older, for his type of man tends to retain the appearance of youth. There was a bit of spring to his walk and a set to his jaw; a sharpness to his eyes and a complete self-confidence about Hoagland. He was far from bald, but the hair was white-silver. He wore it carelessly but not unkempt; it was a sort of pride, Paul guessed, to half-mistreat a feature prized and lost to other men.

  “Please sit down and relax,’’ he said. His voice was hard and low-pitched and not a trace of cracking-with-age. Instead, it crackled with virility. “You might as well take it easy and save your strength. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “We’ll get to that shortly. I have not had this privilege before; I am Charles Hoagland, Mister Grayson. I gather that my boys were timely.”

  “It was—” Paul started, but stopped lamely. The puzzlement welled up in him again and confusion filled him; confusion that contrasted sharply with this man who seemed to know all of the answers.

  “I am glad. A troublesome mob is a dangerous thing. You might have been harmed.”

  Paul nodded his head quietly.

  “Mister Grayson, you are a busy little man.”

  Grayson stiffened. He did not like the appellation even though he knew that his size was sufficient to give him tolerance at being called little; he did not have to prove otherwise.

  “Just what do you want with me?” demanded Paul.

  “Mister Grayson, either you are a genius or an idealistic fumbler. We hope to find out which.”

  “When you find out, will you let me know?” snapped Paul sarcastically.

  “Be only too happy to,” smiled Hoagland. “So we’ll start now. Just how solid are your theories about the Z-wave?”

  Paul shrugged. “How solid is any theory about anything?” “Let’s not argue.”

  “I am not arguing. I am stating a fact.”

  “You are stating an argument; you have just answered a direct question with a hypothetical proposition.”

  Paul grunted. “May I ask you a direct question?”

  “Ask. I may even answer, depending upon the nature of the question.”

  “Then, just how solid is your knowledge of science—any science?”

  “Sketchy. Some men hire carpenters, some hire accountants, I hire scientists.”

  “Then let me explain my first reply. Any scientific theory undergoes several transformations before it is an accepted fact. For instance, some phenomenon is caught or observed by some experimenter. To explain the phenomenon, the scientist suggests an hypothesis. To further the art, the hypothesis is expanded so that, other experiments can be performed. These have the dubious character of predictions; if such-and-such is the explanation, then if we do this-and-so, then something-that will take place. Physical laws and limitations are set up, and while one group works according to these laws, another group will try to ascertain whether or not the same effect can be produced because of some other proposition. Frequently the original observation produces erroneous evidence, and then the conditions are changed to meet the experimental evidence as such progress is made. Eventually the original hypothesis will become a theory.

  “In shorter words,” continued Paul thoughtfully, “An hypothesis is a suggestion untested. A theory is an hypothesis which is undergoing test and for which some basis of truth is evident. A fact is a theory for which there is considerably more favorable evidence than unfavorable evidence, and a law is a fact against which no one has ever come up with any evidence to dispute it.”

  Hoagland smiled tolerantly. “And what is Grayson’s Principle, and why is this called a ‘principle’?”

  “Haedaecker’s Theory is that the Z-wave will not cross interstellar space because of the lack of solar activity. Grayson’s Principle is that the Z-wave can be made to cross interstellar space under one certain condition, and that this condition is a prime limitation even in intra-solar communications. The ‘principle’ terminology,” smiled Paul, “is like so many other names. Pedantically it is a p
rinciple because it is a prime factor. On the other hand, the name has a sort of ring to it when spoken aloud. I have an idea that ‘Lorenz’ is put before the ‘Fitzgerald’ because of the auditory ring; ending a name with a sibilant makes the possessive case difficult. .‘Planck’s Constant’ rings better to the ear than ‘Planck’s Factor’ and ‘Avagadro’s Law’ is easier to manipulate than ‘Avagadro’s Principle.’ These are not selected deliberately, they are chosen inadvertently by lecturers who tend to emphasize a phrase by its sound—even the unskilled lecturer will do this; a pure scientist with no grandiose ideas will automatically select a name that presents no lingual tongue tripping.”

  Hoagland smiled. “Ah, how we progress behind the scenes; from ‘Fission-reaction’ to ‘A-Bomb’ because of headline newsprint space. Semantics was a fine, definitive term until Korzybski got the word involved with dialectics. Possibly Korzybski decided that ‘semantics’ rang better to the ear than ‘Dialectics.’ But let’s get back to Grayson’s Principle. Take it from there, Mister Grayson.”

  “The main idea is—”

  “I know the main idea. That was your hypothesis, unsupported by evidence. What I am interested in is whether Grayson’s Principle has what it takes to become Grayson’s Theory.”

  “I—You mean, was I successful?”

  “At last you have arrived at tire salient point. I mean exactly that.”

  “I don’t quite know.”

  “You received a Z-wave message on Proxima?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then—?”

  Paul grunted. “Everybody knows more about this than I do. I received a message. I was then informed that it was impossible for me to have received a message because Z-wave Central was not running.”

  “How do you account for this message?”

  “I can’t. Maybe,” and here Paul looked Hoagland in the eye, “maybe Miss Nora Phillips can explain.”

  “Who?”

  “Nora Phillips,” said Paul sharply. “Or have you never met her?”

  “Should I have met her?”

  “Look, Hoagland,” said Paul evenly, “I don’t know what this is all about. You’ve got the chips and the cards and the dice. Your playfellows accused me of complications in the murder of John Stacey, ergo you must have heard of him. And Stacey’s only connection with you is because he was engaged by me to find out what kind of game Nora Phillips was playing with me. Since you know the connection all along the line, you are also aware of the fact that Nora Phillips entered this house, and that Stacey came here seeking her, having informed me of the first fact. So since we’re all aware of some of the facts, let’s not play any more games than necessary to save face, huh?” “You talk rather boldly for a man in your position.”