INSOFAR AS THE voyage to Mars was concerned, Wilkinson’s job was a sinecure as soon as he had lost his distrust of automation. He knew that the reaction time of the various electronic devices was far faster than his own, than that of any spaceman, but it took all of two weeks for emotional acceptance to set in. Once it did, he sat back and enjoyed himself. In his commodious Master’s suite, and with Vanessa to share it, he was far better off than a First Class passenger in any ship of which he had been an officer.
There was not much social life, but that was no worry. Dr. Henshaw, aided by his technicians, fussed and tinkered with his apparatus, although Wilkinson considered it advisable to give strict orders that it was not to actuated while the ship was in flight. Clavering, practically chased out of his engineroom by the unqualified young men who knew more about the Drive than he, a certificated engineer, ever would or could know, retired to his cabin to sulk, with a frequently renewed bottle of Scotch to keep him company. Only Natalie and Titov, who was acting as ship’s biochemist, seemed to have any spare time. They were good company, on those occasions when the Wilkinsons felt like company, and both of them were excellent cooks.
And slowly, slowly, the Red Planet expanded from a mere ruddy point of light to a disc, to a disc upon which the canals and oases and one polar ice-cap could be seen with the aid of the big mounted telescope, and then, finally, with the naked eye. And there were the bright sparks of reflected light that were the glassy domes of the cities, the other domes covering the farms.
They were sitting in the Control Room, the four of them, Wilkinson and Vanessa, Titov and Natalie.
“And what do you expect to find, Boris?” asked Wilkinson, pointing with the stem of his pipe to the world whose orbit they were steering to intersect.
“Beautiful, undressed blondes who lay eggs,” jeered Natalie.
Titov laughed. “Much as I enjoy Burroughs’ novels I’ve never been able to see eye to eye with him on that point. Oh, I agree that an egg-laying mammal might find use for mammary glands; as you know, the Australian platypus suckles its young after a fashion. But the children of Burroughs’ Martians stayed in the egg until they were almost adolescent.
“But Burroughs had something.
“Look at it this way. Even in matters concerning your past life on this Coil of Time your memories are often faulty. How much faultier will they be of past lives on other Coils?”
“I still can’t understand this memory business,” complained Wilkinson. “I’d sooner believe in memories of past incarnations. After all, in that case, there could be a physical link between the lives, even if only a very tenuous one.”
“When we get back,” said Titov, “I’ll have to turn you over to our Paranormal Psychology boys. They’ll soon convince you that there are more links between personalities than crudely physical ones.” He laughed. “Do you know, we’ve been trying to get them interested in Henshaw’s experiments, but they just won’t play. We’re using machines. We’re cheating.”
“They’re just jealous,” said Natalie. “Old Henny’s getting results, and they aren’t.”
“Could be, could be.” He turned again to Wilkinson. “Tell me, Chris, just what will be the drill when we touch down?”
“Quarantine first. The Phobos Station has been discontinued — it was too much of a nuisance, both to the ships and to the swarms of port officials. So we land at Marsala to pass Health, Immigration and Customs, and then we lift again for the short hop to the site they’re letting us have at the North Pole.” He grinned. “What was the Arctic climate like in John Carter’s day? Could he get around in comfort in just his little short kilt and leather suspenders?”
“That’s what I hope to find out. But I’ll be doing the same as you did — making the jump in a spacesuit.”
“Wise man. A pity that we didn’t bring one of the two-legged dreadnought models along.”
“I decided against that. A man in one of those looks like nothing human, and is far too liable to be shot up just on principle.”
VI
WILKINSON BROUGHT Discovery in to a good landing at the Marsala spaceport and then, as he had neither Purser nor any other officer for the duty, went down to the main airlock to receive the various port officials in person. Most of them knew him and were suitably congratulatory. All of them were curious about the ship herself, especially Captain Holdsworth, the Port Master, who was also the Department of Spacial Navigation Surveyor, and Mr. Jones, of the engineering firm of Jones and Wilson, who was a Lloyd’s Surveyor.
It was then that the trouble started.
“I surveyed this ship myself, quite legally, before she lifted from Science City,” Wilkinson told them. “I’ve been in command of her all the way from Science City to Marsala. In my opinion she’s perfectly spaceworthy.”
Holdsworth snorted, glaring at Wilkinson with his hot blue eyes under their bristling white brows. “Of course, Captain,” he growled, “we are making allowances for your youth and experience. We don’t know yet what Mr. Jones has found — but as far as I’m concerned you, on your voyage from Venus to Mars, have broken just about every regulation in the Navigation Act.”
“But I was assured by the Director that Central Government agreed to waive the Act as far as we’re concerned since we’re rated as an experimental vessel.”
“Your Director got things wrong. I was told that you had lifted from Venus on a provisional permit only, and that competent Surveyors — Mr. Jones and myself — were to decide whether or not this permit is to be extended. The way that I see it you’d be entitled to circumnavigate Venus from now until Doomsday, landing at and lifting from Venusian ports only whenever you happened to feel like it. But once you poked your nose outside Venusian territorial limits you’d be in trouble. Big trouble.”
“I tell you, sir, that the ship is perfectly spaceworthy. She handles like a dream.”
“So you say, Captain. But according to the Regulations she’s not. According to Lloyd’s requirements, she’s not. To begin with, she’s undermanned, both in the Control Room and the Engineroom. Then there are no Certificates, either Lloyd’s or the Department’s, to cover all your fancy watchkeeping gadgetry. Why,” he went on, warming to his theme, “you haven’t even got a certificated ship’s cook on your Articles of Agreement.”
“But we got here, Captain Holdsworth. We got here, and lived like lords all the way.”
“You shouldn’t have got here, and you should have starved.”
The Lloyd’s Surveyor came into Wilkinson’s office then. He was walking a little unsteadily, and there was a strong smell of Scotch whisky on his breath. He announced, unnecessarily, “I’ve been talking with your Chief Engineer, Captain.” He went on, “He’s far from happy about the degree of automation in his department. He’s even unhappier about the uncertificated personnel he’s had to work under him.”
“Uncertificated personnel!” exploded Wilkinson. “Damn it all, Mr. Jones, those men have degrees, not mere Certificates of Competency. Would you call a Doctor of Science uncertificated?”
“As far as we’re concerned,” put in the Port Master, “he might just as well be a Doctor of Dental Surgery or a Doctor of Divinity.” He turned to his companion. “What about all this automation, Wally? That’s your concern rather than mine, isn’t it?”
“Rip it out. Ground the ship until manual controls are installed.”
“Can your people do the job?”
“Of course.”
“You heard that, Captain Wilkinson,” said Holdsworth. “Mr. Jones, as you know, is one of the partners of Jones and Wilson. Of course, if you’d rather put the matter in the hands of some other firm …”
Wilkinson was tempted, but he had learned early in his career that it doesn’t do to antagonize Surveyors. “All right,” he agreed. “Let Jones and Wilson do it.”
“Now, Captain, your manning. Before you lift ship for Venus or for anywhere else in the Solar System you’ll have to engage qualified personnel — at le
ast two certificated watchkeeping officers in the Control Room, at least two certificated engineers in addition to the Chief. And a certificated radio officer. And a cook.
“But for all that there’s no hurry. As I understand it, it is your intention to proceed from Marsala to a site that your employers have leased in the North Polar regions, there to carry out some experiment or other. This will be no more than an orbital flight to which the Deep Space manning regulations will not apply. However, the engineering modifications must be carried out before you proceed any further; you will be passing over several centers of population while en route to the Arctic, and you will realize that any failure of the main propulsive unit could well have disastrous consequences.”
Knowing Clavering, thought Wilkinson bitterly, I’d say that the risk of engine failure has been increased….
“So, Captain, all you can do now is to leave matters in Mr. Jones’ capable hands, and then make the orbital hop as soon as he issues the Certificates of Spaceworthiness.”
“But my passengers — or my Owners — won’t be at all happy.”
“My heart fair bleeds for them.” Holdsworth grinned a not unkindly grin. “You can tell them that they’re lucky not to be living in the days when everything had to be signed in London.”
• • •
The passengers were not pleased.
They seemed at first to think that the delay was all Wilkinson’s fault, and then some of them began to recall occasions upon which they had become entangled in red tape while still working on Earth. Titov composed a long spacegram to the Director, assuring Wilkinson that this gentleman’s main qualification for his post was his ability to find his way through the bureaucratic jungle, and that by the time the experiments were over the automatic controls would be reinstalled and the Manning Scale, insofar as Discovery was concerned, forgotten. Meanwhile, nobody would be any the worse for a few days’ relaxation in Marsala, and as soon as Messrs. Jones and Wilson had finished their dismantling and blanking off, the ship could carry on for the North Pole.
And that was the way of it. Wilkinson was rather worried that old friends of Vanessa (the other Vanessa?) might recognize her, but Natalie was equal to the occasion, going ashore to purchase her a blonde wig and then, by the skillful use of cosmetics, altering the appearance of her face. So Vanessa was able to go ashore with Wilkinson without running the risk of embarrassing recognition. They enjoyed themselves for the four days that it took the shore engineers to make the required alterations. It was almost with regret that they returned to the ship from the hotel in which they had been staying.
And it was with very real regret that Wilkinson felt the stickiness of his controls when the ship lifted, felt her reluctance to tear herself away from the apron. He regretted not having stood up against the Surveyors, sitting tight at the Marsala spaceport with his automation intact while the Director of Science City, by spacegram and interplanetary telephone, fought it out with the bureaucrats in Washington.
But it was too late now.
VII
THE LONG VOYAGE from Science City to Marsala had been a pleasant dream; the short hop from Marsala to the North Pole was a nightmare. The ship was unhandy, her controls sluggish. Wilkinson had to fight her every inch of the way. He heaved a great sigh of relief when the signals of the radio beacon that had been installed at the site started to come in loud and clear, when he could see, bright against the snowfield, the marker blinkers.
He brought Discovery down carefully, gingerly, handling her with caution and distrust. There was an irregularity in the whine of the Inertial Drive that frightened him, something wrong about the vibrations that were transmitted to him through the structure of the ship. And the altimeter needle was moving in jerks, not unwinding slowly and steadily as it should have.
But he worked grimly, all his attention focused on the control panel, not even daring, at the finish, to as much as glance out of the viewports. The others — Vanessa, Titov and Natalie — seeing that he was having a bad time of it, maintained a respectful silence.
And then, when she was all of five feet above the surface of the thin, crusted snow, Discovery dropped like a stone. Five feet, in terms of linear measurement, is not much. But in terms of foot tons, even in a relatively weak gravitational field, it is too much. After the initial crash the complaining of the ship’s structural members continued for many long seconds. Somewhere something had shorted; there was the stink of burning insulation, the acridity of ozone. A broken pipe dripped noisily. And from below drifted a mounting murmur of angry protest.
Hastily, Wilkinson stabbed the Finished With Engines button. He did not trust Clavering; he feared that the engineer would be quite capable of trying to start up the Drive again unless otherwise ordered. While he was waiting for the acknowledgment Henshaw bobbed up through the hatch in the Control Room deck like an angry Jack-in-the-box. “What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded. “You know damned well that my apparatus won’t stand rough treatment.”
“Neither will the ship,” Wilkinson told him tiredly. He picked up the engineroom telephone, waited until he heard Clavering’s testy “Hello?”
“Mr. Clavering,” he asked coldly. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“I lost my damned surge effect, that’s what.”
“But why, Mr. Clavering?”
“Because the damned main oscillator packed up.”
“But why, Mr. Clavering?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m not a Doctor of Science. I’m only a poor damned Spacial Engineer with a Chief’s ticket.”
Wilkinson kept a tight rein on his temper. He said coldly, “You’ll have ample time to effect repairs before we’ve finished the experiments. If you think it’s necessary, I’ll get Jones and Wilson to send technicians out. But you should be able to manage with your own staff.”
“With those academic puppies?” It sounded as though the engineer were spitting in disgust. “No damned thanks. I want practical men, not blown away university professors.”
Wilkinson sighed. Discovery had functioned perfectly until the practical men had got their paws on her. He wished that it were possible to dispense with the services of a qualified Chief Engineer altogether — but until matters were straightened out by the Director he would have to go through the motions of complying with regulations.
He said tiredly, “So you want Jones and Wilson?”
“Yes.”
Henshaw broke in, “But how can we carry out out experiments, Wilkinson, with hordes of outsiders swarming all over the ship?”
“We could, I suppose, defer them until the repairs are finished. But it shouldn’t be necessary. Jones and Wilson’s people will be working only in the engineroom. The rest of the ship can be made out-of-bounds to them.”
“Yes, yes … but suppose some oaf starts playing around with the Inertial Drive while my apparatus is in operation.”
“Nobody will. I’ll issue strict orders that it is not, repeat not, to be tested without my written authority.”
“That should cover it,” put in Titov.
“That’s all very well, Doctor,” Henshaw told him. “But you haven’t the responsibility of operating the apparatus.”
“Perhaps not, Doctor. But I’ll be the one who’s taking the risk.”
“But it’s still my responsibility, Doctor.”
Wilkinson decided that it was time that he intervened. He said, “Not only shall I issue written orders, but I’ll see to it that the main fuse rests in my possession, under lock and key, to be signed for when given out, and to be returned to me after any test or trial has been completed.”
“I suppose that will be all right,” admitted Henshaw grudgingly.
“Of course it will be all right,” said Titov. “Having come so far, I don’t want any further delays.”
“He won’t be happy until he’s had one night of love with Dejah Thoris,” sneered Natalie.
“Pipe down, wench. Don’t parade your awareness of your o
wn inadequacies.”
“You know, Boris,” she mused, “I’m quite convinced that you rode to your parents’ wedding on a bicycle.”
“Dr. Titov! Miss Weldon!” said Henshaw.
Wilkinson laughed. He knew that his friends were merely letting off steam after the strain of the orbital hop from Marsala. He wished he could do the same; perhaps after he had worn his brass hat for a few years he would be able to do so in public without the fear of loss of dignity.
“Natalie,” he said, “would you mind getting in touch with Marsala and asking them get the repairs in hand? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to beard our Mr. Clavering in his den. Apart from anything else, I want to make sure that the Drive can be immobilized while we’re playing around with Dr. Henshaw’s box of tricks.”
“That’s essential, Wilkinson,” Henshaw told him. “Absolutely essential.”
“I’m only a biologist,” remarked Titov. “As far as Physics is concerned, I don’t know which way is up. So tell me, just what would happen if the Inertial Drive were operated at the same time as your Time Twister?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Henshaw reluctantly.
VIII
A DAY AFTER their near-disastrous landing at the Polar site all was in readiness for the first experiment. The technicians from Marsala were at work in the engineroom, and had been told that they were not to stray into other parts of the ship. They — and Clavering — had objected strongly when they had read, and reluctantly countersigned, Wilkinson’s orders to the effect that no test runs were to be made of the Drive while Henshaw’s apparatus was in operation, and had objected still more strongly when the main fuse had been removed, to be locked away in the Master’s safe. It would have been better to have immobilized the generators — but Henshaw wanted power, and plenty of it.
And so all of those concerned were assembled in the compartment that housed the Time Twister. There, modified slightly so that it would fit against the curved inner shell, was the complexity of brightly gleaming wheels, the metallic Moebius strip on its universal mounting, the oddly twisted antennae, the convolution upon convolution of glass tubing, looking like a mobile produced by a drunken sculptor. On the polished deck was a circle marked in white paint, the target area in which Titov would stand.
The Alternate Martians Page 3
