To the Tombaugh Station

by Wilson Tucker

  “What’s that thing in the middle of the floor?”

  “That thing in the middle of the deck is the auto pilot. The plotting room charts our course on tape and I feed the tape into the pilot. If nobody has made a mistake it gets us there after a while.”

  “Everything is so small, so cramped.”

  “It’s big enough for me,” he said significantly.

  Kate asked, “Are we leaving at midnight?”

  “No, they’re still loading cargo. The tower is saving me a hole on the six o’clock booster. Six in the morning.” Webb offered a broad wink and rapped his knuckles on a newly-hung sheet of fiberglass. “Look, I put a door on the head.”

  “Thank you. And which is my bunk, please?”

  “Topside.”

  She examined it with misgivings, acutely aware of where that placed the man. “I trust these Van Allen bags are spaceworthy. I don’t want to burn.”

  “They’ll do,” Webb said. “We go through the belts in a helluva hurry.”

  “What is your cargo, if I may ask?”

  “Hardware—automated stuff, all kinds of robot monkeys.” He pounded the bulkhead with heady exhilaration. “I’m taking on an automaton down there big enough to run a radio telescope. It will drive a radio telescope; there is enough hardware to keep the thing running forever, I guess. Priority hardware, every scrap of it. Those damned bureaucrats stalled for eight or ten years and then made up their minds yesterday.” He clasped his palms together in an avaricious gesture. “They’re paying for the priority now—paying through the nose. Bureaucrats like it that way, sudden and expensive. I’ll take their money.”

  Kate knew a pang of apprehension. “Where are we going?”

  “The Tombaugh,” he chortled triumphantly, “all the way out to the Tombaugh, and it’s costing those bureaucrats a sweet lot of money!”

  She fell back, sharply dismayed.

  There was no need to ask for further information on that destination. She knew. The Tombaugh Station was civilization’s single outpost on Pluto, the smallest and furthermost speck of human habitation in the coldest reaches of the solar system. The Tombaugh was an observatory, the only one beyond Callisto, and it was the nearest neighbor to X. She remembered reading that a huge radio telescope was part of the Tombaugh’s equipment, together with an astrograph, a twenty-four inch reflector, and a Schmidt camera for a program of comet observation. Only a handful of men lived there to maintain the watch.

  Pluto was a cruel, inhospitable world; its four thousand mile diameter contained nothing other than a low, dense atmosphere of icy hydrogen and helium, closely hugging frozen methane seas which in turn were imbedded on a rocky core; a world largely unexplored and unmapped; raw, barren, mountainous and all but useless to man. Pluto was inutile and nearly untenable, so remote in space that the sun was but a brilliant, spectacular star. The most recent report she’d read said that at Pluto’s perihelion, just past, surface illumination was equal to only three hundred times that of moonlight. The forbidding temperature of almost four hundred degrees below zero discouraged all activity except one: the operation of the observatory.

  The Tombaugh was an excellent observatory for its lonely vigil, being perched on a mountainous crag well above the smothering atmosphere of Pluto.

  It watched X, the tenth planet of the solar system.

  X was the true Trans-Neptune, the planet Lowell had been seeking when he found Pluto. It was only ten years old by popular reckoning and swung in a vast, leisurely orbit more than one thousand million miles beyond Pluto. The skeptics professed to see no reason for ever visiting it. X had an inappreciable albedo and an anticipated large size combined with a low density; it possessed a frigid and lethal atmosphere in keeping with the outer planets, and at least four satellites. Its outermost moon, circling the primary at more than three million miles, had been suggested as the next stepping stone to the stars.

  Ten years ago a startled Brazilian radar operator aboard a patrol ship had found X and almost at once, to study it, the Tombaugh Station was erected on Pluto’s jutting crags—the most advantageous window imaginable short of an actual landing on that outermost moon. X was the center of scientific discussion and of public fancy. The hottest question concerning it was that one debated in numerous inter-governmental conventions: should the Tombaugh be dismantled, now that it’s immediate usefulness was coming to an end?

  For Pluto was rapidly pulling away from X, dropping the new planet behind in remote darkness.

  For a period of about forty years Pluto was, in effect, the eighth planet from the sun, because its peculiar path brought it inside the orbit of Neptune, and by exerting the utmost effort, small freighters such as Webb’s bucket could reach the eccentric wanderer. But now, in the summer months of 2009, Pluto was swiftly nearing the end of its visit; within a short time it would again cross Neptune’s orbit for its long retreat outward.

  Kate recalled the debated questions: should the Tombaugh be dismantled for salvage value? Or should it be abandoned, at least until Pluto’s next return two and a half centuries hence? Or, and this was most tempting, should the station be outfitted for non-human operation, to maintain a robotic sweep of the heavens during its two hundred and forty-eight year orbit about the sun?

  Webb’s damned bureaucrats had acted at the last possible moment. The most tempting question had carried and they were loading on board a cargo of automatons.

  “Look at that goddam thing!”

  Kate was jerked from her reverie. She found him forward fussing over the radio, and two shot steps brought her to his side. “What’s the matter with it?”

  “Look,” he bellowed, the damned thing’s got a bug!”

  She looked but saw only an erratic, jumbled shimmer washing over the screen. It reminded her of a slow, majestic tide sweeping across an empty beach.

  “What kind of bug?”

  Webb’s reply was a shout. “If I knew that I could do something about it.” He jerked the electric cord from its receptacle and began dismantling the unit. “It wasn’t like this yesterday!” He pulled on something inside and then swore when his fingers slipped, skinning his knuckles. A moment later a transformer came free and was hurled across the deck. The replacement was accompanied by a rolling commentary which had little bearing on the matter.

  “Don’t mind me,” Kate said. “I know all the words.”

  Webb ignored her and continued working. But when the new transformer failed to correct the trouble the flow of colorful words doubled, and he started pulling bits and parts from elsewhere in the unit.

  “Excuse me,” Kate offered at last, “I only thought I knew them all. That remark about Titania and Oberon is new to me. But aren’t they of the same sex?”

  “Moons, not people,” he replied witheringly.

  She considered that. “I still don’t understand it.”

  When Webb had done everything he could think of, the erratic tide continued to wash across the radar screen. “I wish Jimmy Cross was here,” he said in utter disgust. “This is his meat.”

  “Who is Jimmy Cross?”

  “The one in jail.”

  “Ah, the other partner. And he is a mechanic?”

  Webb ignored the question and moved along the narrow aisle to his miniature teletype. He opened the machine.

  XANTHUS TO TORCON: I HAVE A RADAR GHOST. WHOSE FAULT? X

  “What is Torcon?” Kate wanted to know.

  “The tower across the field—Toronto Control.”

  “And X indicates the end of the message?”

  “Yes.” A bell sounded and a moment later the teletype delivered his answer.

  TORCON TO XANTHUS: GHOST IS EVERYWHERE. YOUR FAULT. X

  “Thanks,” Webb said sarcastically to the distant teletype operator. “Now why don’t you come down here and fix it?” Wearily, he opened a locker to remove a bag of tools. The bag was flung into the aisle and Webb began dismantling the radar unit a second time, resigned to a long task.

 
Kate Bristol watched him for a while and then, tired of the continual flow of profanity, she climbed into the upper bunk and wriggled into her Van Allen bag. She tried to shut the sound of his voice out of her ears.

  She was rudely awakened some hours later when he smacked the underside of the bunk with a heavy fist, jolting her into awareness. There were heavy sounds somewhere in the bowels of the ship and after a moment it seemed to swing like a pendulum. Webb scampered about the cabin, slamming and bolting hatches and retrieving useless tools. She watched him run into the toilet cubicle to make sure the drain locks were closed and then he slammed the door—the new door. The pressure pumps were started and they made a maddening racket within the confines of the tiny cabin. He opened the teletype and the radar, and cursed again. She realized the bug hadn’t been removed.

  Webb made a final inspection of the cabin and its appointments and slid into the lower bunk. “Strap in,” he shouted as he dug a hard finger into her rump, “We’re jumping topside.”

  “Stop poking me! I am strapped in—after all, I’m no novice.” But she was also inside the Van Allen bag, forgetting that it wasn’t needed as yet. “How high will the booster carry us?”

  “About twenty miles, and then throw us away.”

  Twenty miles. According to those reports, Singleton had lost his life about twenty miles up and the twin vacuum locks had been responsible. Kate asked, “Will we go into orbit?”

  “Everybody goes into orbit,” Webb replied. “You ain’t a green hand, eh? The booster throws us into a plotted orbit, but we’re on our own when we climb toward apogee the second time. We hightail it for Titan.”

  “Is it always so noisy?”

  “You’ll get used to that. Live with it for a week and you can hear me whisper.” He stopped to listen. She detected no change in the general noise level but he seemed to hear something below. “Here it comes!”

  The brutal surge smashed into her stomach and robbed her of wind; queer, annoying fingers of creeping darkness probed her mind. She tried to push them away but failed. The Xanthus rode skyward on the booster rocket.

  The cabin was measurably quieter.

  Irvin Webb sprawled on the deck with his back to the sloping starboard hull and watched the young woman in the radiation sack recover consciousness. The noisy booster which had thrown them into orbit was long gone, dropping earthward, and the cabin seemed relatively peaceful. Webb was amused at his passenger.

  She fidgeted uncomfortably in the bag, stretched out her long legs to ease the cramp and then cautiously put her hands through the opening at the top. A moment later the folds of the sack were pulled away and her cosmeticladen face appeared. The face peered around the cabin in brief bewilderment and then discovered Webb on the deck. He was wearing nothing more than faded khaki shorts and magnetic shoes. She noted that he hadn’t shaved.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” she demanded.

  “What are you doing in the sack?” he countered. “My engines haven’t fired yet. Were in orbit.”

  “Oh, of course. Where in orbit?”

  “Approaching perigee. We’ll pass and climb in a little while. You might as well stay there.”

  “I’ve never fainted before,” she said to herself.

  “You’ve never jumped topside in a bucket before. This isn’t the deluxe tour, Bristol, and this ain’t no stinking ferryboat. I can’t waste time nor money on the featherbed treatment.” He waved toward the star map on the forward bulkhead. “The Tombaugh is better than nine weeks away. I expect to get there before it makes ten.”

  “Nine weeks!” she repeated incredulously.

  “One thousand, five hundred and eighty-four hours port-to-port. A shade better than nine weeks, I guess. But cheer up, Bristol, we’ve already spent an hour or so. See how fast it goes?”

  “I’m not frightened, Mr. Webb.

  I haven’t said anything about quitting.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Webb agreed, “But you are. I’m dumping you on Titan.”

  She struggled against the straps. “You are what?”

  “Titan is the end of the line for you—charter ended. Titan is my refueling point; I have to lay over a few hours and convert to methane for the big jump. I’ll help you down with your suitcase.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!”

  He shrugged. “Then carry it yourself.”

  “That isn’t what I meant! I will not disembark on Titan. I chartered for the duration.”

  “Wait and see,” he promised. “Titan is the end.”

  “But why?” she demanded. “Why?”

  Webb asked roughly, “What the hell can you do on the Tombaugh, Bristol? Take dictation? Play hostess? Polish the dominoes? Bull. Those jokers will be working their fool heads off setting up this new hardware before Pluto runs away with them—did you ever know a star-peep to waste time with a woman when he can play with a telescope?” He was scoffing. “What good will you be out there?”

  “I won’t be in the way. I will stay on board and come back with this ship, with you.”

  “This bucket ain’t coming back,” Webb said.

  “You are coming home without your ship?”

  “Without,” Webb repeated and smote the deck beneath him. “Last trip for this old bucket. Well done, gung ho and all that bilge. There’s no refueling depot on Pluto, I can’t bring her back.” He rubbed his unshaven chin. “If the government had made this decision a couple of years ago it would have been different. I could have managed the round trip after refueling on Titan—I could have taken my time and coasted both ways. But not now, not this trip. Time is too short and the Tombaugh is outward bound. It’s running away from me at three miles per second. The only thing to do now is run like hell, set down on the Tombaugh and abandon ship. The old bucket won’t rust.

  “Will you simply walk away and leave it?”

  “I’ll walk away and leave it. Done—finished. I’m getting my money out of it, the damned bureaucrats are covering the loss. And that’s why you aren’t going out there—I can’t bring you back.”

  “But how will you get back?”

  “The government has a cruiser standing by. We unload the bucket, help the star-peeps set up their new gear, and then jump for home. We give Pluto back to the icicles or whatever—the robots run the station after that. And you disembark when I reach refueling orbit over Titan.”

  “I think it’s unfair,” Kate protested.

  “They can’t use speedy typists on the Tombaugh, and you wouldn’t volunteer for other things.”

  “Don’t be vulgar!”

  Webb got up from the deck to don his suit and check the chronometer. “It’s coming up fast now.”

  “What is your perigee?”

  “Twenty-three miles. We just passed it. Singleton got it about here.”

  A strident clamor from the bowels of the auto pilot echoed his words and cut off her following question. Webb leaped into his bunk and burrowed into the depths of his Van Allen bag. He found himself looking at the curvy underside of the bunk above. “Now, Bristol,” he shouted. “Pull that bag over your head when my engines fire.”

  “What is happening?”

  “We’re climbing away from perigee and the tapes are taking over—they’ve moved the hot brick into the furnace and the fuel is heating up. Stay in that bag until I give you the high sign—don’t forget there are two zones up there.”

  “I remember.”

  The engines fired. They were felt before they were heard, although the two sensations were so close as to be one. There was no

  Impression of the ship leaping forward or climbing or any other sense of motion. Their bodies sagged gently toward the vessels stern and a moment later their stomachs and eviscera attempted to follow. The sound of the atomic engines permeated the tiny cabin.

  Kate ducked into the safety of the leaded cloth bag . . .

  The woman wriggled free of the confining folds of the Van Allen bag and climbed to the deck. Once there she foun
d it necessary to brace her feet and keep a steadying hand on the bunk railing to maintain equilibrium. The cabin was unusually warm and after a cautionary hesitation she removed the airsuit. She was clad in cream colored coveralls.

  Webb was forward, scowling at the radar screen. He had already stripped down to the khaki shorts, revealing his blackened, over-exposed skin. Cancer scars like tiny craters marred the visible parts of his body.

  “Mr. Webb,” she said severely, “I warned you once. There will be no second warning.”

  His only response was a crooked grin as he swept the lines of the creamy coveralls.

  “I don’t like being poked, punched or mauled,” she continued. “You can tell me what you have to say.”

  Webb said, “Sure,” and turned his attention to the teletype. His slow message was punched on two fingers.

  XANTHUS TO TORCON! ALL CLEAR. GHOST CONTINUES HERE. QUERY. X.

  The reply came after a short interval. Webb read it and cursed the Toronto operator for his barely concealed levity. Kate read the reply over his shoulder.

  TORCON TO XANTHUS: GHOST DEPARTED WITH YOU. LOCAL SCREENS CLEAR NOW. PACIFY YOUR POLTERGEIST.

  “What the hell is a poltergeist?” Webb growled.

  Kate shook her head. “Please don’t ask me.” Turning to scan the radar, she found pips moving over the screen. “What are those?”

  “A couple more buckets—they came up on the booster with us. One is the Yandro and the other is the Skyhook III. We’re all running for the Tombaugh.” He looked at the screen with disgust. “What’s wrong? What’s leaking?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Jimmy Cross would fix it in a hurry.” And then, surprisingly, he answered a question she had asked quite some time ago. “Yeah, he’s a mechanic. And a good one. He could fix or un-fix anything with his eyes shut.”

  “And Mr. Singleton?”

  “What about Singleton? He was a punk kid.”

  “While we were still in orbit, you said that Singleton got it ‘just about here’. You’ve dropped several hints about the man but you’ve told me nothing about him. Mr. Webb, what about Singleton? Either tell me what happened to him, or don’t mention his name again.”