“A ruby, I believe,” said Magnus Ridolph. He looked at the staring superintendent, coolly returned to his inspection of the jewel.
<
~ * ~
John Berryman
SPACE RATING
The more developed and daring space travel becomes, the greater will be the demands on the astronauts who pilot the spaceships across the interstellar vastnesses. Exploration of the Galaxy will not be all exciting adventures with weird life forms on alien planets. It will also be the dull, repetitive, exacting work of seeing to it that the interstellar vessels get where they are supposed to go, with minimum loss of energy and with the fewest possible accidents. Here is one man’s vision of the hind of testing that will be required before a space pilot or navigator can be fully qualified to take over command of a ship—and that will also be essential to ensure his continued efficiency while on the job.
~ * ~
MAJOR PHIL HAWLEY put his notes down, stood up and walked around his desk. Hands clasped behind his back, he rocked precariously on the balls of his feet at the edge of the lecture platform. His ramrod posture and impeccable uniform added height to his scant five-feet-nine.
“The hour is almost up, gentlemen,” he said, “and I prefer to start the next topic with a whole lecture period before me, so that this will be all for today.”
As thirty uniformed students picked up note pads preparatory to leaving, the major brought them all back to conscientious attention with the words, “There are a few remarks, however, which I might make prior to tomorrow’s lecture, with the purpose of acquainting you with the topic and perhaps suggesting a little preparatory reading tonight.”
He squared his shoulders and began to pace back and forth before the desk, saying academically: “The theory of navigation at velocities in excess of the speed of light has in the past been a very indefinite body of doctrine. Recently mathematical techniques have been devised to deal with the peculiar difficulties inherent in the case, and definitive results have been secured. The most important point brought out by the definitive solution of problems hitherto regarded as insoluble mathematically is that most of the presumptions of earlier theory have been borne out. If at all, general conclusions have been altered not in direction but merely in degree.”
With an alacrity that suggested he had expected it, Hawley recognized an objecting hand. He called on the student. “Lieutenant Riggs?”
“Sir,” the tall, blond objector said, “I’ve always been under the impression that mathematical methods had never been completed to deal with this problem. Three-dimensional propositions can at best afford only analogies and approximations to problems that by their nature must be solved by four-dimensional techniques. As I understand it, our knowledge of four-dimensional propositions in vector analysis and quantum mechanics is too incomplete to give definitive solutions.”
The instructor smiled and leaned against the polished walnut of his desk. “On the contrary, Lieutenant Riggs,” he said smoothly, running a hand over his black hair, “as I said before, recent contributions to mathematical theory have given definitive solutions.”
Riggs did not bother to raise his hand again, but asked, with arch politeness, “May I quote from the Manual?”
At Hawley’s smiling nod, Riggs picked up the thick, blue-bound volume prepared by the scientists of the Space Patrol for classroom use, and riffled its pages before finding his place. He looked up and then read a few lines: “Theorizing on problems of navigation at speeds in excess of that of light can at best give presumptions; strong presumptions, of course, but definitive results are, by the very nature of the problem, unattainable.”
He closed the book slowly and stared at the waiting instructor, eyebrows raised in question. The class was utterly silent, watching the latest development in what had long since become a classroom feud between Hawley and his most able pupil.
The major seemed puzzled. “Does the Manual really say that, Lieutenant Riggs?” he asked, his voice slightly touched with anxiety.
“Yes, sir,” Riggs replied, trying to keep his voice calm.
The class held its breath, half sensing what was coming. Hawley leaned his head a little to one side, as if considering the statement, and nodded slightly to himself. Then he leaned forward, his black eyes snapping, and winked confidentially at his heckler. “I’ll have it changed, Lieutenant,” he said softly.
As the classroom burst into laughter, Hawley stepped down off the platform and called, “That’s all for today, gentlemen.”
Riggs, his face flaming red, rose stiffly from his seat and walked out with the rest.
In the corridor outside, Riggs’s roommate joined him. “Going back to the room, Bo?” he asked his still-incandescent companion.
Riggs grunted an affirmative, then walked several paces in silence. “Damn that Hawley, anyway!” he swore suddenly.
Mai Burt laughed. “He does bear down on you a little, Bo,” he chuckled. “I thought I’d die when he told you he’d have the Manual changed!”
Riggs’s lip curled as he half snarled, “Oh, I suppose he has worked out some fourth-dimensional equations, all right. He’s the hottest mathematical theoretician in the Patrol, but he doesn’t have to rub it in. How was I to know?” Both lieutenants saluted absently as a brace of passing undergraduate privates snapped hands to foreheads.
Burt continued to laugh as they walked across the paved court toward their barracks. “I guess we all feel the same way about the old boy. He sure lets you know he doesn’t think much of your mental capacity.”
Riggs flared up again as they turned into the walk leading to the long translucent building where they lived. “Why, hell, it’s just his inferiority complex. He feels funny about being short, that’s all. That’s the only reason he keeps on trying out for his space rating year after year. He likes to wave it in front of us. It makes him think he’s better than he knows he is. The dope.”
Burt looked over at his roommate. “Well, I don’t know. You can’t blame him much for being proud of that. He’s the oldest man ever to hold a rating. Most pilots are washed out five years before his time. He must be thirty-five by now.”
“Sure, sure, I know. It’s remarkable for a man to keep his responses, and all that, but it’s the way he does it. I know damned well he was baiting me there in class today. He didn’t need to start the lecture on supra-light velocities till tomorrow. He knew I’d be the only one in the class who’d challenge the statement about a definite solution. I can just see him now, the smug little martinet, laughing at the way I leaped at it!” He growled disgusted sounds in the back of his throat.
“Well,” Burt said, as the two trotted up the steps of the barracks, saluting automatically again, “there’s only two more weeks of this. We’ll be back on patrol June fifteenth, Bo. I’ll be just as glad as you to get Hawley off my back.”
Scarcely had the two entered their severe quarters and thrown themselves into chairs when there was a rap on the door. At Riggs’s command the one outside entered.
An orderly snapped a smart salute and said tonelessly, “Commander Conklin’s compliments, Lieutenant Riggs, and will you report at once to his office.”
Riggs nodded and dismissed the sergeant. He looked over at Burt. “What now, Mai?” he asked.
Burt shook his head. “Better snap it up,” he advised. “Conk doesn’t like to wait.”
With one quick glance at his appearance, Riggs left for the office of the base commander, highest military officer at the Patrol’s terrestrial base.
He paused at a door marked “Major General Conklin, Base Commander,” pulled his chin and stomach in before rapping smartly. He entered at the commander’s order and saluted, standing at attention.
Conklin, grizzled veteran of many a patrol, shot him a piercing glance, then said, “Oh, yes, Lieutenant Riggs. At ease, Lieutenant.”
Conklin reached over to a basket and picked up several sheets of typed paper. “You’re leaving on patrol duty in t
wo weeks,” the commander announced. “This is to notify you of your temporary promotion to the rank of captain, for the ninety-day duration of the patrol.”
Riggs blinked at the unexpected news and managed to gurgle, “Yes, sir.”
Conklin laid the paper down and leaned forward. “This is also to notify you, Captain Riggs, that you have been selected as examiner for your alternate pilot when on patrol. You, of course, know the obligation of keeping this appointment absolutely confidential.”
“Yes, sir,” Riggs said again.
“You’ve been promoted, Captain, so that you may be first officer and copilot. You are to observe the technique of your superior officer at the controls and decide whether his space rating should be continued for another year.” He looked up at the erect figure before him. “Major Hawley will be in command,” he said, noticing Riggs’s start as he did so. “I don’t need to tell you that your mission will be of more than usual delicacy, and for reasons that I don’t have to bring up at this time.”
He paused for a moment, while Riggs’s whirling mind reflected that “unusual delicacy” was hardly the epithet. Examiner for Phil Hawley! What an assignment!
“You are to leave on June fifteenth for a patrol of ninety days,” Conklin went on, “your activities to consist of servicing thirty robot observatories en route, collecting and examining their plates. You’ll be informed of your ship later.” The commander handed Riggs’s orders across the desk. “That’s all, Captain,” he said.
Riggs saluted. “Sir,” he said diffidently, “may I have a few words with you, off the record?”
“Certainly. Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, much as I appreciate this temporary promotion, and a chance to show that I deserve it, I think it only fair to make clear that I may be a rather poor choice for examiner. Major Hawley and I don’t get along very well together. To be frank, we don’t get along at all, and I’m afraid I would be rather prejudiced.”
Conklin leaned back in his swivel chair and laughed. “Well, Riggs,” he chuckled, “I don’t know whom I could have selected from his classes who would not have felt the same way. Hawley’s classroom technique is just a little this side of brutal, but I think you’ll find him a very good man to work under on patrol. As a matter of fact, I have reason to believe that Hawley respects you as much as any of his students. I don’t think you’ll have any undue difficulty. I’m glad you had the honesty to admit your bias, Captain,” he said in conclusion.
Riggs saluted. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”
At a nod from Conklin, Riggs turned smartly on his heel and left, exceedingly puzzled by Conklin’s tacit statement that Hawley had given him good marks and a good recommendation for his work in navigational theory.
~ * ~
The next two weeks flew by with unwonted rapidity, and Riggs found himself assigned, as he had been informed in advance he would be, to one of the ships in the Service Fleet, or, as it was familiarly known in the Patrol, the “Little Fleet.” The name was derived from the fact that each member of the Service Fleet had the adjective “Little” prefixed to his name. Riggs’s ship was the Little Falls, laden with fuel for the atomic motors of the robot observatories planted on thirty different planets of several nearby suns, and a huge supply of photographic plates to replenish the nearly exhausted magazines of the telescopic cameras.
Placed in many cases on planets where men could not have survived continued existence, the observatories on the planets of the nearer stars were serviced once every three terrestrial years. The exposed plates from the telescopes were removed, developed in the service ship as it sped through the endless wastes of space to its next destination, and run through moving-picture cameras to detect any astronomical occurrences recorded on them.
Since most of the cameras exposed plates only every few days, or, at the most, a small number a day, it was a matter of but little time to run the film at projection speed through a moving-picture projector and look for such novae and comets as were recorded in the interval. The more detailed graphs collected by cosmic-ray detectors, and so on, were brought back to Earth for more careful and detailed scrutiny by specialized experts.
Six days out from Earth found the Little Falls decelerating as it approached Rigel VI, its crew of ten protected from instant annihilation by the inertia screens, screens that permit humans to survive accelerations so stupendous that the stars were brought within easy reach of the Solar System. The crew had become acquainted by that time, for all but Hawley and Riggs had been virtual strangers. The general policy of the Patrol was to shift personnel around so that every man became acquainted with as many different duties as possible and, further, so that technical experts such as cosmic-ray specialists should have firsthand knowledge of as many parts of the Galaxy as possible.
In the control room, watching Rigel VI and its four smallish planets loom larger in the visiplate, were the four men responsible for the navigation and piloting of the spaceship: Hawley, commander and pilot; Riggs, first officer and copilot; Art Price, computer, and Tom Mercer, navigator.
Hawley and Riggs sat silently side by side at the dual controls. Mercer and Price, behind the pilots, faced each other across the twin calculators, determining their position by repeated observations through the low-powered telescope and charting their course for landing.
Hawley looked across to Riggs, who was trying to make his twenty-four years look sufficiently dignified to justify his rank. “You take this one,” the commander said. “I’m a little stale; I haven’t shot a landing in nine months.”
“Yes, sir,” Riggs replied, wondering whether Hawley would keep pushing the landings off on him. They were approaching the second planet of the greenish sun, with no atmosphere to complicate the landing. Price and Mercer had already located the observatory, on the light side of the planet, and were calculating their position, both calculating machines alternately clicking and whirring as the coordinates of position were entered and run off.
As the time grew close for him to make his approach, Riggs closed the face plate on the helmet of his spacesuit, which all had donned some time previously as a routine precaution, and said abstractedly, “Riggs testing. One, two, three, four. One, two three, four.” The droning voices of the other nine rattled in his headset as the rest of the crew followed suit.
Now less than a hundred kilometers from the smooth and barren surface of their objective, Riggs threw over the landing-rocket switch, cutting in the hydrocarbon steering rockets for the landing. “Okay, Price,” he snapped, his voice hollow and strange inside his helmet.
The computer immediately clipped out three figures, designating their position relative to their objective.
The system used for navigating spaceships to a landing had been developed many years previously and had not undergone substantial change as most other techniques improved, since it was a model of simplicity, considering the difficulty of the problem to be solved. All bodies which were ever visited were given an arbitrary north and south pole by the Patrol, determined by comparison of the inclination of the planet’s axis to the plane of the ecliptic of the Solar System. With north determined, three coordinates could describe the location of a spaceship relative to any point on a planet’s surface, the three points being, respectively, distance north—or south—of the objective, distance east—or west—of the objective, and finally, altitude over the objective.
With motions automatic from long and constant practice, Riggs soon had the Little Falls directly over the landing base next to the observatory, lowering the ship vertically in the simplest kind of a landing. Price’s voice barked three figures into Riggs’s headset every few seconds, but now two of them were always zeros as Riggs kept the ship directly over the field, indicating that there was no north-south or east-west displacement. As they came within hundreds of meters of the surface, velocity almost killed, Riggs laid the ship over on its side and lowered it smoothly on flaring steering rockets, grounding it with scarcely
a jar.
The crew carefully snapped off their safety belts and dropped to the lower wall of the control room, looking out the ports.
Hawley glanced at the gauge before he left the board. “You used almost all the fuel allowed for a point Six G landing, Riggs,” he noted.
The copilot nodded. “Yes, sir, no sense cutting the first one too fine. Landing is no time to make a mistake.”
Hawley smiled archly. “Wise words, Captain,” he drawled.
Riggs kept his eyes averted to conceal his ire, mentally kicking himself for the slip. Conklin’s words that Hawley was a good man to work under on patrol rang mockingly in his ears. He was thankful that the routine of servicing the observatory kept them apart for the next few minutes, until he had time to cool down.
Hawley remained within the ship as Riggs led Clark, the astronomer, and Cutler, one of the engineers, to the observatory dome. Cutler dragged a small dolly behind him, laden with rolls of unexposed film. The low gravity of the planet made movement easy, despite their bulky spacesuits. Riggs led the way to the lock in the side of the dome, and in a few moments had it open. The other two followed him through the low doorway. Inside, the radium lamps were coming to a slow glow, heating up as the automatic relay connected with the lock turned them on. In the growing light Clark stepped over to the moderate-sized refractor, checking on its lubrication reservoirs, on the condition of the many motors connected with the clockwork. While Riggs checked the observatory clock against the Little Falls chronometer, Clark and Cutler quickly removed the film magazines from the delicate cameras and substituted others of unexposed film. One last bit of work removed the rolls of graph paper from the cosmic-ray detectors, and the men were returning to the ship.
Possible Worlds of Science Fiction Page 32
