4
Professor Maxton looked rather tired as he arranged the maintenance sheets carefully on his desk in a neat pile. Everything had been checked; everything was working perfectly—almost too perfectly, it seemed. The motors would have their final inspection tomorrow; meanwhile the stores could be moved into the two ships. It was a pity, he meditated, that one had to leave a stand-by crew aboard “Beta” while she circled the Earth. But it could not be avoided, since the instruments and the refrigeration plant for the fuel had to be looked after, and both machines would have to be fully maneuverable in order to make contact again. One school of thought considered that “Beta” should land and take off once more a fortnight later to meet the returning “Alpha.” There had been much argument over this, but the orbital view had finally been accepted. It would be introducing fewer additional hazards to leave “Beta” where she was, already in position just outside the atmosphere.
The machines were ready; but what, thought Maxton, of the men? He wondered if the Director-General had yet made his decision, and abruptly decided to go to see him.
He was not surprised to find the chief psychologist already with Sir Robert. Dr. Groves gave him a friendly nod as he entered.
“Hello, Rupert. I suppose you’re afraid I’ve called the whole thing off?”
“If you did,” said Maxton grimly, “I think I’d get up a scratch crew from my staff and go myself. We’d probably manage pretty well, at that. But, seriously, how are the boys?”
“They’re fine. It won’t be easy to choose your three men—but I hope you can do it soon, as the waiting puts an unfair strain on them. There’s no further reason for delay, is there?”
“No; they’ve all been reaction-tested on the controls and are fully familiar with the ship. We’re all set to go in.”
“In that case,” said the Director-General, “we’ll settle it first thing tomorrow.”
“How?”
“By ballot, as we promised. It’s the only way to prevent bad feeling.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Maxton. He turned to the psychologist again.
“Are you quite sure about Hassell?”
“I was coming to him. He’ll go all right, and he really wants to go. He’s not worrying so much now that the last-minute excitement has got hold of him. But there’s still one snag.”
“What’s that?”
“I think this is very unlikely, but suppose anything goes wrong at this end while he’s on the Moon?
The baby’s due just around mid-voyage, you know.”
“I see. If his wife died, to take the worst case, what effect would it have on him?”
“It isn’t easy to answer that, as he’ll already be under conditions quite unlike any which a human being has experienced before. He may take it calmly, or he may crack up. I think it’s a vanishingly small risk, but it’s there.”
“We could, of course, lie to him,” said Sir Robert thoughtfully, “but I’ve always been rather particular about ends and means. I’d hate to have a trick like that on my conscience.”
There was silence for a few minutes. Then the Director-General continued:
“Well, thanks very much, Doctor. Rupert and I will talk it over. If we decide it’s absolutely necessary, we might ask Hassell to step down.”
The psychologist paused at the door.
“You might” he said, “but I’d hate to try it myself.”
The night was ablaze with stars when Professor Maxton left the Director-General’s office and walked wearily across to the living-quarters. It gave him a guilty feeling to realize that he didn’t know the names of half the constellations he could see. One night he’d get Taine to identify them for him. But he would have to hurry; Taine might have only three more nights on Earth.
Over to the left he could see the crew’s quarters, blazing with lights. He hesitated for a moment, then walked swiftly towards the low building.
The first room, Leduc’s, was empty, though the lights were on and it had only just been vacated. Its occupant had already stamped his personality upon it and piles of books lay around the place—far more than there seemed any point in bringing on such a short visit. Maxton glanced at the titles—mostly French—and once or twice his eyebrows rose slightly. He filed away one or two words to await his next contact with a really comprehensive French dictionary.
A charming photograph of Pierre’s two children, sitting happily in a model rocket, was in a place of honor upon the desk. A portrait of his very beautiful wife was standing on the dressing-table, but the effect of domesticity was somewhat spoiled by the half-dozen photographs of other young ladies pinned on the wall.
Maxton moved to the next room, which happened to be Taine’s. Here he found Lechic and the young astronomer deeply engrossed in a game of chess. He watched their tactics critically for a time, with the usual result that they accused him of ruining their play. At this he challenged the winner; Leduc won and Maxton polished him off in about thirty moves.
“That,” he said, as the board was put away, “should stop you getting over-confident. Dr. Groves says it’s a common failing of yours.”
“Has Dr. Groves said anything else?” asked Leduc with elaborate casualness.
“Well, I’m giving away no medical confidences when I say that you’ve all passed your tests and can go on to High School. So first thing tomorrow we’re going to have a sweepstake to select the three guinea pigs.”
Expressions of relief came over his listeners’ faces. They had been almost promised, it was true, that the final choice would be by ballot but until now they had not been sure, and the feeling that they were all potential rivals had sometimes strained their relationships.
“Are the rest of the boys in?” asked Maxton. “I think I’ll go and tell them.”
“Jimmy’s probably asleep,” said Taine, “but Arnold and Vic are still awake.”
“Good. Be seeing you in the morning.”
Strange noises emerging from Richard’s room showed that the Canadian was very much asleep. Maxton went on down the passage and knocked at Clinton’s door.
The scene that confronted him almost took his breath away: it might have been a film set showing a mad scientist’s laboratory. Lying on the floor in a tangle of radio tubes and wiring, Clinton seemed to be hypnotized by a cathode-ray oscilloscope, the screen of which was filled with fantastic geometrical figures, continually shifting and changing. In the background a radio was softly playing Rachmaninoff’s rightly little-known Fourth Piano Concerto, and Maxton slowly realized that the figures on the screen were synchronized with the music.
He clambered on to the bed, which seemed the safest place to be, and watched until Clinton finally prized himself off the floor.
“Assuming that you know yourself,” he said at last, “can you tell me what the heck you’re trying to do?”
Clinton tiptoed gingerly over the confusion and sat down beside him.
“It’s an idea I’ve been working on for some years,” he explained apologetically.
“Well, I hope you remember what happened to the late Mr. Frankenstein.”
Clinton, who was a serious individual, failed to respond.
“I call it a kaleidophone,” he said. “The idea is that it will convert any rhythmical sound, such as music, into pleasing and symmetrical, but always changing, visual patterns.”
“That would make an amusing toy. But would the average nursery run to that number of radio tubes?”
“It’s not a toy,” said Clinton, slightly hurt. “The television people, and the cartoon film industry, would find it very useful. It would be ideal for providing interludes during long musical broadcasts, which always get boring. In fact, I was hoping to make a bit of money out of it.”
“My dear fellow,” grinned Maxton, “if you’re one of the first men to get to the Moon, I don’t think you’ll ever be in any real danger of starving in the gutter in your old age.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“The real reason why I dropped in was to tell you that we’re having a ballot for the crew first thing tomorrow. Don’t electrocute yourself before then. I’m going to see Hassell now—so good night.”
Hassell was lying in bed reading when Professor Maxton knocked and entered.
“Hello, Prof,” he said. “What are you doing around at this ungodly hour?”
Maxton came straight to the point.
“We’re having the draw for the crew tomorrow morning. Thought you’d like to know.”
Hassell was silent for a moment.
“That means,” he said, in a slightly thick voice, “that we’ve all got through.”
“Good heavens, Vic,” protested Maxton heartily, “surely you never had any doubts!”
Hassell’s eyes seemed to avoid him. They also avoided, Maxton noticed, the photograph of his wife on the dressing-table.
“As you all know,” Hassell said presently, “I’ve been rather worried about—Maude.”
“That’s natural enough, but I gather that everything is O.K. What are you going to call the boy, by the way?”
“Victor William.”
“Well, I guess that when he arrives Vic Junior will be about the most famous baby in the world. Too bad the television system’s one-way. You’ll have to wait until you get back before you can see him.”
“When and if,” muttered Hassell.
“Look here, Vic,” said Maxton firmly. “You do want to go, don’t you?”
Hassell looked up in half-ashamed defiance.
“Of course I do,” he snapped.
“Very well then. You’ve got three chances in five of being chosen, like everyone else. But if you don’t come out of the hat this time, then you’ll be on the second trip, which in some ways will be even more important, since by then we’ll be making our first attempt to establish a base. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
Hassell was silent for a moment. Then he said, somewhat despondently:
“The first voyage will be the one that History will remember. After that, they’ll all merge together.”
Now was the moment, Professor Maxton decided, to lose his temper. He could do this with great skill and accuracy when the occasion demanded it.
“Listen to me, Vic,” he stormed. “What about the people who built the blasted ship? How do you think we like having to wait until the tenth or the twentieth or the hundredth crossing before we have our chance? And if you’re such a damn fool as to want fame—then good God, man, have you forgotten—someone’s got to pilot the first ship to Mars!”
The explosion died away. Then Hassell grinned across at him and gave him a little laugh.
“Can I take that as a promise, Prof?”
“It isn’t mine to make, confound you.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is. But I see your argument—if I miss the boat this time I won’t be too upset. Now I think I’ll go to sleep.”
5
The spectacle of the Director-General carefully carrying a wastepaper basket into Professor Maxton’s office might normally have caused some amusement, but everyone regarded him solemnly as he entered. There were no bowler hats, it seemed, in the whole of Luna City: the wastepaper basket would have to act as a less dignified substitute.
Apart from the five members of the crew, who were painstakingly showing their nonchalance in the background, the only other people in the room were Maxton, McAndrews, two members of the administrative staff—and Alexson. Dirk had no particular reason to be there but McAndrews had invited him in. The Director of Public Relations was always doing helpful things like this, but Dirk strongly suspected that he was trying to secure his foothold in the official history.
Professor Maxton picked up a dozen small strips of paper from his desk and flicked them between his fingers.
“Right—are we all ready?” he said. “Here’s a slip for each of you to put your name on. If anyone’s too nervous to write, he can make a cross and we’ll get it witnessed.”
This little sally did much to relieve the tension and there were some good-natured jibes as the slips were signed and handed back, already folded.
“Good; now I’ll mix them up with the blanks—so. Who’d like to do the draw?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, acting on some unanimous impulse, the four other crew members pushed Hassell to the front. He looked rather sheepish as Professor Maxton held the basket out towards him.
“No cheating, Vic!” he said. “And only one at a time! Close your eyes and dip.”
Hassell plunged his hand into the basket and pulled out one of the slips. He handed it to Sir Robert, who quickly unfolded it.
“Blank,” he said.
There was a little sigh of annoyance—or relief?
Another slip. Again—
“Blank.”
“Hey, is everyone using invisible ink?” asked Maxton. “Try again, Vic.”
This time he was lucky.
“P. Leduc.”
Pierre said something very quickly in French and looked extremely pleased with himself. Everyone congratulated him hastily and turned at once back to Hassell.
He immediately scored a second bull’s-eye.
“J. Richards.”
Tension was now at its highest. Looking carefully, Dirk saw that Hassell’s hand was trembling very slightly as he pulled out the fifth strip.
“Blank.”
“Here we go again!” groaned someone. He was right.
“Blank.”
And yet a third time—
“Blank.”
Someone who had forgotten to breathe lately gave a long, deep suspiration.
Hassell handed the eighth slip to the Director-General.
The tension broke. Everyone crowded around the three chosen men. For a moment Hassell stood perfectly still; then he turned towards the others. His face showed absolutely no emotion of any kind. Then Professor Maxton clapped him on the shoulder and said something that Dirk could not hear. Hassell’s face relaxed and he answered with a wry smile. Dirk distinctly caught the word
“Mars”; then, looking quite cheerful, Hassell joined the others in congratulating his friends.
“That’ll do!” boomed the Director-General, grinning all over his face. “Come across to my office—I may have a few unopened bottles around the place.”
The company trooped next door, only McAndrews excusing himself on the grounds that he had to get hold of the Press. For the next quarter of an hour several sedate toasts were drunk in some excellent Australian wines which the Director-General had obviously obtained for this occasion. Then the little party broke up with a general air of relieved satisfaction. Leduc, Richards and Taine were dragged off to face the cameras, while Hassell and Clinton remained for a while in conference with Sir Robert. No one ever knew exactly what he said to them, but they both seemed quite cheerful when they emerged.
When the little ceremony was over, Dirk attached himself to Professor Maxton, who also seemed very pleased with himself and was whistling tunelessly.
“I bet you’re glad that’s over,” said Dirk.
“I certainly am. Now we all know where we stand.”
They walked together for a few yards without saying anything. Then Dirk remarked, very innocently: “Have I ever told you about my particular hobby?”
Professor Maxton looked somewhat taken aback.
“No, what is it?”
Dirk gave an apologetic cough.
“I’m supposed to be quite a good amateur conjurer.”
Professor Maxton stopped his whistling, very abruptly. A profound silence fell. Then Dirk said reassuringly: “There’s no need to worry. I’m quite sure that no one else noticed anything—particularly Hassell.”
“You,” said Professor Maxton firmly, “are a confounded nuisance. I suppose you’ll want to put him down in your infernal history?”
Dirk chuckled.
“Perhaps, though I’m not a gossip writer. I noticed that you only palmed Hassell’s
slip, so presumably the others were chosen by chance. Or had you already arranged what names the D.-G. would call out? Were all those blanks genuine, for instance?”
“You are a suspicious blighter! No, the others really were chosen by fair ballot.”
“What do you think Hassell will do now?”
“He’ll stay for the take-off, and still be home with time to spare.”
“And Clinton—how will he take it?”
“He’s a phlegmatic individual; it won’t worry him. We’re getting the pair of them working right away on the plans for the next trip. That should keep them from fretting and moping.”
He turned anxiously to Dirk.
“You’ll promise never to say anything about this?”
Dirk gave a grin.
” ‘Never’ is a heck of a long time. Shall we settle for the year 2000?”
“Always thinking about posterity, aren’t you? Very well then—the year 2000 it is. But on one condition!”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll expect a de luxe, autographed copy of your report to read through in my old age!”
6
Dirk was making a tentative draft of his preface when the telephone rang noisily. The fact that he had a telephone at all was somewhat surprising, for many much more important people lacked one and were always coming in to borrow his. But it had fallen out that way during the allocation of offices, and although he expected to lose it at any moment no one had yet arrived to remove the instrument.
“That you, Dirk? Ray Collins here. We’ve got the screens off the ‘Prometheus’ so you can see the whole ship at last. And you remember asking me how we serviced the motors?”
“Yes.”
“Come along and you can watch. It’s worth seeing.”
Dirk sighed and put away his notes. One day he would really get started, and then the history would materialize at a terrific rate. He was not at all worried, for he now knew his methods of working. It was no good starting before he had marshaled all the facts, and as yet he had not finished indexing his notes and references.
Prelude to Space Page 12
