Space, Space, Space - Stories about the Time when Men will be Adventuring to the Stars

by William Sloane

  “You say they’re trying to tell you how to do the job—?” said Joe.

  “Yeah—I finished a picture of an assembly and was starting to tear it apart when one of these walking nightmares suddenly sticks out ten of his arms or legs and garrmps in his own language and then says, now on my world, young man, we perform such an operation this way!”

  “Were any of them Radalians?”

  “I don’t know, but you’ve got to get them out of the way.”

  Joe turned to Litchfield. “They’re trying to show the man how to do his job. What more could we want?”

  “A bunch of junketing, kibitzing commissioners won’t do much good. They couldn’t run the ship, let alone build it.”

  “No, but I’ll bet if we had an analogue—a Radalian one —wed know how to build the tools to build the tools to build it. We could differentiate all the way down to the most basic technology required.”

  “I suppose you’ll just step up to the First Administrator and ask him for it.”

  “Something like that. I’ve sparred with them long enough to know something about how political minds tick. One thing they can’t resist is a Tour.”

  The atmosphere inside the ship was foul. There were at least a score of clumsy, alien pressure suits within range of their vision as they climbed in through the rent in the hull.

  Some suits were squat, some tall, some with eight appendages, some with three or four. Some were filled with liquid, others with gas of chemistry and pressure that would be instant death to a Terrestrian.

  It was the exhaust from some of these that Joe and Litchfield smelled immediately. Methane, chlorine, and fluorine were the least deadly that they recognized.

  And every one of the politicians was equipped with a cerebropath by which he could make himself heard and understood in order to inflict his opinions on the helpless workman nearest him.

  Close by, a six-appendaged creature was earnestly instructing a workman in his job—and exuding a foul aroma that Joe didn’t recognize at once. While they watched, the workman quietly rolled over with his staring face upward.

  The alien commissioner straightened in perplexity. “That fellow is incompetent. We can’t allow such to work on our vessel. See that he is replaced.”

  And the creature marched austerely away.

  Funny, Joe thought. You travel a million light-years and find creatures that look like something that should be crawling on the bottom of the sea. Even among them a politician is a politician—arrogant, demanding, and wholly ignorant of ninety-nine percent of the subjects upon which he essays to pontificate.

  Joe and Litchfield hunted up the advisors and explained the problem.

  “Sorry,” said Johnson. “It is their ship, you know. If you can’t stand their breathing methane down your necks, you’ll just have to work in pressure suits yourselves.”

  In the eyes of Johnson and the three others Joe could see the grinning faces of all the host of inspectors and bureaucrats he had bested in his long career. They hated him because they belonged to a dying race of bureaucrats and he was their successor. But they had never had him bound so tightly in their red tape as now.

  Direct appeal to the foreign commissioners was, of course, useless. They might retreat from their kibitzing, but they would put Earth down as an unfriendly planet of sub-sentient life on which it was not safe to have a space vessel repaired.

  “All right, will you do this, then?” said Joe. “Will you convey my respects to the First Administrator and ask him if he would care for a personally conducted tour of my place? Since the repair work is well in hand, I find myself free and would be glad to be at his service.”

  The advisors gave him uniform, startled glances. Johnson blinked. “I don’t see why not,” he said, slowly turning over the idea to find the catch. “You’re sure the work is in hand? We should like to report that to the President.”

  “You may assure him that he has nothing to worry about, but a good deal depends upon my friendly relations with the First Administrator. Will you be so kind as to introduce me?”

  Suspicious still, he left and returned in a moment with a grotesque, armored hulk.

  “Lochneil, the Radalian, First Administrator of the Galactic Union,” said Johnson.

  The creature extended one of two stubby appendages. Two others he kept wrapped around his waist —as if he were afraid he’d get his shirt stolen, Joe thought.

  “And this is Joe Williams, owner and operator of ‘Joe’s Service and Repair’—”

  Be nice to him, Joe told himself fiercely. This is the guy that can make the field look like another archaeological site if he’s rubbed the wrong way.

  “Glad to know you,” said Joe.

  “And I,” said the Radalian. “Your name is known widely in many galaxies.”

  The old oil, Joe muttered to himself and smiled appreciatively. “Yes, we get customers from a variety of ports.”

  “It’s comforting to know that our vessel is in such good hands. You are experiencing no unusual difficulty, I trust?”

  “Oh, no. Everything’s coming along fine. We are old hands at working with strange machinery. We have quite a complete system for analyzing cultural artifacts foreign to our own system.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told,” said Lochneil with interest. “In fact, I had hoped during this good-will tour to investigate your place. Time would not have permitted, but this unfortunate accident has forced the delay upon us. Your offer of which Mr. Johnson spoke is extremely welcome. That is, if you’re not too busy, of course.”

  Was there ever a politician who didn’t ask that fool question while he consumed the time and energies of his betters, Joe wondered. The tools to make the tools to make the tools—

  It kept ringing through his head like a stupid jingle that had no end or meaning. He had to get a Radalian analogue. He was sure he was right—but if his hunch were a bust—

  “We have a carrier that will make it easier than trying to walk in the pressure suit,” he offered.

  “Not at all. Your gravity is light. I shall enjoy the stroll.”

  You and who else, Joe thought, glancing towards the dust-covered pavement that seemed to be faintly smoking in the heat of mid-afternoon. But already the Radalian was striding away.

  Joe caught up with him. “That building directly across the field is the hospital. We attempt to give medical attention to all who are sick or injured when they arrive”

  “Your depot is extremely far advanced to have such.”

  He introduced the First Administrator to Dr. Yates, in charge of the hospital. Immediately it was like old home week, and Joe was startled at the ease with which Lochneil conducted himself in Yates’ presence. The old doctor was crotchety and hated people asking silly questions.

  But he showed Lochneil the pressure suites where natural accommodations of temperature, pressure, and atmosphere could be supplied in an infinite variety of combinations.

  For an hour the Administrator pressed him with questions about the mechanical and biological functions of the complex hospital—how they operated on creatures that couldn’t be depressurized, that had to be continually in atmospheres deadly to Earthmen—

  Yates answered them all with obvious pleasure.

  A political trick, Joe thought irritably, the ability to appear interested in something about which you didn’t give a single, minute damn. But that wasn’t the answer, either, he recognized with a start. The First Administrator was actually interested in these things. He acted like a creature with a mind that could absorb such technical information.

  He found himself almost pleased with the company of the First Administrator, and chafed irritably against this breach of principle.

  They went from there to the great machine shops where Lochneil grilled the official in charge in a way that made old Mortenson enjoy it. The Administrator insisted on operating some of the complex fabricating tools—a twenty-ton shear, an eighty-foot planer, the giant lathes.

&
nbsp; Next came the library and museum where vast accumulations of encyclopedic data on a hundred thousand races was stored.

  “This is most complete,” said the First Administrator in frank awe. “It almost is superior to our Union facilities.”

  The afternoon was nearly over and the sun was setting with an unembarrassed attempt to re-enact some of the morning’s glory. Evening crews had come on, but Lochneil showed no signs of giving up. Joe was hungry and tired. He was afraid the First Administrator would want to read the whole library—or worse, yet, that he would suddenly decide to quit.

  They had to make one more stop—just one more.

  “Engineering analysis is last,” said Joe wearily. “Outside of administration, that about completes what we have here—except the hotel, of course, and you wouldn’t care to see that now, I’m sure.”

  “I must see your analysis section,” said Lochneil. “That is almost legendary among starmen.”

  Joe led him into the building and showed him the files of tapes. “We have better than a hundred thousand analogues of members of foreign races. These have all been gathered since I started the depot when I was young.

  “You are aware, of course, of the basis of analogue work. It depends upon the fact that in the brain of each race are typical neural structures. The artifacts of the race are always analogous to portions of these structures. If we have so much as one percent of the data relative to a certain artifact, we can usually determine the rest by interpolation from neural analogues.”

  “Without the analogue your whole establishment would be virtually helpless, would it not?”

  “Right. That’s the key that allows the whole place to operate.”

  “May I see the Radalian analogues that you have on hand?”

  “We have none at all of your race.”

  “That is most unfortunate—and even more so that we are unable to allow specimens from those of us who are present. Your request was relayed to us, but of course it was not necessary in order to repair the ship.”

  “Oh, no. We just wanted to increase our files. The repair work was well under way when we made the request.”

  “Fortunately—otherwise it might have been delayed.”

  Joe felt the tension of fatigue growing strong within him. “Over here,” he said, “are the chambers used for interviewing and analogue taking. Would you care to see what we can do in the way of duplicating your environment?”

  “Of course.”

  Lochneil recited the atmospheric constituents and required pressures and temperatures.

  “When the green light glows you may remove your pressure suit. I will be on the other side of this transparent wall.”

  Would the fool actually do it? Joe was so tired he was almost trembling. He feared his anxiety showed, but Lochneil seemed oblivious to all but the mechanical intricacies of the chamber.

  Joe sealed the door and took his place in the interviewer’s chair. As the green light flashed Lochneil cautiously opened a panel at the side of his face.

  “Very agreeable. Like a spring day on my home world.”

  He stripped off the pressure suit while Joe sat as if paralyzed. The Radalian was a sleek creature who seemed covered with bright green velvet. Great wild eyes shifting at random in the bulging sockets. Scanning vision, Joe thought. He had seen it twice before, but didn’t know it was in the Radalians.

  The First Administrator strode about, flexing his short and long arms with pleasurable freedom from the suit.

  Like a politician strutting around on a platform, Joe thought. But that wasn’t right, he knew somehow. Lochneil was of a different cast from the local politicians. He spoke and talked like a man who could perform.

  He sat down opposite Joe. “Extremely well done,” he said. “I have not seen anything to compare with it in all my travels. I only regret our visit was at the expense of the lives of our crew.”

  He began fingering the panel at his side. He picked up the helmet used for analogue taking. “This is what, now?” he said.

  “That picks up the neural pulses and sends them on to the recorder.”

  Lochneil gave a pompous grmmf and eyed the gadget closely.

  Joe fingered the row of controls on the arm of his chair. His hands were sweaty.

  If he puts it on, I’ll let him have it—

  He did—

  And Joe did.

  He blasted the brain of Lochneil with one quick flash that went deep to extract millions of neural patterns. It was a bitter technique seldom used, but possible. It differed from the ordinary recording in the same way a photograph by intense flash differs from a time picture. And it always knocked the patient out —sometimes seriously.

  For a long time Joe just sat there. The great eyes of Lochneil were staring wildly and still scanning slowly —but utterly vacant.

  He would be all right—Joe hoped and prayed. But he prayed also for the impossible—that Lochneil might be as completely stupid as the run of the mill politicians in regard to technical matters.

  It was already much too late for that, for the First Administrator had displayed many times the comprehension of his Terrestrian kind. And, much as he hated to admit it to himself, Joe liked the man.

  He called Yates, who swore at him and left his dinner table. Then he called Litchfield and explained what he had done. The engineer swore, too, and called him a fool for pulling such a stunt.

  Then Joe sat down and waited for them to come, almost convinced that their opinions of him were correct.

  Yates came first and took the stiff Lochneil away with scarcely a word to Joe. When Litchfield came, Joe was examining the tapes.

  “You really put the fat in the fire.”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “You shouldn’t think at all after a day like this. Let’s get a drink and go home to bed.”

  “No—we’ve got to examine these analogues. If I’m right, we can start making tools to make the tools to make … oh, hell! we can start tonight.”

  “And I suppose the First won’t even know what hit him?”

  “Let’s not speak of it now.”

  They took the tape into the scanning room and placed it in one of the machines. Beside it, they placed data take from the Radalian plans. Then Joe pressed the button and watched the screen. After a moment he sat back with a sigh. This was it. The Radalian analogue nailed down the molecular spray to the lowest technical level.

  They didn’t sleep that night, and by morning it was raining. That was appropriate, Joe thought, for the events that would certainly transpire this day.

  Art Rawlins had slaved beside them all night and by morning his eyes were as baggy as his grin was wide. “We can make a spray, now,” he said. “You watch!”

  By dawn Lochneil had still not awakened. Joe went over to the hospital suite while Litchfield and Rawlins got things under way. Joe wanted to be alone with the First Administrator. He didn’t want anyone else to have to share the brunt of Lochneil’s wrath.

  But the First Administrator awoke without wrath or indignation. He sat up so suddenly it almost shocked Joe. Then he grinned ruefully. At least Joe took it for a Radalian grin.

  “That was a foolish thing for me to do,” said Lochneil. “I didn’t even give you time to warn me, did I?”

  Joe exhaled—long and deep—and a slow, grim tension began building up anew within him. The Radalian intended to pose as innocent of understanding what had taken place. But Joe knew that was a lie. The questions he had heard yesterday could not have come from one too ignorant to know his analogue had been taken.

  Lochneil was still playing a lying political game, and to what purpose Joe could not guess.

  “Are you hurt?” he said solicitously. “Were deeply sorry a thing like this should happen. The current—”

  “A slight headache is all. Id like to return to the ship now. I feel hungry.”

  “Stay right where you are. Breakfast is coming up!”

 
; On Wednesday they had the tools to make the tools to make the tools to make the spray.

  On Thursday they had the tools to make the tools to make the spray.

  Friday, they had the spray.

  In the process, Art Rawlins had filled a hangar fifteen hundred feet long with machinery. He had taken advantage of the offer of Johnson to use available government facilities. For two solid days fleets of ships had poured machines and technicians into the place.

  On the third day the single piece of equipment required to rebuild the Martremant emerged.

  The evening shift on Friday began the rebuilding. The ship was moved a considerable distance and shielded heavily—but the junketeers refused to move. Of them all, only Lochneil was on hand to watch the process.

  It was wholly automatic, but Joe had the honor of pressing the button to start the process. Inside the ship, a great backing plate had been prepared. In front of it, an intricate scaffolding held the nozzle that sprayed out a great machine, molecule by molecule.

  Simultaneously, on each floor, the process went on, building the units that would drive the ship at third-order velocities.

  And Joe had not yet solved the lie of Lochneil. But he was about to, he thought. It was now or never.

  He fed the heavy piles of matrix plates into the scanning chambers of the molecular spray. While Lochneil—and only Lochneil—was looking, he switched a pair of matrices.

  He stepped back then, absently watching the functioning of the machine. On tube faces, they could watch the building as it proceeded inside the ship. Joe was aware of Lochneil’s eyes upon him. The great scanning eyes of the First Administrator were spinning back and forth like mad radar beams.

  At last, with a cry of dismay, the Radalian leaped for the controls of the machine just as the scanning of the erroneous matrix began.

  He cut the power and gestured helplessly towards the matrix.

  “I thought … it seemed … are you sure it’s working all right?”

  “Now how about the full story?” said Joe. “You’ve been pulling our legs ever since you came here. Why?

  “You knew perfectly well how the molecular spray was to be built. You could have told us, but you played dumb. Then you deliberately sat down in the analogue chair and gave me the analogue I had tried so hard to get. There must be a reason, and even if you are First Administrator, it ought to be a good one.”