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

by William Sloane

  Lochneil smiled slowly and turned to the controls. He changed the matrix and started the machine again. Then he faced Joe.

  “I was quite sure you never would get the Martremant repaired in any reasonable time without the analogue. That’s why I gave it to you. You see, I happen to be the inventor of the spray process.”

  Joe swallowed hard. “You … the spray—?”

  “We came here for the prime purpose of getting information first-hand from your people about your people. The conferences and dinners and polite exchanges we were subjected to in your Capitol seemed like a deliberate barrier to prevent that. So we had planned a secret mission to accomplish what a straightforward visit seemed unable to do.

  “Then, suddenly, the accident made it possible. Our kibitzing, as you called it, was quite deliberate. We wanted to observe you in natural circumstances. We wanted to observe your attempts to solve the problem without knowing you were being given the molecular spray. Your results were admirable.”

  “But why all this?” said Joe. “It still makes no sense. You—the spray designer, and First Administrator. We haven’t a single being on our whole planet who could occupy correspondingly similar positions.”

  “I know,” said Lochneil. “That is the tragedy of your people. We have studied and marveled over your organization since you entered the Union. You will not be flattered, I’m sure, to know that among the sociologists of more advanced civilizations you are classified as ‘political primitives.’ Hundreds of theses have been written to describe and explain how a culture can advance in such a lopsided manner as yours.

  “Good government is simply good living, and we are taught how to live with one another. Therefore, it is hardly startling among us that I, the inventor of the spray, should also serve a term as First Administrator. The implications of your term ‘political’ do not exist among us.”

  “Then there is no intention of choosing an Earthman for First Administrator?” said Joe.

  “On the contrary, we are seriously considering the appointment. It would give you considerable political confidence as a people.

  “We have watched with pleasure your progress since entering the Union. Your bureaucracy is dying at an increasing rate, and we should like to offer assistance in its replacement. There is in your language a term, I believe, that expresses somewhat the situation—wheels within wheels.”

  Joe got it then. The faint implications that had been present in the Lochneil analogue.

  Wheels within wheels—

  Concentric coteries of increasingly tight and advanced organizations within the vast Galactic Union. Primitive worlds, such as Earth, were allowed to believe there was only a loose federation. But they were thinking now of inviting Earth to join one of the inner circles—

  “I hope if you choose an Earthman you will get a man who can beat a politician at his own game,” said Joe.

  “I shall. I surely shall. He will be handpicked and trained for the position, and I have a positive recommendation already to make as soon as we return to Administration Central.

  “It has been a pleasure to know you and watch you at work. Exhausting all lesser alternatives, you resorted to extremities only when necessary. You operate according to correct political principles, Mr. Williams. In fact, I would say you are an excellent politician.”

  HIDE AND SEEK

  ARTHUR C. CLARKE

  ★ ★

  Not all space adventures will involve people of our own planet and alien beings. There will be encounters between Earth man and Earth man, and between men in big machines, like space cruisers, and in small ones, like space suits. It will be hard to tell the outcome of these encounters ahead of time. Size isn’t always an advantage, as Mr. Clarke makes entertainingly clear in this compressed and humorous account of one such engagement.

  This business of size will cause a great deal of trouble in the years of space exploration ahead. If you think about it, you will see that human beings measure everything in terms of the size of their own bodies. Even if two men have now climbed Mount Everest, the mountains of Terra are about as high as Man can go, and although no one has been to the bottom of the deepest gulfs of the sea, Man has sent his instruments there.

  This is all very well, but there may be worlds too big to cope with by human standards. And perhaps, too, there are worlds so tiny that a human machine like a space cruiser will fail to fit the different scale of size. Vast though space is, it contains the small as well as the huge, and the only thing that has no size, big or little, is the mechanism for adapting to bigness and smallness with equal effectiveness —the right idea.

  ★ ★

  We were walking back through the woods when Kingman saw the grey squirrel. Our bag was a small but varied one – three grouse, four rabbits (one, I am sorry to say, an infant in arms) and a couple of pigeons. And contrary to certain dark forecasts, both the dogs were still alive.

  The squirrel saw us at the same moment. It knew that it was marked for immediate execution as a result of the damage it had done to the trees on the estate, and perhaps it had lost close relatives to Kingman’s gun. In three leaps it had reached the base of the nearest tree, and vanished behind it in a flicker of grey. We saw its face once more, appearing for a moment round the edge of its shield a dozen feet from the ground: but though we waited, with guns levelled hopefully at various branches, we never saw it again.

  Kingman was very thoughtful as we walked back across the lawn to the magnificent old house. He said nothing as we handed our victims to the cook – who received them without much enthusiasm – and only emerged from his reverie when we were sitting in the smoking-room and he remembered his duties as a host.

  ‘That tree-rat,’ he said suddenly – he always called them ‘tree-rats’, on the grounds that people were too sentimental to shoot the dear little squirrels – ‘it reminded me of a very peculiar experience that happened shortly before I retired. Very shortly indeed, in fact.’

  ‘I thought it would,’ said Carson dryly. I gave him a glare: he’d been in the Navy and had heard Kingman’s stories before but they were still new to me.

  ‘Of course,’ Kingman remarked, slightly nettled, ‘if you’d rather I didn’t—’

  ‘Do go on,’ I said hastily. ‘You’ve made me curious. What connection there can possibly be between a grey squirrel and the Second Jovian War I can’t imagine.’

  Kingman seemed mollified.

  ‘I think I’d better change some names,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I won’t alter the places. The story begins about a million kilometres sunwards of Mars—’

  *

  K.15 was a military intelligence operative. It gave him considerable pain when unimaginative people called him a spy but at the moment he had much more substantial grounds for complaint. For some days now a fast cruiser had been coming up astern, and though it was flattering to have the undivided attention of such a fine ship and so many highly trained men, it was an honour that K.15 would willingly have forgone.

  What made the situation doubly annoying was the fact that his friends would be meeting him off Mars in about twelve hours, aboard a ship quite capable of dealing with a mere cruiser – from which you will gather that K.15 was a person of some importance. Unfortunately, the most optimistic calculation showed that the pursuers would be within accurate gun range in six hours. In some six hours five minutes, therefore, K.15 was likely to occupy an extensive and still expanding volume of space. There might just be time for him to land on Mars, but that would be one of the worst things he could do. It would certainly annoy the aggressively neutral Martians, and the political complications would be frightful. Moreover, if his friends had to come down to the planet to rescue him, it would cost them more than ten kilometres a second in fuel – most of their operational reserve.

  He had only one advantage, and that a very dubious one. The commander of the cruiser might guess that he was heading for a rendezvous, but he would not know how close it was nor how large was the ship
that was coming to meet him. If he could keep alive for only twelve hours, he would be safe. The ‘if’ was a somewhat considerable one.

  K.15 looked moodily at his charts, wondering if it was worth while to burn the rest of his fuel in a final dash. But a dash to where? He would be completely helpless then, and the pursuing ship might still have enough in her tanks to catch him as he flashed outwards into the empty darkness, beyond all hope of rescue – passing his friends as they came sunwards at a relative speed so great that they could do nothing to save him.

  With some people, the shorter the expectation of life, the more sluggish are the mental processes. They seem hypnotised by the approach of death, so resigned to their fate that they do nothing to avoid it. K.15, on the other hand, found that his mind worked better in such a desperate emergency. It began to work now as it had seldom done before.

  Commander Smith – the name will do as well as any other – of the cruiser Doradus was not unduly surprised when K.15 began to decelerate. He had half-expected the spy to land on Mars, on the principle that internment was better than annihilation, but when the plotting-room brought the news that the little scout ship was heading for Phobos, he felt completely baffled. The inner moon was nothing but a jumble of rock some twenty kilometres across, and not even the economical Martians had ever found any use for it. K.15 must be pretty desperate if he thought it was going to be of any greater value to him.

  The tiny scout had almost come to rest when the radar operator lost it against the mass of Phobos. During the braking manoeuvre, K.15 had squandered most of his lead and the Doradus was now only minutes away – though she was now beginning to decelerate lest she overrun him. The cruiser was scarcely three thousand kilometres from Phobos when she came to a complete halt: of K.15’s ship there was still no sign. It should be easily visible in the telescopes, but it was probably on the far side of the little moon.

  It reappeared only a few minutes later, travelling under full thrust on a course directly away from the Sun. It was accelerating at almost five gravities – and it had broken its radio silence. An automatic recorder was broadcasting over and over again this interesting message:

  ‘I have landed on Phobos and am being attacked by a Z-class cruiser. Think I can hold out until you come, but hurry.’

  The message wasn’t even in code, and it left Commander Smith a sorely puzzled man. The assumption that K.15 was still aboard the ship and that the whole thing was a ruse was just a little too naive. But it might be a double-bluff: the message had obviously been left in plain language so that he would receive it and be duly confused. He could afford neither the time nor the fuel to chase the scout if K.15 really had landed. It was clear that reinforcements were on the way and the sooner he left the vicinity the better. The phrase ‘Think I can hold out until you come’ might be a piece of sheer impertinence, or it might mean that help was very near indeed.

  Then K.15’s ship stopped blasting. It had obviously exhausted its fuel, and was doing a little better than six kilometres a second away from the Sun. K.15 must have landed, for his ship was now speeding helplessly out of the Solar System. Commander Smith didn’t like the message it was broadcasting, and guessed that it was running into the track of an approaching warship at some indefinite distance, but there was nothing to be done about that. The Doradus began to move towards Phobos, anxious to waste no time.

  On the face of it, Commander Smith seemed the master of the situation. His ship was armed with a dozen heavy guided missiles and two turrets of electromagnetic guns. Against him was one man in a spacesuit, trapped on a moon only twenty kilometres across. It was not until Commander Smith had his first good look at Phobos, from a distance of less than a hundred kilometres, that he began to realise that, after all, K.15 might have a few cards up his sleeve.

  To say that Phobos has a diameter of twenty kilometres, as the astronomy books invariably do, is highly misleading. The word ‘diameter’ implies a degree of symmetry which Phobos most certainly lacks. Like those other lumps of cosmic slag, the Asteroids, it is a shapeless mass of rock floating in space with, of course, no hint of an atmosphere and not much more gravity. It turns on its axis once every seven hours thirty-nine minutes, thus keeping the same face always to Mars – which is so close that appreciably less than half the planet is visible, the Poles being below the curve of the horizon. Beyond this, there is very little more to be said about Phobos.

  *

  K.15 had no time to enjoy the beauty of the crescent world filling the sky above him. He had thrown all the equipment he could carry out of the airlock, set the controls, and jumped. As the little ship went flaming out towards the stars he watched it go with feelings he did not care to analyse. He had burned his boats with a vengeance, and he could only hope that the oncoming battleship would intercept the radio message as the empty vessel went racing by into nothingness. There was also a faint possibility that the enemy cruiser might go in pursuit but that was rather too much to hope for.

  He turned to examine his new home. The only light was the ochre radiance of Mars, since the Sun was below the horizon, but that was quite sufficient for his purpose and he could see very well. He stood in the centre of an irregular plain about two kilometres across, surrounded by low hills over which he could leap rather easily if he wished. There was a story he remembered reading long ago about a man who had accidentally jumped off Phobos: that wasn’t quite possible – though it was on Deimos – as the escape velocity was still about ten metres a second. But unless he was careful, he might easily find himself at such a height that it would take hours to fall back to the surface – and that would be fatal. For K.15’s plan was a simple one: he must remain as close to the surface of Phobos as possible – and diametrically opposite the cruiser. The Doradus could then fire all her armament against the twenty kilometres of rock, and he wouldn’t even feel the concussion. There were only two serious dangers, and one of these did not worry him greatly.

  To the layman, knowing nothing of the finer details of astronautics, the plan would have seemed quite suicidal. The Doradus was armed with the latest in ultra-scientific weapons: moreover, the twenty kilometres which separated her from her prey represented less than a second’s flight at maximum speed. But Commander Smith knew better, and was already feeling rather unhappy. He realised, only too well, that of all the machines of transport man has ever invented, a cruiser of space is far and away the least manoeuvrable. It was a simple fact that K.15 could make half a dozen circuits of his little world while her commander was persuading the Doradus to do even one.

  There is no need to go into technical details, but those who are still unconvinced might like to consider these elementary facts. A rocket-driven spaceship can, obviously, only accelerate along its major axis – that is, ‘forwards’. Any deviation from a straight course demands a physical turning of the ship, so that the motors can blast in another direction. Everyone knows that this is done by internal gyros or tangential steering jets; but very few people know just how long this simple manoeuvre takes. The average cruiser, fully fuelled, has a mass of two or three thousand tons, which does not make for rapid footwork. But things are even worse than this, for it is not the mass, but the moment of inertia that matters here – and since a cruiser is a long, thin object, its moment of inertia is slightly colossal. The sad fact remains (though it is seldom mentioned by astronautical engineers) that it takes a good ten minutes to rotate a spaceship through 180 degrees, with gyros of any reasonable size. Control jets are not much quicker, and in any case their use is restricted because the rotation they produce is permanent and they are liable to leave the ship spinning like a slow-motion pin-wheel, to the annoyance of all inside.

  In the ordinary way, these disadvantages are not very grave. One has millions of kilometres and hundreds of hours in which to deal with such minor matters as a change in the ship’s orientation. It is definitely against the rules to move in ten-kilometre-radius circles, and the commander of the Doradus felt distinctly aggrieved.
K.15 wasn’t playing fair.

  At the same moment that resourceful individual was taking stock of the situation, which might very well have been worse. He had reached the hills in three jumps and felt less naked than he had out in the open plain. The food and equipment he had taken from the ship he had hidden where he hoped he could find it again, but as his suit could keep him alive for over a day that was the least of his worries. The small packet that was the cause of all the trouble was still with him, in one of those numerous hiding places a well-designed spacesuit affords.

  There was an exhilarating loneliness about his mountain eyrie, even though he was not quite as lonely as he would have wished. For ever fixed in his sky, Mars was waning almost visibly as Phobos swept above the night side of the planet. He could just make out the lights of some of the Martian cities, gleaming pin-points marking the junctions of the invisible canals. All else was stars and silence and a line of jagged peaks so close it seemed he could almost touch them. Of the Doradus there was still no sign. She was presumably carrying out a careful telescopic examination of the sunlit side of Phobos.

  Mars was a very useful clock: when it was half-full the Sun would rise and, very probably, so would the Doradus. But she might approach from some quite unexpected quarter: she might even – and this was the one real danger – she might even have landed a search party.

  This was the first possibility that had occurred to Commander Smith when he saw just what he was up against. Then he realised that the surface area of Phobos was over a thousand square kilometres and that he could not spare more than ten men from his crew to make a search of that jumbled wilderness. Also, K.15 would certainly be armed.