The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by F. L. Wallace

“Every one. Beyond repair.”

  “What’s the excitement about?” rumbled Anti. “We don’t need spacesuits unless something happens to the ship and we have to go outside.”

  “Exactly, Anti. How do you suppose we go about replacing the defective tubes? From the outside, of course. By destroying the spacesuits, Cameron made sure we can’t.”

  Anti opened her mouth with surprise and closed it in anger. She glowered at the doctor.

  “We’re still in the asteroid zone,” said Cameron. “In itself, that’s not dangerous. Without power to avoid stray rocks, it is. I advise you to contact the Medicouncil. They’ll send a ship to pick us up and tow us in.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t like Handicap Haven as well as you do,” Anti said brusquely. She turned to Docchi. “Maybe I’m stupid for asking, but exactly what is it that’s deadly about being out in space without a spacesuit?”

  “Cold. Lack of air pressure. Lack of oxygen.”

  “Is that all? Nothing else?”

  His laugh was too loud. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I wanted to be sure,” she said.

  She beckoned to Nona, who was standing near. Together they went forward, where the spacesuits were kept.

  Cameron scowled puzzledly and started to follow. Jordan waved the toaster around.

  “All right,” said the doctor, stopping. He rubbed his chin. “What is she thinking about?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Docchi. “She’s not scientifically trained, if that’s what you mean. But she has a good mind, as good as her body once was.”

  “And how good was that?”

  “We don’t talk about it,” said Jordan shortly.

  * * * *

  It was a long time before the women came back—if the weird creature that floated into the control compartment with Nona was Anti.

  Cameron stared at her and saw shudderingly that it was. “You need a session with the psycho-computer,” he said. “When we get back, that’s the first thing we do. Can’t you understand.…”

  “Be quiet,” growled Jordan. “Now, Anti, explain what you’ve rigged up.”

  “Any kind of pressure is good enough as far as the outside of the body is concerned,” answered Anti, flipping back the helmet. “Mechanical pressure will do as well as air pressure. I had Nona cut the spacesuits into strips and wind them around me—hard. Then I found a helmet that would fit over my head when the damaged part was cut away. It won’t hold much air pressure, even taped very tight to my skin. But as long as it’s pure oxygen—”

  “It might be satisfactory,” admitted Docchi. “But the temperature?”

  “Do you think I’m going to worry about cold?” asked Anti. “Me? Way down below all this flesh?”

  “Listen to me,” said Cameron through his teeth. “You’ve already seriously threatened my career with all this childish nonsense. I won’t permit you to ruin it altogether by a deliberate suicide.”

  “You and your stinking career,” retorted Jordan tiredly. “We’re not asking your permission to do anything.” He turned away from the doctor. “You understand the risk, Anti? It’s possible that it won’t work at all.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Anti replied soberly. “On the other hand, I’ve thought about the asteroid.”

  “All right,” said Jordan. Docchi nodded. Nona bobbed her head; it was doubtful that she knew what she was agreeing to.

  “Let’s have some telecom viewers outside,” said Docchi. “One directly in back, one on each side. We’ve got to know what’s happening.”

  Jordan went to the control panel and flipped levers. “They’re out and working,” he said, gazing at the screen. “Now, Anti, go to the freight lock. Close your helmet and wait. I’ll let the air out slowly. The pressure change will be gradual. If anything seems wrong, let me know over the helmet radio and I’ll yank you in immediately. Once you’re outside I’ll give you further instructions. Tools and equipment are in a compartment that opens into space.”

  Anti waddled away.

  Jordan looked down at his legless body. “I suppose we have to be realistic about it—”

  “We do,” answered Docchi. “Anti is the only one of us who has a chance of doing the job and surviving.”

  Jordan adjusted a dial. “It was Cameron who was responsible for it. If Anti doesn’t come back, you can be damn sure he’ll join her.”

  “No threats, please,” said Docchi. “When are you going to let her out?”

  “She’s out,” said Jordan. Deliberately, he had diverted their attention while he had taken the burden of emotional strain.

  Docchi glanced hastily at the telecom. Anti was hanging free in space, wrapped and strapped in strips torn from the useless spacesuits—that, and more flesh than any human had ever borne. The helmet sat jauntily on her head; the oxygen cylinder was strapped to her back. She was still intact.

  “How is she?” he asked anxiously, unaware that the microphone was open.

  “Fine,” came Anti’s reply, faint and ready. “The air’s thin, but it’s pure oxygen.”

  “Cold?” asked Docchi.

  “It hasn’t penetrated yet. No worse than the acid, at any rate. What do I do?”

  Jordan gave her directions. The others watched. It was work to find the tools and examine the tubes for defectives, to loosen the tubes in the sockets and pull them out and push them spinning into space. It was still harder to replace them, though there was no gravity and Anti was held to the hull by magneslippers.

  But it seemed more than work. To Cameron, who was watching, an odd thought occurred: In her remote past, of which he knew nothing, Anti had done something like this before. Ridiculous, of course. Yet there was a rhythm to her motions, this shapeless giant creature whose bones would break with her weight if she tried to stand at even only half Earth gravity. Rhythm, a sense of purpose, a strange pattern, an incredible gargantuan grace.

  The whale plowing the waves is graceful; it cannot be otherwise in its natural habitat. The human race had produced, accidentally, one unlikely person to whom interplanetary space was not an alien thing. Anti was at last in her element.

  “Now,” said Jordan, keeping the tension out of his voice, “go back to the outside tool compartment. You’ll find a lever. Pull. That will set the combustion cap in place.”

  “Done,” said Anti, some minutes later.

  “That’s all. You can come in now.”

  “That’s all? But I’m not cold. It hasn’t reached any nerves yet.”

  “Come in,” repeated Jordan, showing the anger of alarm.

  She walked slowly over the hull to the cargo lock and, while she did, Jordan reeled in the telecom viewers. The lock was no sooner closed to the outside and the air hissing into the compartment than Jordan was there, opening the inner lock.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She flipped back the helmet. There was frost on her eyebrows and her nose was a bright red. “Of course. My hands aren’t a bit cold.” She stripped off the heated gloves and waggled her fingers.

  “It can’t be!” protested Cameron. “You should be frozen stiff!”

  “Why?” asked Anti, laughing. “It’s a matter of insulation and I have plenty of that.”

  Cameron turned to Docchi. “When I was a kid, I saw a film of a dancer. She did a ballet, Life of the Cold Planets, I believe it was called. For some cockeyed reason, I thought of it when Anti was out there. I hadn’t thought of it in years.”

  He rubbed his hand fretfully over his forehead. “It fascinated me when I first saw it. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. When I grew older, I found out a tragic thing happened to the dancer. She was on a tour of Venus and the ship she was in disappeared. They sent out searching parties, of course. They found her after she had spent a week on a fungus plain. You know what that meant. The great ballerina was a living spore culture medium.”

  “Shut up,” growled Jordan.

  Cameron didn’t seem to hear. “Naturally, she died. I can�
��t remember her name, but I’ve always remembered the ballet she did. And that’s funny, because it reminded me of Anti out there—”

  A fist exploded in his face. If there had been more behind the blow than shoulders and a fragment of a body, his jaw would have been broken. As it was he floated through the air and crashed against the wall.

  Angrily, he got to his feet. “I gave my word I wouldn’t cause any trouble. The agreement evidently doesn’t work both ways.” He glanced significantly at the weapon Jordan carried. “Maybe you’d better be sure to have that around at all times.”

  “I told you to shut up,” said Jordan. After that he ignored the doctor. He didn’t have a body with which to do it, but somehow Jordan managed a bow. “A flawless performance. One of your very best, Antoinette.”

  “Do you think so?” sighed Anti. The frost had melted from her eyebrows and was trickling down her cheek. She left with Jordan.

  Cameron remained behind. He felt his jaw. It was too bad about his ambitions. He knew now that he was never going to be the spectacular success he had once imagined. Not after these accidentals had escaped from Handicap Haven. Still, he would always be able to practice medicine somewhere in the Solar System. He’d done his best on the asteroid and this ship, and he’d been a complete ass both times.

  The ballerina hadn’t really died, as he had been told. It would have been better for her if she had. He succeeded in recalling her name. It had been Antoinette.

  Now it was Anti. He could have found that out by checking her case history—if Handicap Haven had one on file. Probably not, he comforted himself. Why keep case histories of hopeless cases?

  * * * *

  “We’ll stick to the regular lanes,” said Docchi. “I think we’ll get closer. They have no reason to suspect that we’re heading toward Earth. Mars is more logical, or one of the moons of Jupiter, or another asteroid.”

  Jordan shifted uneasily. “I’m not in favor of it. They’ll pick us up before we have a chance to say anything.”

  “But there’s nothing to distinguish us from an ordinary Earth-to-Mars rocket. We have a ship’s registry on board. Pick out a ship that’s in our class. Hereafter, we’re going to be that ship. If Traffic blips us, and they probably won’t unless we try to land, have a recording ready. Something like this: ‘ME 21 zip crackle 9 reporting. Our communication is acting up. We can’t hear you, Traffic.’ Don’t overdo the static effects but repeat that with suitable variations and I don’t think they will bother us.”

  Shaking his head dubiously, Jordan swung away toward the repair shops.

  “You look worried,” said Anti.

  Docchi turned around. “Yeah.”

  “Won’t it work?”

  “Sure. We’ll get close to Earth. They’re not looking for us around here. They don’t really know why we escaped in the rocket. That’s why they can’t figure out where we’re going.”

  His face was taut and his eyes were tired. “It’s not that. The entire Solar Police Force has been alerted for us.”

  “Which means?”

  “Look. We planned to bypass the Medicouncil and take our case directly to the Solar Government. If they want us as much as the radio indicates, it’s not likely they’ll be very sympathetic. If the Solar Government doesn’t support us all the way, we’ll never get another chance.”

  “Well?” said Anti. She seemed trimmer, more vigorous. “What are we waiting for? Let’s take the last step first.”

  He raised his head. “The Solar Government won’t like it.”

  “They won’t, but there’s nothing they can do about it.”

  “I think there is—simply shoot us down. When we stole the ship, we automatically stepped into the criminal class.”

  “We knew that in advance.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “I think so,” said Anti.

  “In that event,” he said, “I’ll need time to get ready.”

  She scrutinized him carefully. “Maybe we can fix you up.”

  “With fake arms and grease-paint? No. They’ll have to accept us as we are.”

  “A good idea. I hadn’t thought of the sympathy angle.”

  “Not sympathy. Reality. I don’t want them to approve of us as handsome accidentals and have them change their minds when they discover what we’re really like.”

  Anti looked doubtful, but she kept her objections to herself as she waddled away.

  Sitting in silence, he watched her go. She, at least, would derive some benefit. Dr. Cameron apparently hadn’t noticed that exposure to extreme cold had done more to inhibit her unceasing growth than the acid bath. She’d never be normal again; that was obvious. But some day, if the cold treatment were properly investigated, she might be able to stand gravity.

  He examined the telecom. They were getting closer. No longer a bright point of light, Earth was a perceptible disc. He could see the outline of oceans, shapes of land; he could imagine people.

  Jordan came in. “The record is rigged up, though we haven’t had to use it. But we have a friend behind us. An official friend.”

  “Has he blipped us?”

  “Not yet. He keeps hanging on.”

  “Is he overtaking us?”

  “He would like to.”

  “Don’t let him.”

  “With this bag of bolts?”

  “Shake it apart if you have to,” Docchi impatiently said. “How soon can you break into a broadcasting orbit?”

  “I thought that was our last resort.”

  “Right. As far as Anti and I are concerned, this is it. Any argument against?”

  “None that I can think of,” answered Jordan. “With a heavy cruiser behind us, no argument at all.”

  * * * *

  They were all in the control compartment. “I don’t want a focus exclusively on me,” Docchi was saying. “To a world of perfect normals I may look strange, but we have to avoid the family portrait effect.”

  “Samples,” suggested Anti.

  “In a sense, yes. A lot depends on whether they accept those samples.”

  For the first time Dr. Cameron began to realize what they were up to. “Wait!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got to listen to me!”

  “We’re not going to wait and we’ve already done enough listening to you,” said Docchi. “Jordan, see that Cameron stays out of the telecom transmitting angle and doesn’t interrupt. We’ve come too far for that.”

  “Sure,” Jordan promised harshly. “If he makes a sound, I’ll melt the teeth out of his mouth.” He held the toaster against his side, out of line with the telecom, but aimed at Cameron’s face.

  Cameron began to shake with urgency, but he kept still.

  “Ready?” Docchi asked.

  “Flip the switch and we will be, with everything we’ve got. If they don’t read us, it’ll be because they don’t want to.”

  The rocket slipped out of the approach lanes. It spun down, the stern tubes pulsing brightly, coming toward Earth in a tight trajectory.

  “Citizens of the Solar System!” began Docchi. “Everyone on Earth! This is an unscheduled broadcast, an unauthorized appeal. We are using the emergency bands because, for us, it is an emergency. Who are we? Accidentals, of course, as you can see by looking at us. I know the sight isn’t pretty, but we consider other things more important than appearance. Accomplishment, for example. Contributing to progress in ways normals cannot do.

  “Shut away on Handicap Haven, we’re denied this right. All we can do there is exist in frustration and boredom; kept alive whether we want to be or not. Yet we have a gigantic contribution to make…if we are allowed to leave the Solar System for Alpha Centauri! You can’t travel to the stars now, although eventually you will.

  “You must be puzzled, knowing how slow our present rockets are. No normal person could make the round trip; he would die of old age. But we accidentals can go! We would positively not die of old age! The Medicouncil knows that is true…and still will not allow us to go!”
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br />   At the side of the control compartment, Cameron opened his mouth to protest. Jordan, glancing at him, imperceptibly waggled the concealed weapon. Cameron swallowed his words and subsided without a sound.

  “Biocompensation,” continued Docchi evenly. “You may know about it, but in case information on it has been suppressed, let me explain: The principle of biocompensation has long been a matter of conjecture. This is the first age in which medical technology is advanced enough to explore it. Every cell, every organism, tends to survive, as an individual, as a species. Injure it and it strives for survival according to the seriousness of the injury. We accidentals have been maimed and mutilated almost past belief.

  “Our organisms had the assistance of medical science. Real medical science. Blood was supplied as long as we needed it, machines did all our breathing, kidneys were replaced, hearts furnished, glandular products supplied in the exact quantities necessary, nervous and muscular systems were regenerated. In the extremity of our organic struggle, because we had the proper treatment, our bodies were wiped virtually free of death.”

  Sweat ran down his face. He longed for hands to wipe it away.

  “Most accidentals are nearly immortal. Not quite—we’ll die four or five hundred years from now. Meanwhile, there is no reason why we can’t leave the Solar System. Rockets are slow; you would die before you got back from Alpha Centauri. We won’t. Time doesn’t matter to us.

  “Perhaps better, faster rockets will be devised after we leave. You may get to there long before we do. We won’t mind. We will simply have made our contribution to progress as best we could, and that will satisfy us.”

  With an effort Docchi smiled. The instant he did, he felt it was a mistake, one that he couldn’t rectify. Even to himself it felt more like a snarl.

  “You know where we’re kept That’s a politer word than imprisoned. We don’t call it Handicap Haven; our name for it is the junkpile. And to ourselves we’re junkmen. Does this give you a clue to how we feel?

  “I don’t know what you’ll have to do to force the Medicouncil to grant their permission. We appeal to you as our last resort. We have tried all other ways and failed. Our future as human beings is at stake. Whether we get what we want and need is something for you to settle with your conscience.”