“There are about five hundred of their troops here, and the three of us,” Jeff said.
“Yeah.” Greenaugh was silent for a moment. “And their king is there,” Greenaugh said. “I’d better get His Excellency brought up to speed. What the hell kind of spaceship have they got, anyway?”
“They haven’t told me, sir. I assume it’s some kind of primitive rocket. I don’t see any ship, but everyone’s acting expectant. They’re coming back now; they went off to give me privacy — although nothing’s private about it; they know what kind of communications I’ve been using. They’re probably listening.”
There was another long silence from the other end. Then, “We didn’t even know they suspected. What else don’t we know?”
Jeff was tempted to say they hadn’t known anything about a spaceship, but decided not to.
“Look just over there,” Dougal told Jeff. “Just at that hillside.”
There was a roar of thunder, a series of explosions so close together it was impossible to distinguish between them, but still it seemed like many explosions because it went on far too long to have been just one. It did not at all sound like a large rocket.
The ship that rose above the hill was like nothing Jeff had ever imagined. It looked like an artillery shell mounted above a large inverted cup. Impossibly bright flashes came downward from the cup. They were so close together they appeared to be one long tongue of flame, yet once again Jeff had the impression of many small explosions rather than one continuous burn. He cringed involuntarily. There was no protection at all if the — ship? — exploded. He wondered why they would expose their king to so much danger. “What is that thing?” Jeff demanded.
“A piloted spaceship,” Dougal said proudly.
“It doesn’t look much like a spaceship,” Jeff said. “It doesn’t even look like a rocket.”
“It’s not a rocket.” The newcomer’s voice was high-pitched and almost querulous, but filled with pride.
“Allow me to present Academician Kleinst,” Dougal said.
“Kleinst,” Jeff said aloud. “You were also on the Makassar expedition.”
“I had that privilege,” Kleinst said. He turned to stare after the rapidly rising ship.
Jeff watched it also, and willed it to succeed. There was something highly dramatic about this ship rising on a thunder of fire. “If it explodes we could be killed,” Jeff said. “Didn’t you think of a bunker for the observers?”
“Your pardon,” Dougal said. “His Majesty thought that as the pilot was willing to take the risk, we should all share it. Perhaps we had no right to assume you would feel the same way. It is not your ship—”
“It’s academic now,” Jeff said. “How does the ship work, then?”
“For God’s sake,” Greenaugh’s voice interrupted. “Call it a goddam craft, or a probe, or anything else, but don’t be on record as calling it a ship! His Excellency almost excreted bricks when I told him what your colonial friends are up to.”
“Craft,"Jeff corrected himself. “How does it work if it’s not a rocket?”
Kleinst preened. “There is a rapid-firing gun, a multi-barreled gun that fires explosive shells downward. The shells explode in the hemispherical chamber beneath. The explosion drives the ship upward.”
“I never heard of anything like that,” Jeff said. “Captain, have-”
“I’m looking it up,” Greenaugh’s voice said. “Primitive spacecraft, propulsion by explosive — Jesus Christ!”
“Sir?”
“The earliest known reference is 1899.”
“Sir, did you say 1899?”
“I did. We don’t have the text, but the reference is here. And in 1957, Goddard applied for some kind of license to build such a ship. Dyson experimented with them, too.”
Goddard. Dyson. Names from ancient history, people who’d lived in legendary times. Jefferson had been aboard a luxury liner named Goddard, and thought he recalled a scout survey ship named Freeman Dyson as well.
The ship was almost out of sight now. Its thunder was muted as it plunged eastward and rose into the ultra-deep blue of Prince Samual’s skies.
“How are you stabilizing it?” Jefferson demanded.
“It’s largely self-stabilizing,” Kleinst said. “From the geometry of the explosion chamber. We also have peroxide rockets to correct the heading.”
“And your pilot’s a girl—”
“A freelady,” Colonel MacKinnie said coldly.
“The gyroscopes do most of the steering,” Kleinst added.
MacKinnie was staring toward the east at the spot where the oddball ship was now almost invisible. Jeff didn’t care much for the expression on the colonel’s face. “Captain, you’d better alert Tombaugh not to shoot it down,” he said.
“Already done,” Greenaugh said.
“Colonel,” Jeff said, “am I being too personal in asking why you sent your fiancee as pilot?”
“Weight,” MacKinnie said through clenched teeth.
“Mass,” Kleinst corrected. “We needed a pilot who had experience in no gravity. Of those few available, Freelady Graham and I mass the least. I was needed on other duties.”
“And what’s your plan now?” Jefferson demanded.
“There is a transmitter aboard,” Kleinst said. “When the ship achieves orbit it will be turned on to provide a signal so that Prince Samual’s Hope can be located in space. We had hoped your ship would be able to assist.”
“No reentry capability, “Jefferson said.
Kleinst looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Correct. We were unable to provide for a return from orbit within the time limits available.’’
“And you call that a spaceship?” Jefferson demanded.
King David had been listening quietly. “That, I think, is a matter to be discussed between your superiors and my advisors, is it not, Lieutenant? Prince Samual’s Hope has carried one of my officers to space. Does that not make it a spaceship?”
“Don’t answer,” Greenaugh’s voice said. “Don’t even discuss the matter with them! ”
“Yes, sir,"Jeff said.
He tried to remember Mary Graham’s face, but he couldn’t. It had been too long ago that he inspected the Makassar party. She’s one hell of a lady, Jeff thought. I wouldn’t have got in that gunpowered coffin for an earl’s coronet. Hope she makes it.
He turned and like the others stared at the empty indigo skies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
S.O.S.
The ship rose in fire and thunder.
Mary Graham lay on the leather-strip couch, unable to move, her face drawn into a rictus grin by the acceleration. Despite the couch and its shock mountings, the vibration was fierce. She felt sharp, stabbing pains in her abdomen.
For all that, she felt better than she had while she was waiting for the launch. That had been a time of real terror, an hour stretched into years of waiting and wondering and remembering.
You wanted to be important, she told herself. Well, lassie, you’ve managed that, if you haven’t got yourself killed. But I wish it didn’t hurt so.
The noise gradually died away as the ship rose above the atmosphere. The vibration was no better, and the acceleration continued to increase. With the cannon’s roar muted she heard other sounds. The clatter of the feed mechanism pushing an endless stream of heavy shells into the rotary feed hopper. The steady whirr of the big gyros. Clicking sounds as punched steel ribbons fed through the clockwork mechanism. The ribbons controlled the gear mechanism that controlled the gyros; they might call her a pilot, but she knew better. Those steel ribbons were the actual pilot, and she was no more than a passenger.
How long does this go on? I can’t stand a lot more of it. What am I doing here?
Finishing a job.
Maybe. And maybe not. Even if I live through this, there’s no guarantee the Empire will accept this thing as a real spaceship. But it’s all we have, and they certainly
wouldn’t accept it if th
ere were no passengers at all. Somebody had to ride Prince Samual’s Hope, and she was the most logical choice. Young, strong, with experience in space…
It had made a lot of sense at the time she proposed the idea. First to Kleinst, then to Malcolm Dougal. She hadn’t convinced Nathan, but there hadn’t been much he could do to stop her. She wasn’t married to him yet.
Would she ever be? Did he want her? He’d been furious, and could he live with someone he couldn’t control? That’s silly, he’s known since Makassar, and he’s always wanted me as much as I wanted him, and O God, do I want him now.
She felt dizzy, and the acceleration and vibration increased constantly. She couldn’t open her eyes.
O God, make it stop!
She woke to silence and the sensation of falling. The silence wasn’t complete. The gyros continued to whirr, but the cannon was silent. She unbuckled the straps holding her to the couch.
Her body ached. Not just the dull ache she’d expected from the acceleration. This was stabbing pain, pain so intense it was like a bright red veil across her eyes, pain all through her lower abdominal region, pain made worse when she touched herself or moved her legs.
I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to turn on that — transmitter. Or what Kleinst called a transmitter. Nothing like the box Lieutenant Farr kept at Navy House in Jikar.
But first I’ve got to know. Are we in orbit, or—
She floated to the viewport. A river of stars swung past, then Prince Samual’s World. The ship was rolling, not fast enough to create artificial gravity, but definitely rolling.
Once each minute her world was below. Not a whole world, only a large disc. She wedged her head against the port and waited, cautiously experimenting with her legs to see if she could find a position that might alleviate the pain even a little.
Gradually she detected motion. She was moving across the Major Sea, and if anything she was drawing away from Prince Samual’s World.
Later she’d get out the sextant and take angles, but it looked good. The Hope was in orbit. Maybe. Time for the transmitter. She pushed away from the port and over to the bulkhead. The transmitter was nothing but a vibrator, some coils, and a gap across which a fat electrical spark jumped when she pressed the keys.
Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit. Which stood for S.O.S., which stood for something so ancient that no one knew what it might be. Did the Empire still use S.O.S. as a distress signal? The First Empire had. Longway was certain of it. So why wouldn’t the present day Imperials?
Not that it mattered a lot. The Empire knew she was there. Nathan had arranged that. Their observer would tell the Imperial Navy ship all about her. She wound the clockwork that controlled the spark gap. An endless tape fed through it. Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit. A thick wire from the spark gap led through insulators to a mess of fused quartz, through that to outside the ship. She tried to imagine the signal going through space, reaching out to Tombaugh. Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit.
Now they’d hear it and come get her-
But there was nothing to do but wait, and time passed slowly.
If only I didn’t hurt so bad. We didn’t expect this. What’s wrong with me? Acceleration? Vibration? Something awful. God, it hurts …
Gradually, though, the pain lessened. It wasn’t as bad if she stayed curled into a tight ball. She pushed herself to the couch and drew a strap loosely across herself and lay there.
Time passed slowly. There was a counter on the tape mechanism driving the transmitter. Not a very accurate clock, but the best she had. It told her that thirty minutes had gone by. She stretched her legs experimentally. Not too bad. Painful, but she could stand it. And there was something wrong with the gyros. Batteries weakening. They were slowing down.
If they slowed enough, she’d have to try to control the ship herself. There were big wooden levers by one of the ports, and she could use them to control the jets mounted in a ring around the ship. If they didn’t run out of peroxide for the jets, she might be able to control tumbling. She hoped she wouldn’t have to. Kleinst wasn’t sure she — or anyone else — could do it by eye with nothing but the viewports to guide her.
The stars were still rolling past, first the stars, then Prince Samual’s World. The ship was rolling, but it wasn’t tumbling yet. She wondered if she should cancel the roll motion. Kleinst hadn’t been sure about that. It might be difficult, and the Empire surely had ways to stabilize the ship.
No, damn it, she thought. We’ll do as much of this ourselves as we possibly can. She took off the cords that held the control levers in place, and experimentally moved one of them. There was a subdued sound, more a rushing than a roar, and the stars swung more slowly.
Not so hard, she thought. Not hard at all. She moved the lever again, held it a bit longer, then waited to see what that did.
Three more times, and she had almost done it. Now the ship rotated very slowly, Prince Samual’s World visible for long minutes at each of the three viewports. Good enough, she thought. No point in taking chances. There still didn’t seem to be tumbling, although the sound of the gyros was definitely weaker.
If she listened carefully, she could hear the hiss of the air tanks. Five hours of air. Then-
Don’t think about that.
What should I think about?
It’s beautiful up here. Prince Samual’s World is lovely, a big saucer with wispy clouds, and the stars above, rivers of stars, and—
Where is that ship?
Dit dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dit dit.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DEFINITIONS
There were three senior civil servants with Ackoff and Captain Greenaugh when Jeff arrived at the High Commissioner’s office. The massive conference table was littered with overflowing ashtrays and dirty coffee cups.
Ackoff was preoccupied and his introductions were perfunctory. That was telling; Ackoff was generally impeccably polite. “Lieutenant, you know our First Secretary, Dr. Boyd? And Madame Goldstein and Mr. Singh. I presume you’ve completed your inspection of that colonial craft?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An official inspection,” Greenaugh said. “By our official observer.”
Jeff winced at the irony in his commanding officer’s voice.
“Report says the pilot’s not in good shape. Is she all right?” Greenaugh asked.
Boy, and how! Jeff wanted to say. “She was shaken up rather badly, sir. They have her in Tombaugh’s sick bay. She’s cheerful enough. I think she’s rather flattered by all the attention…”
“Hardly surprising,” Goldstein said.
“We will need your observations, Lieutenant,” Commissioner Ackoff said. “We have a problem. What do we do with this?” He held up a parchment. “As you suspect, it’s King David’s formal application for admission of Prince Samual’s World as a second-class space-faring planet. I expect it comes as no surprise to learn it begins with great professions of loyalty to the Empire… He’s got his prerogatives right, too. Self-government under Imperial defense and Imperial advice on extra-planetary policy. Official observers at Court. Representative in the lower house of Parliament. Willing to accept reasonable trade restrictions. And while this doesn’t ask for it, you can be certain the next document we get will be a request for technological assistance. I would be interested in knowing how they learned so much about Imperial politics.”
Dr. Boyd was a tall man, well rounded, going to fat but not quite there yet. “To be precise, about the structure of Imperial government as it existed before the last Reform Act,” Boyd said. “They obtained excellent information, but much is somewhat out of date. A deficiency I think Mr. Soliman’s people will remedy shortly.”
Jeff muttered something.
’"Yes, Lieutenant?” Ackoff asked.
“Nothing, sir. It doesn’t seem to me that Trader Soliman’s firm would be too happy at losing a colony world since they’ve got the trade concession.”
“On the contrary,” Dr.
Boyd said. “Trader Soliman’s on-planet factor has already attached a letter recommending that this application be approved.”
“I don’t understand,"Jeff said.
Ackoff smiled grimly. “The situation is rather delicate … Tell me, Lieutenant, how much of that craft represents imported technology?”
“It’s hard to say, sir,” Jeff answered. He spoke carefully, knowing his career was at stake in this meeting. And not just mine, he thought. All of us. We let them do this right under our noses, and someone’s going to pay — “The, uh, craft is unbelievably primitive. I wondered why they were so mass-conscious, but it’s obvious as soon as you board the thing. Take the gyros for instance. They’re huge. They have to be, because they’re mechanically coupled to the attitude jets.”
“Mechanically coupled?” Rosa Goldstein said. Her voice was incredulous. “Mechanically?”
“Yes. They didn’t know how to do it electronically. The whole craft is that way. Good ideas, but very primitive in implementation. Some of the workmanship is splendid, but it was all done by handcraft.”
“It was implemented well enough to get to space,” Ackoff said.
“It’s ridiculous on the face of it,” Third Secretary Singh said. “A tiny handmade capsule able to put one person in orbit is not a spaceship!”
“Have you found a technical definition of a spaceship?” Ackoff asked.
Singh looked chagrined. “No, Your Excellency.”
“Nor have I. I suspect there is none,” Dr. Boyd said. “Therefore we may accept their definition or not, as we choose. If we do not, they will certainly appeal.” He paused thoughtfully. “I wonder just how we’d look pleading this case before a high tribunal?”
“Fairly silly,” Goldstein said. “Some of the Lords Judges have a sense of humor. And of course we would have to explain how we let it happen.”
“Not to mention the time and trouble involved in preparing the case,” Boyd continued. “Transportation of witnesses. Investigations. Depositions. The cost would not be trivial.”
“Returning to my previous question,” Ackoff said. “Lieutenant, would you swear that ship was locally designed without benefit of knowledge obtained on Makassar?”
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