In that Alternate View about my dad, I talked about how he used to have his own radio and TV repair business. Once for fun he decided to make a four-tube radio receiver straight from the schematics, only he laid it out to physically reflect pretty much exactly the way the schematics depicted the circuitry. He built a wooden base and the tubes were inserted upside down so that the connections to the sockets would be visible. For the common chassis ground he used a buss bar of thick copper wire. All of the wiring was straight, just like the lines depicting wires in the diagram.
Unfortunately, at the time I was too young to appreciate that radio, and I have no idea what ever became of it. But the memory stuck in my mind and I used to think how cool it would be to go one step farther, and actually build a tube radio with homemade tubes. That is, to actually make the cathode and anode and grids of a vacuum tube by hand, then enclose the unit inside a bell jar and pump out the air.
I never actually did it (well, haven't yet done it), but someone else has, and surprised and delighted I was when the (then) latest Lindsay's Technical Books catalog arrived featuring Instruments of Amplification by Peter Friedrichs. There's a picture from the book right there in the catalog showing exactly what I'd had in mind—you can see the cylindrical anode with a wire-spiral grid and a cathode inside that, all enclosed in a spherical glass bottle. According to Friedrichs, these model tubes give performance comparable to the earliest vacuum tubes. If you're at all like me, your fingertips are already tingling in anticipation of making one of these yourself.
For those who want to emulate Moore in this day and age, I really know of no better place to start than the Lindsay's Technical Books catalog. If you don't have your own machine shop, Lindsay has books that will show you how to make your own. I mean that literally—books are offered that will show you how to make a metal lathe, milling machine, drill press, sheet metal brake, and others, and all from scrap materials. A few additional titles will give you the flavor of the offerings: Build a Two Cylinder Stirling Cycle Engine; Automobiles 1913-15; Steam Engine Projects; Manufacture of Bricks and Tiles; Electrical Things Boys Like to Make; Secrets of Building An Alcohol Producing Still; Building Small Barns, Sheds, and Shelters; Mechanical Devices for the Electronics Experimenter; Metal Spinning; How to Build a Forge; Procedures in Experimental Physics; and incredibly, Saturn: The Complete Manufacturing and Test Records, perfect for anyone who wants to take a Saturn V Moon rocket apart to see how it works, but doesn't happen to have one at hand.
Even though I've been getting Lindsay Book Catalogs for years, I'm still amused by the unusual and humorous nature of some of the offerings, like the I Just Love to Fart Cookbook, which contains recipes to enhance the flatulence in your life. There is also Gems of American Architecture, a mock-catalog featuring 22 different “brands” of outhouses from their final golden age during the Great Depression. And if you're into siege engines, there's The Art of the Catapult by William Gurstelle, in which you will learn about catapults, both their physics and their history, and how to construct your own working models.
A. D. Moore finished that last paragraph I quoted about our era with this thought:
"What can you do to help make up for it? You can steam ahead on your own, as an experimenter, learning about materials and processes and functions, having your own failures and successes, acquiring common sense and judgment as to what will work and what won't. There is just no substitute for acquiring this kind of know-how.
"If this book does nothing more than coax you into experimentation with electrostatics—or anything else!—it will have served a good purpose."
And that goes for this column, too.
Copyright © 2006 Jeffery D. Kooistra
References
1) Electrostatics by A. D. Moore. ISBN 1-885540-04-3. You can find it at www.electrostatic.com.
2) You can request the latest Lindsay's Technical Books catalog at www.lindsaybks.com, or by writing to Lindsay Publications Inc., P.O. Box 538, Bradley, IL 60915-0538. (Catalogs are free in the U.S. and Canada, $4.00 US for the rest of the planet.)
[Back to Table of Contents]
WHERE LIES THE FINAL HARBOR? by Shane Tourtellotte
Illustrated by Mark Evans
* * * *
Some exceptional individuals give extraordinary srevice to their fellows. What do we owe them in return?
Where have all the navigators been going?"
The young man set down his drink as peripheral talk in the station lounge crested, then receded. “If you think I can answer that question, it's going to be a short interview."
Chloe Roberts leaned in just a bit, a honed technique for her. “As a navigator yourself, don't you wonder sometimes? Don't you worry?"
Pascal Mesereau's face grew solemn. It looked natural for him, the direction in which his still-boyish face was evolving. “I have my duties to worry about, Ms. Roberts. That's enough to occupy anyone."
That was a standard sentiment among navigators. Their links with ships’ computers, crucial for faster-than-light travel, were draining experiences. How draining they were, the navigators alone knew. Chloe was enough of a professional skeptic, though, to see what they could gain from overstating the matter.
"Well, other people are noticing the trend, and it worries them. FTL navigators are a critical, um, component of modern society."
"You were about to say ‘commodity,'” Pascal observed.
"No. I don't think that.” Was she about to lose him?
"When there's a limited supply, that's how people start thinking.” His face shifted. “I guess if you hear other people say it enough, you can start thinking it, even if you don't believe it."
Chloe sighed inside. If Pascal was making excuses for her, she had him on the hook. As usual, her natural charms were making her reporting work easier.
"But your rarity is all the more reason that people worry,” she said. “We can't afford to lose navigators, but very quietly, almost secretly, we are. They just vanish from one port or another—no pun intended—and by the time anyone reports them missing, it's hopeless to try to track them down."
Pascal sipped his drink. “It's not something I've ever heard other navigators discussing. Maybe it's a taboo—we've got some—but there's just no talk."
That didn't surprise Chloe. The few navigators she'd spoken to since arriving in the Zeta Reticuli B system, and most of them back at Chi Ceti, had been tight-lipped about the disappearances, and everything else. She'd thought they were excluding a nosy outsider, whatever fame she might carry. Perhaps they were that way even with themselves. That was why this young fellow was so promising, so far.
"What about the navigators who die in transit, and get buried in space or on some remote corner of a colony planet by their colleagues? A few people think that's a cover-up of something."
Pascal shrugged. “I can't help what people think. If that's how navigators want to be treated after they die, well, we're a tight-knit group. We'll look after our own, to the very end."
"I understand,” Chloe said. “I wouldn't deny anyone that respect. Still, that kind of thing seems to happen a little too often.” She passed him a complate. “Take a look at those numbers.” He read the plate with some interest.
"It's happening more and more often,” she said. “The disappearances go back decades. I think they go all the way back to Prahlad Shastri."
Pascal nearly dropped the complate. “That Shastri? This Shastri?” he said, waving a hand to encompass all of the Shastri Orbital Station, where they and thousands of others were at that moment. Chloe nodded. “I ... well, I knew he had gone missing, but he was an explorer. That's always been dangerous, especially so thirty-seven, thirty-eight years ago.” He passed back the complate. “I think you're on the wrong track."
"I have reason to believe I'm not.” Chloe had lowered her voice, and Pascal involuntarily shifted closer to her to hear. “Isn't there anything you've ever heard about these things?"
"I don't know. I...” As he s
tammered, Chloe pulled closer, receptive, hanging on his words. “Navigators really revere Shastri,” he said, almost whispering. “There are others who charted more systems, more distant ones. There are others who disappeared. But he's the icon, especially among the older navigators. I don't see how that fits in your puzzle, but—"
"Mesereau!"
A fiftyish, dark-hued woman was walking over. Chloe had questioned her yesterday, with zero success. She didn't even know her name.
"We thought it was her,” the woman said. “She's been pestering navigators the past two days. Come on back to the Quarter."
"I beg your pardon—” Chloe started to object.
"She wasn't pestering me,” Pascal said. “She had a few questions, and I—"
"You've just been navigating three days solid. You haven't even had time to sleep since you came aboard Shastri."
"I had a few hours before docking. I'm okay, Thalia. Maybe a little peaked."
"I can reserve you a room—"
Thalia skewered Chloe with a glare. “He has a room in the Navigator's Quarter.” She turned a more motherly look to her fellow navigator. “Pascal."
Pascal wavered. “Ms. Roberts, maybe we should continue this another time."
Chloe knew when she was licked, for the moment. “I'll be here a while longer, Pascal. Call me anytime.” He nodded.
Thalia gave her a scornful, up-and-down parting look, then led Pascal away. “Just what kind of proposals was she making?” Chloe heard her ask Pascal as they wended through the crowd. Chloe was too mad to blush.
* * * *
She staked out the lounge and other public areas for much of the afternoon and evening, but no more navigators appeared. They kept to their specially assigned quarter, the one most sizable stations had. Word had probably gone out to avoid her, same as at Bluford Station back at Chi Ceti V. She couldn't enter the Quarter herself, of course.
She returned to her room after an unsatisfying dinner. There wouldn't be another ship arriving at Shastri for two days, so no more navigators to buttonhole for a while. Unless one of her feelers paid off, she would make no more progress tonight or tomorrow. And maybe not after that.
Just as she was dressed for bed, her handbag chimed. She raced over to pull out her palmphone. “Hello?” There was only the faint pop of a disconnected link, then the standby tone.
Chloe smiled, went to the door, and drew it open a decimeter. A short translucent rod rested on the floor just outside. She snatched it and shut the door. Her contact in the computer center had come through. He had refused attribution, fearing for his job, but he had delivered, and that was enough for Chloe.
Her travel comp was on a table near one wall. She slipped the rod into one of its dataports and spoke her instructions. “Data analysis. Same parameters as Bluford Station data. Don't wake me when you're done. I'll review everything in the morning."
She managed to sleep well, without being tempted to check her computer's progress. Once she first opened her eyes in the morning, though, there was no comfortable drifting back into slumber. She took the comp into the bathroom and had it read out its results as she showered.
The rumors were right, again. Plenty of navigators had been here, departed, and never made system-fall again. There was the same pattern of increasing rate of disappearance, a building phenomenon. Added to the numbers from Chi Ceti, it was now definitely rising as a percentage of active navigators.
And that was if these were the main two points of disappearance, as those few spreading the tales back on Earth had suggested. If there were other loci for the trend, this secret wouldn't keep much longer, as the disappearances would soon be too common to miss.
The ages of the vanishing navigators still averaged quite high, with a slight downward trend the last decade or so. If it was some navigation-related malady, as she suspected, this augured ill. Whatever chronic effects FTL navigating had, they were finishing people off younger.
Chloe shut off the water and reached for a towel. Her computer was now reciting its findings on the courses of ships where navigators died in transit. This part wasn't adding up. She stepped out of the stall and listened closer.
To and from Chi Ceti, the bulk of those courses had passed in the general direction of Zeta Reticuli. Here at Zeta R, though, the courses weren't leading anywhere near Chi Ceti. They weren't centering on any major colony or hub, just a diffuse collection of secondary ports.
"Project a starchart,” she ordered. “Show the tracks of relevant transits to and from Zeta Reticuli B."
A constellation appeared in the air, with a spray of fine lines erupting from the pair of bright dots that were the Zeta Reticuli suns. Chloe found it little help. “Add tracks of similar transits from Chi Ceti."
Lines sprouted from that star. The main bunch passed several light years to one side of Zeta Reticuli—and intersected the densest part of the tracks coming from that system.
Chloe stared at that juncture. Her original hypothesis dissolved in the interference light of those crossing tracks. What was rising in its place was inchoate, but compelling. She had learned from past assignments to trust this instinct: it had never betrayed her. She had also learned not to hesitate when a lead like this appeared.
She had the computer reel off a few system names, which she committed to a complate and memory. She got dressed, packed up her computer, then packed up everything else in her room.
At the room's Net station, she called up the charter docks and looked over the small ships they had available. Finding the best bargain she could on something with a good sensor suite, she toted up the numbers for the lease fee, deposit, fuel for sixty light years of travel, and stocks for a month. It wouldn't break her corporate account, but it would leave her margin thin. She didn't hesitate.
With the ship's service number in hand, she called up the navigators’ roster. Every navigator on the station who was available for hire was listed here. Many worked independently, so she'd have no trouble finding one, assuming they wanted to be available to her.
If she was lucky, though—there! Pascal Mesereau. She pulled up his info box. She had been right about him being young: twenty-six, two years younger than she was. Even so, he had five years of experience as a navigator. She could trust him, professionally.
She entered her request, giving the service number and docking bay of the ship for confirmation and a deposit on his fee. That done, she checked out of her room and settled the bill, then walked out, luggage in tow, toward the docking bays.
* * * *
Pascal passed through the inner hatch, not moving his eyes off Chloe. “It really was you,” he said. “If this is a ruse to get some quiet interview, Ms. Roberts, I'm afraid I'd have to report it to the Commission."
"It's no ruse, Pascal. It's a lead. I need to take a look at a few systems."
Pascal still looked guarded. “Okay, which systems?"
She handed him a complate. “Those four."
He looked it over. “But there's nothing there."
"Nothing we know about.” She waited for a reaction. “Are you willing to sign on now, or do I need to fill you in all the way?"
"It's not just what I know. It's ... I'm not sure anyone's done these routes before.” He looked up, his face unsettled. “You do know that it's tougher to navigate an uncharted route, right?"
"More dangerous?"
"Some. It's also harder on...” He composed himself. “It's easier on a navigator when he has records from other ships, to get a feel for the texture of underspace along that course. New territory requires greater concentration, greater ... exertion."
Chloe nodded slowly. “Are you not up to it?"
Her needle went home. “No, I'm capable. I'm rested enough. Just finished a good fourteen hours of sleep."
Chloe hid some mild surprise. “Okay, you're ready and able. Are you willing?” She didn't wait for Pascal's hesitation to stretch. “I can go to the others. They may not like me, but someone will like the fee."
After another moment, Pascal stepped toward her, handing her the complate. Chloe thought he was refusing, but then he stepped past her. “Let me check something on the bridge first."
She followed him through the hatch. He took the pilot's seat, situated next to the navigator's port, and started downloading records from the station mainframe. “Yes,” he said, “there has."
"Has what?"
He pointed to the display. “There's been a trip from this system to one of the ones on your list. The closest, it turns out: Zeta Doradus. It was a secondary exploratory survey, twenty-five years ago, after—” He laughed. “The first survey was done by Prahlad Shastri."
"I'll take that as an omen,” Chloe said.
"So will I. At least one leg of our trip should be a little easier."
"Our trip? Is that a commitment?"
"I suppose it is.” Pascal cleared the display. “Have you engaged a pilot yet?"
"I don't need to."
Pascal turned the seat around hard. “See here. I don't care how small the ship is, it needs a slower-than-light pilot. I can do it in emergencies, but—"
"Pascal, Pascal.” Chloe handed him a badge from one of her pockets. “I'm certified on small craft. It's really helpful in my work."
He examined the badge and its information screen. “You've never piloted outside the Solar System?"
"Not yet, but I haven't just been doing Earth-Luna shuttles. Should I tell you how I got mixed up with the Kuiper Revolt four years back?"
He handed back the badge. “I remember those accounts. It's how I recognized you yesterday."
Chloe smiled modestly. “Thank you."
Pascal turned back to the console. “Okay, let's get me officially signed on."
* * * *
"Pascal, it's time."
Chloe heard no response over the intercom. She had been alone on the bridge for hours, during the undocking, pulling away from Shastri Station, and making a vector for Zeta Doradus. Now that they had headway and were out of the traffic lanes, she needed Pascal.
Analog SFF, November 2006 Page 14
