Holden drew a deep breath.
“So now you need more money and you want me not to discharge my patient as cured.”
“Not a bit of it!” snapped Cochrane. “I don’t want him as a patient! I’m only willing to accept him as a customer! But if he wants fame, I’ll sell it to him. Not as something to lean his fragile psyche on, but something to wallow in! Do you think he could ever get too famous for his own satisfaction?”
“Of course not,” said Holden. “He’s the same fool.”
“Then we’re in business,” Cochrane told him. “Not that I couldn’t peddle my fish elsewhere. I’m going to! But I’ll give him old-customer preference. I’ll want him out at the distress-torp tests this afternoon. They’ll be public.”
“This afternoon?” asked Holden. “Distress-torp?”
A lunar day is two Earth-weeks-long. A lunar night is equally long-drawn-out. Cochrane said impatiently:
“I got out of bed four hours ago. To me that’s morning. I’ll eat lunch in an hour. That’s noon. Say, three hours from now, whatever o’clock it is lunar time.”
Holden glanced at his watch and made computations. He said:
“That’ll be half-past two hundred and three o’clock, if you’re curious. But what’s a distress-torp?”
“Shoo!” said Cochrane. “I’ll send Babs to find you and load you on the jeep. You’ll see then. Now I’m busy!”
Holden shrugged and went away, and Cochrane stared at his own watch. Since a lunar day and night together fill twenty-eight Earth days of time, a strictly lunar “day” contains nearly three hundred forty Earth-hours. To call one-twelfth of that period an hour would be an affectation. To call each twenty-four Earth hours a day would have been absurd. So the actual period of the moon’s rotation was divided into familiar time-intervals, and a bulletin-board in the hotel lobby in Lunar City notified those interested that: “Sunday will be from 143 o’clock to 167 o’clock A.M.” There would be another Sunday some time during the lunar afternoon.
Cochrane debated momentarily whether this information could be used in the publicity campaign of Spaceways, Inc. Strictly speaking, there was some slight obligation to throw extra fame Dabney’s way regardless, because the corporation had been formed as a public-relations device. Any other features, such as changing the history of the human race, were technically incidental. But Cochrane put his watch away. To talk about horology on the moon wouldn’t add to Dabney’s stature as a phoney scientist. It didn’t matter.
He went back to the business at hand. Some two years before there had been a fake corporation organized strictly for the benefit of its promoters. It had built a rocket-ship ostensibly for the establishment of a colony on Mars. The ship had managed to stagger up to Luna, but no farther. Its promoters had sold stock on the promise that a ship that could barely reach Luna could take off from that small globe with six times as much fuel as it could lift off of Earth. Which was true. Investors put in their money on that verifiable fact. But the truth happened to be, of course, that it would still take an impossible amount of fuel to accelerate the ship—so heavily loaded—to a speed where it would reach Mars in one human lifetime. Taking off from Luna would solve only the problem of gravity. It wouldn’t do a thing about inertia. So the ship never rose from its landing near Lunar City. The corporation that had built it went profitably bankrupt.
Cochrane had been working feverishly to find out who owned that ship now. Just before the torp-test he’d mentioned, he found that the ship belonged to the hotel desk-clerk, who had bought it in hope of renting it sooner or later for television background-shots in case anybody was crazy enough to make a television film-tape on the moon. He was now discouraged. Cochrane chartered it, putting up a bond to return it undamaged. If the ship was lost, the hotel-clerk would get back his investment—about a week’s pay.
So Cochrane had a space-ship practically in his pocket when the public demonstration of the Dabney field came off at half-past 203 o’clock.
The site of the demonstration was the shadowed, pitch-dark part of the floor of a crater twenty miles across, with walls some ten thousand jagged feet high. The furnace-like sunshine made the plain beyond the shadow into a sea of blinding brightness. The sunlit parts of the crater’s walls were no less terribly glaring. But above the edge of the cliffs the stars began; infinitely small and many-colored, with innumerable degrees of brightness. The Earth hung in mid-sky like a swollen green apple, monstrous in size. And the figures which moved about the scene of the test could be seen only faintly by reflected light from the lava plain, because one’s eyes had to be adjusted to the white-hot moon-dust on the plain and mountains.
There were not many persons present. Three jeeps waited in the semi-darkness, out of the burning sunshine. There were no more than a dozen moon-suited individuals to watch and to perform the test of the Dabney field. Cochrane had scrupulously edited all fore-news of the experiment to give Dabney the credit he had paid for. There were present, then, the party from Earth—Cochrane and Babs and Holden, with the two tame scientists and Bell the writer—and the only two reporters on the moon. Only news syndicates could stand the expense-account of a field man in Lunar City. And then there were Jones and Dabney and two other figures apparently brought by Dabney.
There was, of course, no sound at all on the moon itself. There was no air to carry it. But from each plastic helmet a six-inch antenna projected straight upward, and the microwaves of suit-talkies made a jumble of slightly metallic sounds in the headphones of each suit.
As soon as Cochrane got out of the jeep’s air-lock and was recognized, Dabney said agitatedly:
“Mr. Cochrane! Mr. Cochrane! I have to discuss something with you! It is of the utmost importance! Will you come into the laboratory?”
Cochrane helped Babs to the ground and made his way to the airlock in the dust-heap against the cliff. He went in, with two other space-suited figures who detached themselves from the rest to follow him. Once inside the odorous, cramped laboratory, Dabney opened his face-plate and began to speak before Cochrane was ready to hear him. His companion beamed amiably.
“—and therefore, Mr. Cochrane,” Dabney was saying agitatedly, “I insist that measures be taken to protect my scientific reputation! If this test should fail, it will militate against the acceptance of my discovery! I warn you—and I have my friend Mr. Simms here as witness—that I will not be responsible for the operation of apparatus made by a subordinate who does not fully comprehend the theory of my discovery! I will not be involved—”
Cochrane nodded. Dabney, of course, didn’t understand the theory of the field he’d bought fame-rights to. But there was no point in bringing that up. Johnny Simms beamed at both of them. He was the swimmer Babs had pointed out in the swimming-pool. His face was completely unlined and placid, like the face of a college undergraduate. He had never worried about anything. He’d never had a care in the world. He merely listened with placid interest.
“I take it,” said Cochrane, “that you don’t mind the test being made, so long as you don’t have to accept responsibility for its failure—and so long as you get the credit for its success if it works. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“If it fails, I am not responsible!” insisted Dabney stridently. “If it succeeds, it will be because of my discovery.”
Cochrane sighed a little. This was a shabby business, but Dabney would have convinced himself, by now, that he was the genius he wanted people to believe him.
“Before the test,” said Cochrane gently, “you make a speech. It will be recorded. You disclaim the crass and vulgar mechanical details and emphasize that you are like Einstein, dealing in theoretic physics only. That you are naturally interested in attempts to use your discovery, but your presence is a sign of your interest but not your responsibility.”
“I shall have to think it over—,” began Dabney nervously.
“You can say,” promised Cochrane, “that if it does not work you will check over what Jones did a
nd tell him why.”
“Y-yes,” said Dabney hesitantly, “I could do that. But I must think it over first. You will have to delay—”
“If I were you,” said Cochrane confidentially, “I would plan a speech to that effect because the test is coming off in five minutes.”
He closed his face-plate as Dabney began to protest. He went into the lock. He knew better than to hold anything up while waiting for a neurotic to make a decision. Dabney had all he wanted, now. From this moment on he would be frantic for fear of losing it. But there could be no argument outside the laboratory. In the airlessness, anything anybody said by walkie-talkie could be heard by everybody.
When Dabney and Simms followed out of the lock, Cochrane was helping Jones set up the device that had been prepared for this test. It was really two devices. One was a very flat cone, much like a coolie-hat and hardly larger, with a sort of power-pack of coils and batteries attached. The other was a space-ship’s distress-signal rocket, designed to make a twenty-mile streak of red flame in emptiness. Nobody had yet figured out what good a distress signal would do, between Earth and moon, but the idea was soothing. The rocket was four feet long and six inches in diameter. At its nose there was a second coolie-hat cone, with other coils and batteries.
Jones set the separate cone on the ground and packed stones around and under it to brace it. His movements were almost ridiculously deliberate. Bending over, he bent slowly, or the motion would lift his feet off the ground. Straightening up, he straightened slowly, or the upward impetus of his trunk would again lift him beyond contact with solidity. But he braced the flat cone carefully.
He set the signal-torpedo over that cone. The entire set-up was under six feet tall, and the coolie-hat cones were no more than eighteen inches in diameter. He said flatly:
“I’m all ready.”
The hand and arm of a space-suited figure lifted, for attention. Dabney’s voice came worriedly from the headphones of every suit:
“I wish it understood,” he said in some agitation, “that this first attempted application of my discovery is made with my consent, but that I am not aware of the mechanical details. As a scientist, my work has been in pure science. I have worked for the advancement of human knowledge, but the technological applications of my discovery are not mine. Still—if this device does not work, I will take time from my more important researches to inquire into what part of my discovery has been inadequately understood and applied. It may be that present technology is not qualified to apply my discovery—”
Jones said without emotion—but Cochrane could imagine his poker-faced expression inside his helmet:
“That’s right. I consulted Mr. Dabney about the principles, but the apparatus is my doing, I take the responsibility for that!”
Then Cochrane added with pleasant irony:
“Since all this is recorded, Mr. Dabney can enlarge upon his disinterest later. Right now, we can go ahead. Mr. Dabney disavows us unless we are successful. Let us let it go at that.” Then he said: “The observatory’s set to track?”
A muffled voice said boredly, by short-wave from the observatory up on the crater’s rim:
“We’re ready. Visual and records, and we’ve got the timers set to clock the auto-beacon signals as they come in.”
The voice was not enthusiastic. Cochrane had had to put up his own money to have the nearside lunar observatory put a low-power telescope to watch the rocket’s flight. In theory, this distress-rocket should make a twenty-mile streak of relatively long-burning red sparks. A tiny auto-beacon in its nose was set to send microwave signals at ten-second intervals. On the face of it, it had looked like a rather futile performance.
“Let’s go,” said Cochrane.
He noted with surprise that his mouth was suddenly dry. This affair was out of all reason. A producer of television shows should not be the person to discover in an abstruse scientific development the way to reach the stars. A neurotic son-in-law of an advertising tycoon should not be the instrument by which the discovery should come about. A psychiatrist should not be the means of associating Jones—a very junior physicist with no money—and Cochrane and the things Cochrane was prepared to bring about if only this unlikely-looking gadget worked.
“Jones,” said Cochrane with a little difficulty, “let’s follow an ancient tradition. Let Babs christen the enterprise by throwing the switch.”
Jones pointed there in the shadow of the crater-wall, and Babs moved to the switch he indicated. She said absorbedly:
“Five, four, three, two, one—”
She threw the switch. There was a spout of lurid red flame.
The rocket vanished.
It vanished. It did not rise, visibly. It simply went away from where it was, with all the abruptness of a light going out. There was a flurry of the most brilliant imaginable carmine flame. That light remained. But the rocket did not so much rise as disappear.
Cochrane jerked his head up. He was close to the line of the rocket’s ascent. He could see a trail of red sparks which stretched to invisibility. It was an extraordinarily thin line. The separate flecks of crimson light which comprised it were distant in space. They were so far from each other that the signal-rocket was a complete failure as a device making a streak of light that should be visible.
The muffled voice in the helmet-phones said blankly:
“Hey! What’d you do to that rocket?”
The others did not move. They seemed stunned. The vanishing of the rocket was no way for a rocket to act. In all expectation, it should have soared skyward with a reasonable velocity, and should have accelerated rather more swiftly from the moon’s surface than it would have done from Earth. But it should have remained visible during all its flight. Its trail should have been a thick red line. Instead, the red sparks were so far separated—the trail was so attenuated that it was visible only from a spot near its base. The observatory voice said more blankly still:
“Hey! I’ve picked up the trail! I can’t see it nearby, but it seems to start, thin, about fifty miles up and go on away from there! That rocket shouldn’t ha’ gone more than twenty miles! What happened?”
“Watch for the microwave signals,” said Jones’ voice in Cochrane’s headphones.
The voice from the observatory squeaked suddenly. This was not one of the highly-placed astronomers, but part of the mechanical staff who’d been willing to do an unreasonable chore for pay.
“Here’s the blip! It’s crazy! Nothing can go that fast!”
And then in the phones there came the relayed signal of the auto-beacon in the vanished rocket. The signal-sound was that of a radar pulse, beginning at low pitch and rising three octaves in the tenth of a second. At middle C—the middle of the range of a piano—there was a momentary spurt of extra volume. But in the relayed signal that louder instant had dropped four tones. Cochrane said crisply:
“Jones, what speed would that be?”
“It’d take a slide-rule to figure it,” said Jones’ voice, very calmly, “but it’s faster than anything ever went before.”
Cochrane waited for the next beep. It did not come in ten seconds. It was easily fifteen. Even he could figure out what that meant! A signal-source that stretched ten seconds of interval at source to fifteen at reception…
The voice from the observatory wailed:
“It’s crazy! It can’t be going like that!”
They waited. Fifteen seconds more. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty. The beep sounded. The spurt of sound had dropped a full octave. The signal-rocket, traveling normally, might have attained a maximum velocity of some two thousand feet per second. It was now moving at a speed which was an appreciably large fraction of the speed of light. Which was starkly impossible. It simply happened to be true.
They heard the signal once more. The observatory’s multiple-receptor receiver had been stepped up to maximum amplification. The signal was distinct, but very faint indeed. And the rocket was then traveling—so it was later computed—at seven-e
ighths of the speed of light. Between the flat cone on the front of the distress-torpedo, and the flat cone on the ground, a field of force existed. The field was not on the back surface of the torpedo’s cone, but before the front surface. It went back to the moon from there, so all the torpedo and its batteries were in the columnar stressed space. And an amount of rocket-push that should have sent the four-foot torpedo maybe twenty miles during its period of burning, had actually extended its flight to more than thirty-seven hundred miles before the red sparks were too far separated to be traced any farther, and by then had kicked the torpedo up impossibly close to light-speed.
In a sense, the Dabney field had an effect similar to the invention of railways. The same horsepower moved vastly more weight faster, over steel rails, than it could haul over a rutted dirt road. The same rocket-thrust moved more weight faster in the Dabney field than in normal space. There would be a practical limit to the speed at which a wagon could be drawn over a rough road. The speed of light was a limit to the speed of matter in normal space. But on a railway the practical speed at which a vehicle could travel went up from three miles an hour to a hundred and twenty. In the Dabney field it was yet to be discovered what the limiting velocity might be. But old formulas for acceleration and increase-of-mass-with-velocity simply did not apply in a Dabney field.
Jones rode back to Lunar City with Cochrane and Holden and Babs. His face was dead-pan.
Babs tried to recover the mien and manner of the perfect secretary.
“Mr. Cochrane,” she said professionally, “will you want to read the publicity releases Mr. Bell turns out from what Mr. West and Mr. Jamison tell him?”
“I don’t think it matters,” said Cochrane. “The newsmen will pump West and Jamison empty, anyhow. It’s all right. In fact, it’s better than our own releases would be. They’ll contradict each other. It’ll sound more authentic that way. We’re building up a customer-demand for information.”
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 89
