“I don’t,” acknowledged Cochrane.
“The field’s always a pipe, a tube, a column of stressed space between the field-plates,” Jones reminded him. “When we landed the first time, back yonder, the tail of the ship wasn’t in the field at all. The field stretched from the bow of the ship only, out to that last balloon we dropped. We were letting down at an angle to that line. It was like a kite and a string and the kite’s tail. The string was the Dabney field, and the directions we were heading was the kite’s tail.”
Cochrane nodded. It occurred to him that Jones was very much unlike Dabney. Jones had discovered the Dabney field, but having sold the fame-rights to it, he now apparently thought “Dabney Field” was the proper technical term for his own discovery, even in his own mind.
“Back on the moon,” Jones went on zestfully, “I wasn’t sure that a field once established would hold in atmosphere. I hoped that with enough power I could keep it, but I wasn’t sure—”
“This doesn’t mean much to me, Jones,” said Cochrane. “What does it add up to?”
“Why—the field held down into atmosphere. And we were out of the primary field as far as the tail of the ship was concerned. But this time we landed, I’d hooked in some ready-installed circuits. There was a second Dabney field from the stern of the ship to the bow. There was the main one, going out to those balloons and then back to Earth. But there was—and is—a second one only enclosing the ship. It’s a sort of bubble. We can still trail a field behind us, and anybody can follow in any sort of ship that’s put into it. But now the ship has a completely independent, second field. Its tail is never outside!”
Cochrane did not have the sort of mind to find such information either lucid or suggestive.
“So what happens?”
“We have both plates of a Dabney field always with us,” said Jones triumphantly. “We’re always in a field, even landing in atmosphere, and the ship has practically no mass even when it’s letting down to landing. It has weight, but next to no mass. Didn’t you notice the difference?”
“Stupid as it may seem, I didn’t,” admitted Cochrane. “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”
Jones looked at him patiently.
“Now we can shoot our exhaust out of the field! The ship-field, not the main one!”
“I’m still numb,” said Cochrane. “Multiple sclerosis of the brain-cells, I suppose. Let me just take your word for it.”
Jones tried once more.
“Try to see it! Listen! When we landed the first time we had to use a lot of fuel because the tail of the ship wasn’t in the Dabney field. It had mass. So we had to use a lot of rocket-power to slow down that mass. In the field, the ship hasn’t much mass—the amount depends on the strength of the field—but rockets depend for their thrust on the mass that’s thrown away astern. Looked at that way, rockets shouldn’t push hard in a Dabney field. There oughtn’t to be any gain to be had by the field at all. You see?”
Cochrane fumbled in his head.
“Oh, yes. I thought of that. But there is an advantage. The ship does work.”
“Because,” said Jones, triumphant again, “the field-effect depends partly on temperature! The gases in the rocket-blast are hot, away up in the thousands of degrees. They don’t have normal inertia, but they do have what you might call heat-inertia. They acquire a sort of fictitious mass when they get hot enough. So we carry along fuel that hasn’t any inertia to speak of when it’s cold, but acquires a lunatic sort of substitute for inertia when it’s genuinely hot. So a ship can travel in a Dabney field!”
“I’m relieved,” acknowledged Cochrane. “I thought you were about to tell me that we couldn’t lift off the moon, and I was going to ask how we got here.”
Jones smiled patiently.
“What I’m telling you now is that we can shoot rocket-blasts out of the Dabney field we make with the stern of the ship! Landing, we keep our fuel and the ship with next to no mass, and we shoot it out to where it does have mass, and the effect is practically the same as if we were pushing against something solid! And so we started off with fuel for maybe five or six landings and take-offs against Earth gravity. But with this new trick, we’ve got fuel for a couple of hundred!”
“Ah!” said Cochrane mildly. “This is the first thing you’ve said that meant anything to me. Congratulations! What comes next?”
“I thought you’d be pleased,” said Jones. “What I’m really telling you is that now we’ve got fuel enough to reach the Milky Way.”
“Let’s not,” suggested Cochrane, “and say we did! You’ve got a new star picked out to travel to?”
Jones shrugged his shoulders. In him, the gesture indicated practically hysterical frustration. But he said:
“Yes. Twenty-one light-years. Back on Earth they’re anxious for us to check on sol-type suns and Earth-type planets.”
“For once,” said Cochrane, “I am one with the great scientific minds. Let’s go over.”
He made his way to the circular stairway leading down to the main saloon. On his clumsy way across the saloon floor to the communicator, he felt the peculiar sensation of the booster-current, which should have been a sound, but wasn’t. It was the sensation which had preceded the preposterous leap of the space-ship away from Luna, when in a heart-beat of time all stars looked like streaks of light, and the ship traveled nearly two light-centuries.
Sunshine blinked, and then shone again in the ports around the saloon walls. The second shining came from a different direction—as if somebody had switched off one exterior light and turned on another—and at a different angle to the floor.
Cochrane reached the communicator. He felt no weight. He strapped himself into the chair. He switched on the vision-phone which sent radiation along the field to a balloon two hundred odd light-years from Earth—that was the balloon near the glacier planet—and then switched to the field traveling to a second balloon then the last hundred seventy-odd light-years back to the moon, and then from Luna City down to Earth.
He put in his call. He got an emergency message that had been waiting for him. Seconds later he fought his way frantically through no-weight to the control-room again.
“Jamison! Bell!” he cried desperately. “We’ve got a broadcast due in twenty minutes! I lost track of time! We’re sponsored on four continents and we damwell have to put on a show! What the devil! Why didn’t somebody—”
Jamison said obviously from a blister-port where he swung a squat star-telescope from one object to another:
“Noo-o-o. That’s a gas-giant. We’d be squashed if we landed there—though that big moon looks promising. I think we’d better try yonder.”
“Okay,” said Jones in a flat voice. “Center on the next one in, Al, and we’ll toddle over.”
Cochrane felt the ship swinging in emptiness. He knew because it seemed to turn while he felt that he stayed still.
“We’ve got a show to put on!” he raged. “We’ve got to fake something—.”
Jamison looked aside from his telescope.
“Tell him, Bell,” he said expansively.
“I wrote a script of sorts,” said Bell apologetically. “The story-line’s not so good—that’s why I wanted a castaway narrative to put in it, though I wouldn’t have had time, really. We spliced film and Jamison narrated it, and you can run it off. It’s a kind of show. We ran it as a space-platform survey of the glacier-planet, basing it on pictures we took while we were in orbit around it. It’s a sort of travelogue. Jamison did himself proud. Alicia can find the tape-can for you.”
He went back to his cameras. Cochrane saw a monstrous globe swing past a control-room port. It was a featureless mass of clouds, save for striations across what must be its equator. It looked like the Lunar Observatory pictures of Jupiter, back in the Sun’s family of planets.
It went past the port, and a moon swam into view. It was a very large moon. It had at least one ice-cap—and therefore an atmosphere—and there
were mottlings of its surface which could hardly be anything but continents and seas.
“We’ve got to put a show on!” raged Cochrane. “And now!”
“It’s all set,” Bell assured him. “You can transmit it. I hope you like it!”
Cochrane sputtered. But there was nothing to do but transmit whatever Bell and Jamison had gotten ready. He swam with nightmarelike difficulty back to the communicator. He shouted frantically for Babs. She and Alicia came. Alicia found the film-tape, and Cochrane threaded it into the transmitter, and bitterly ran the first few feet. Babs smiled at him, and Alicia looked at him oddly. Evidently, Babs had confided the consequence of their casting-away. But Cochrane faced an emergency. He began to check timings with far-distant Earth.
When the ship approached a second planet, Cochrane saw nothing of it. He was furiously monitoring the broadcast of a show in which he’d had no hand at all. From his own, professional standpoint it was terrible. Jamison spouted interminably, so Cochrane considered. Al, the pilot, was actually interviewed by an offscreen voice! But the pictures from space were excellent. While the ship floated in orbit, waiting to descend to pick up Babs and Cochrane, Bell had hooked his camera to an amplifying telescope and he did have magnificent shots of dramatic terrain on the planet now twenty light-years behind.
Cochrane watched the show in a mingling of jealousy and relief. It was not as good as he would have done. But fortunately, Bell and Jamison had stuck fairly close to straight travelogue-stuff, and close-up shots of vegetation and animals had been interspersed with the remoter pictures with moderate competence, if without undue imagination. An audience which had not seen many shows of the kind would be thrilled. It even amounted to a valid change of pace. Anybody who watched this would at least want to see more and different pictures from the stars.
Halfway through, he heard the now-muffled noise of rockets. He knew the ship was descending through atmosphere by the steady sound, though he had not the faintest idea what was outside. He ground his teeth as—for timing—he received the commercial inserted in the film. The U. S. commercials served the purpose, of course. He could not watch the other pictures shown to residents of other than North America in the commercial portions of the show.
He was counting seconds to resume transmission when he felt the slight but distant impact which meant that the ship had touched ground. A very short time after, even the lessened, precautionary rocket-roar cut off.
Cochrane ground his teeth. The ship had landed on a planet he had not seen and in whose choice he had had no hand. He was humiliated. The other members of the ship’s company looked out at scenes no other human eyes had ever beheld.
He regarded the final commercial, inserted into the broadcast for its American sponsor. It showed, purportedly, the true story of two girl friends, one blonde and one brunette, who were wall-flowers at all parties. They tried frantically to remedy the situation by the use of this toothpaste and that, and this deodorant and the other. In vain! But then they became the centers of all the festivities they attended, as soon as they began to wash their hair with Rayglo Shampoo.
Holden and Johnny Simms came clattering down from the control-room together. They looked excited. They plunged together toward the stair-well that would take them to the deck on which the airlock opened.
Holden panted,
“Jed! Creatures outside! They look like men!”
The communicator-screen faithfully monitored the end of the commercial. Two charming girls, radiant and lovely, raised their voices in grateful song, hymning the virtues of Rayglo Shampoo. There followed brisk reminders of the superlative, magical results obtained by those who used Rayglo Foundation Cream, Rayglo Kisspruf Lipstick, and Rayglo home permanent—in four strengths; for normal, hard-to-wave, easy-to-wave, and children’s hair.
Cochrane heard the clanking of the airlock door.
CHAPTER NINE
He made for the control-room, where the ports offered the highest and widest and best views of everything outside. When he arrived, Babs and Alicia stood together, staring out and down. Bell frantically worked a camera. Jamison gaped at the outer world. Al the pilot made frustrated gestures, not quite daring to leave his controls while there was even an outside chance the ship’s landing-fins might find flaws in their support. Jones adjusted something on the new set of controls he had established for the extra Dabney field. Jones was not wholly normal in some ways. He was absorbed in technical matters even more fully than Cochrane in his own commercial enterprises.
Cochrane pushed to a port to see.
The ship had landed in a small glade. There were trees nearby. The trees had extremely long, lanceolate leaves, roughly the shape of grass-blades stretched out even longer. In the gentle breeze that blew outside, they waved extravagantly. There were hills in the distance, and nearby out-croppings of gray rocks. This sky was blue like the sky of Earth. It was, of course, inevitable that any colorless atmosphere with dust-particles suspended in it would establish a blue sky.
Holden was visible below, moving toward a patch of reed-like vegetation rising some seven or eight feet from the rolling soil. He had hopped quickly over the scorched area immediately outside the ship. It was much smaller than that made by the first landing on the other planet, but even so he had probably damaged his footwear to excess. But he now stood a hundred yards from the ship. He made gestures. He seemed to be talking, as if trying to persuade some living creature to show itself.
“We saw them peeping,” said Babs breathlessly, coming beside Cochrane. “Once one of them ran from one patch of reeds to another. It looked like a man. There are at least three of them in there—whatever they are!”
“They can’t be men,” said Cochrane grimly. “They can’t!” Johnny Simms was not in sight. “Where’s Simms?”
“He has a gun,” said Babs. “He was going to get one, anyhow, so he could protect Doctor Holden.”
Cochrane glanced straight down. The airlock door was open, and the end of a weapon peered out. Johnny Simms might be in a better position there to protect Holden by gun-fire, but he was assuredly safer, himself. There was no movement anywhere. Holden did not move closer to the reeds. He still seemed to be speaking soothingly to the unseen creatures.
“Why can’t there be men here?” asked Babs. “I don’t mean actually men, but—manlike creatures? Why couldn’t there be rational creatures like us? I know you said so but—”
Cochrane shook his head. He believed implicitly that there could not be men on this planet. On the glacier planet every animal had been separately devised from the creatures of Earth. There were resemblances, explicable as the result of parallel evolution. By analogy, there could not be exactly identical mankind on another world because evolution there would be parallel but not the same. But if there were even a mental equal to men, no matter how unhuman such a creature might appear, if there were a really rational animal anywhere in the cosmos off of Earth, the result would be catastrophic.
“We humans,” Cochrane told her, “live by our conceit. We demand more than animality of ourselves because we believe we are more than animals—and we believe we are the only creatures that are! If we came to believe we were not unique, but were simply a cleverer animal, we’d be finished. Every nation has always started to destroy itself every time such an idea spread.”
“But we aren’t only clever animals!” protested Babs. “We are unique!”
Cochrane glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Quite true.”
Holden still stood patiently before the patch of reeds, still seemed to talk, still with his hands outstretched in what men consider the universal sign of peace.
There was a sudden movement at the back of the reed-patch, quite fifty yards from Holden. A thing which did look like a man fled madly for the nearest edge of woodland. It was the size of a man. It had the pinkish-tan color of naked human flesh. It ran with its head down, and it could not be seen too clearly, but it was startlingly manlike in outlin
e. Up in the control-room Bell fairly yipped with excitement and swung his camera. Holden remained oblivious. He still tried to lure something out of concealment. A second creature raced for the woods.
Tiny gray threads appeared in the air between the airlock and the racing thing. Smoke. Johnny Simms was shooting zestfully at the unidentified animal. He was using that tracer ammunition which poor shots and worse sportsmen adopt to make up for bad marksmanship.
The threads of smoke seemed to form a net about the running things. They dodged and zig-zagged frantically. Both of them reached safety.
A third tried it. And now Johnny Simms turned on automatic fire. Bullets spurted from his weapon, trailing threads of smoke so that the trails looked like a stream from a hose. The stream swept through the space occupied by the fugitive. It leaped convulsively and crashed to earth. It kicked blindly.
Cochrane swore. Between the instant of the beginning of the creature’s flight and this instant, less than two seconds had passed.
The threads which were smoke-trails drifted away. Then a new thread streaked out. Johnny Simms fired once more at his still-writhing victim. It kicked violently and was still.
Holden turned angrily. There seemed to be shoutings between him and Johnny Simms. Then Holden trudged around the reed-patch. There was no longer any sign of life in the still shape on the ground. But it was normal precaution not to walk into a jungle-like thicket in which unknown, large living things had recently been sighted. Johnny Simms fired again and again from his post in the airlock. The smoke which traced his bullets ranged to the woodland. He shot at imagined targets there. He fired at his previous victim simply because it was something to shoot at. He shot recklessly, foolishly.
Alicia, his wife, touched Jamison on the arm and spoke to him urgently. Jamison followed her reluctantly down the stairs. She would be going to the airlock. Johnny Simms, shooting at the landscape, might shoot Holden. A thread of bullet-smoke passed within feet of Holden’s body. He turned and shouted back at the ship.
The inner airlock door clanked open. There was the sound of a shot, and the dead thing was hit again. The bullet had been fired dangerously close to Holden. There were voices below. Johnny Simms bellowed enragedly.
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 98
