The Menace From Earth

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Cut it out, boy! He turned his mind to his favorite subject—girls, bless their hearts. Such self-hypnosis he had used to pass many a lonely million miles. Presently he realized wryly that his phantom harem had failed him. He could not conjure them up, so he banished them and spent his time being miserable.

  He awoke in a sweat. His last dream had been a night­mare that he was headed out to Pluto at an impossibly high boost.

  My God! So he was!

  The pressure seemed worse. When he moved his head there was a stabbing pain down his side. He was panting and sweat was pouring off. It ran into his eyes; he tried to wipe them, found that his arm did not respond and that his finger­tips were numb. He inched his arm across his body and dabbed at his eyes; it did not help.

  He stared at the elapsed time dial of the integrating ancelerograph and tried to remember when he was due on watch. It took a while to understand that six and a half hours had passed since light-off. He then realized with a jerk that it was long past time to relieve the watch. Kleuger's face in the mirror was still split in the grin of high g; his eyes were closed. "Skipper!" Joe shouted. Kleuger did not stir. Joe felt for the alarm button, thought better of it. Let the poor goop sleep!

  But somebody had to feed the hogs—better get the clouds out of his brain. The accelerometer showed three and a half exactly; the torch dials were all in operating range; the radio­meter showed leakage less than ten percent of danger level.

  The integrating accelerograph displayed elapsed time, velocity, and distance, in dead-reckoning for empty space. Under these windows were three more which showed the same by the precomputed tape controlling the torch; by comparing, Joe could tell how results matched predictions. The torch had been lit off for less than seven hours, speed was nearly two million miles per hour and they were over six million miles out. A third display corrected these figures for the Sun's field, but Joe ignored this; near Earth's orbit the Sun pulls only one two-thousandth of a gravity—a gnat's whisker, allowed for in precomputation. Joe merely noted that tape and D.R. agreed; he wanted an outside check.

  Both Earth and Moon now being blanketed by the same cone of disturbance, he. twisted knobs until their radar beacon beamed toward Mars and let it pulse the signal meaning "Where am I?" He did not wait for answer; Mars was eight­een minutes away by radio. He turned instead to the coelo­stat. The triple image had wandered slightly but the error was too small to correct.

  He dictated what he had done into the log, whereupon he felt worse. His ribs hurt, each breath carried the stab of pleurisy. His hands and feet felt "pins-and-needles" from scanty circulation. He wiggled them, which produced crawl­ing sensations and wearied him. So he held still and watched the speed soar. It increased seventy-seven miles per hour every second, more than a quarter million miles per hour every hour. For once he envied rocketship pilots; they took forever to get anywhere but they got there in comfort.

  Without the torch, men would never have ventured much past Mars. E = Mc2, mass is energy, and a pound of sand equals fifteen billion horsepower-hours. An atomic rocket-ship uses but a fraction of one percent of that energy, where­as the new torchers used better than eighty percent. The con­version chamber of a torch was a tiny sun; particles expelled from it approached the speed of light.

  Appleby was proud to be a torcher, but not at the moment. The crick had grown into a splitting headache, he wanted to bend his knees and could not, and he was nauseated from the load on his stomach. Kleuger seemed able to sleep through it, damn his eyes! How did they expect a man to stand this? Only eight hours and already he felt done in, bushed—how could he last nine days?

  Later—time was beginning to be uncertain—some indefi­nite time later he heard his name called. "Joe! Joe!"

  Couldn't a man die in peace? His eyes wandered around, found the mirror; he struggled to focus. "Joe! You've got to relieve me—I'm groggy."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Make a check, Joe. I'm too goofed up to do it."

  "I already did, sir."

  "Huh? When?"

  Joe's eyes swam around to the elapsed-time dial. He closed one eye to read it. "Uh, about six hours ago."

  "What? What time is it?"

  Joe didn't answer. He wished peevishly that Kleuger would go away. Kleuger added soberly, "I must have blacked out, kid. What's the situation?" Presently he insisted, "Answer me, Mister."

  "Huh? Oh, we're all right—down the groove. Skipper, is my left leg twisted? I can't see it."

  "Eh? Oh, never mind your leg! What were the figures?"

  "What figures?"

  "‘What figures?' Snap out of it, Mister! You're on duty."

  A fine one to talk, Joe thought fretfully. If that's how he's going to act, I'll just close my eyes and ignore him.

  Kleuger repeated, "The figures, Mister."

  "Huh? Oh, play ‘em off the log if you're so damned eager!" He expected a blast at that, but none came. When next he opened his eyes Kleuger's eyes were closed. He couldn't re­call whether the Skipper had played his figures back or not—nor whether he had logged them. He decided that it was time for another check but he was dreadfully thirsty; he needed a drink first. He drank carefully but still got a drop down his windpipe. A coughing spasm hurt him all over and left him so weak that he had to rest.

  He pulled himself together and scanned the dials. Twelve hours and— No, wait a minute! One day and twelve hours—that couldn't be right. But their speed was over ten million miles per hour and their distance more than ninety million miles from Earth;, they were beyond the orbit of Mars. "Skipper! Hey! Lieutenant Kleuger!"

  Kleuger's face was a grinning mask. In dull panic Joe tried to find their situation. The coelostat showed them bal­anced; either the ship had wobbled back, or Kleuger had corrected it. Or had he himself? He decided to run over the log and see. Fumbling among buttons he found the one to rewind the log.

  Since he didn't remember to stop it the wire ran all the way back to light-off, then played back, zipping through silent stretches and slowing for speech. He listened to his record of the first check, then found that Phobos Station, Mars, had answered with a favorable report—to which a voice added, "Where's the fire?"

  Yes, Kleuger had corrected balance hours earlier. The wire hurried through a blank spot, slowed again—Kleuger had dictated a letter to someone; it was unfinished and incoherent. Once Kleuger had stopped to shout, "Joe! Joe!" and Joe heard himself answer, "Oh shut up!" He had no memory of it.

  There was something he should do but he was too tired to think and he hurt all over—except his legs, he couldn't feel them. He shut his eyes and tried not to think. When he opened them the elapsed time was turning three days; he closed them and leaked tears.

  A bell rang endlessly; he became aware that it was the gen­eral alarm, but he felt no interest other than a need to stop it. It was hard to find the switch, his fingers were numb. But he managed it and was about to rest from the effort, when he heard Kleuger call him. "Joe!"

  "Huh?"

  "Joe—don't go back to sleep or I'll turn the alarm on again. You hear me?"

  "Yeah—" So Kleuger had done that—why, damn him!

  "Joe, I've got to talk to you. I can't stand any more."

  "‘Any more what?"

  "High boost. I can't take any more—it's killing me."

  "Oh, rats!" Turn on that loud bell, would he?

  "I'm dying, Joe. I can't see—my eyes are shot. Joe, I've got to shut down the boost. I've got to."

  "Well, what's stopping you?" Joe answered irritably.

  "Don't you see, Joe? You've got to back me up. We tried-and we couldn't. We'll both log it. Then it'll be all right."

  "Log what?"

  "Eh? Dammit, Joe, pay attention. I can't talk much. You've got to say—to say that the strain became unendura­ble and you advised me to shut down. I'll confirm it and it will be all right." His labored whisper was barely audible.

  Joe couldn't figure out what Kleuger meant. He couldn't remember why K
leuger had put them in high boost any­how. "Hurry, Joe."

  There he went, nagging him! Wake him up and then nag him—to hell with him. "Oh, go back to sleep!" He dozed off and was again jerked awake by the alarm. This time he knew where the switch was and flipped it quickly. Kleuger switched it on again, Joe turned it off. Kleuger quit trying and Joe passed out.

  He came awake in free fall. He was still realizing the ecstasy of being weightless when he managed to reorient; he was in the Salamander, headed for Pluto. Had they reached the end of the run? No, the dial said four days and some hours. Had the tape broken? The autopilot gone haywire? He then recalled the last time he had been awake.

  Kleuger had shut off the torch!

  The stretched grin was gone from Kleuger's face, the fea­tures seemed slack and old. Joe called out, "Captain! Captain Kleuger!" Kleuger's eyes fluttered and lips moved but Joe heard nothing. He slithered out of the tank, moved in front of Kleuger, floated there. "Captain, can you hear me?"

  The lips whispered, "I had to, boy. I saved us. Can you get us back, Joe?" His eyes opened but did not track.

  "Captain, listen to me. I've got to light off again."

  "Huh? No, Joe, no!"

  "I've got to."

  "No! That's an order, Mister."

  Appleby stared, then with a judo chop caught the sick man on the jaw. Kleuger's head bobbed loosely. Joe pulled him­self between the tanks, located a three-position switch, turned it from "Pilot & Co-Pilot" to "Co-Pilot Only"; Kleuger's con­trols were now dead. He glanced at Kleuger, saw that his head was not square in his collar, so he taped him properly into place, then got back in his tank. He settled his head and fumbled for the switch that would put the autopilot back on tape. There was some reason why they must finish this run—but for, the life of him he could not remember why. He squeezed the switch and, weight pinned him down.

  He was awakened by a dizzy feeling added to the pressure. It went on for seconds, he retched futilely. When the motion stopped he peered at the dials. The Salamander had just com­pleted the somersault from acceleration to deceleration. They had come half way, about, eighteen hundred million miles; their speed was over three million miles per hour and begin­ning to drop. Joe felt that he should report it to the skipper—he had no recollection of any trouble with him. "Skipper! Hey!" Kleuger did not move. Joe called again, then resorted to the alarm.

  The clangor woke, not Kleuger, but Joe's memory. He shut it off, feeling soul sick. Topping his physical misery was shame and loss and panic as he recalled the shabby facts. He felt that he ought to log it but could not decide what to say. Beaten and ever lower in mind he gave up and tried to rest.

  He woke later with something gnawing at his mind…something he should do for the Captain…something about a cargo robot—

  That was it! If the robot-torch had reached Pluto, they could quit! Let's see—elapsed-time from light-off was over five days. Yes, if it ever got there, then— He ran the wire back, listened for a recorded message. It was there: "Earth Station to Salamander—Extremely sorry to report that robot failed rendezvous. We are depending on you.—Berrio."

  Tears of weakness and disappointment sped down his cheeks, pulled along by three and one-half gravities.

  It was on the eighth day that Joe realized that Kleuger was dead. It was not the stench—he was unable to tell that from his own ripe body odors. Nor was it that the Captain had not roused since flip-over; Joe's time sense was so fogged that he did not realize this. But he had dreamt that Kleuger was shouting for him to get up, to stand up—"Hurry up, Joe!" But the weight pressed him down.

  So sharp was the dream that Joe tried to answer after he woke up. Then he looked for Kleuger in the mirror. Kleuger's face was much the same, but he knew with sick horror that the captain was dead. Nevertheless he tried to arouse him with the alarm. Presently he gave up; his fingers were purple and he could feel nothing below his waist; he wondered if be were dying and hoped that he was. He slipped into that lethargy which had become his normal state.

  He did not become conscious when, after more than nine days, the autopilot quenched the torch. Awareness found him floating in midroom, having somehow squirmed out of his station. He felt deliciously lazy and quite hungry; the latter eventually brought him awake.

  His surroundings put past events somewhat into place. He pulled himself to hii tank and examined the dials. Good grief!—it had been two hours since the ship had gone into free fall. The plan called for approach to be computed before the tape ran out, corrected on entering free fall, a new tape cut and fed in without delay, then let the autopilot make the approach. He had done nothing and wasted two hours.

  He slid between tank and controls, discovering then that his legs were paralyzed. No matter—legs weren't needed in free fall, nor in the tank. His hands did not behave well, but he could use them. He was stunned when he found Kleuger's body, but steadied down and got to work. He had no idea where he was; Pluto might be millions of miles away, or al­most in his lap—perhaps they had spotted him and were al­ready sending approach data. He decided to check the wire.

  He found their messages at once:

  "Proserpina to Salamander—Thank God you are coming. Here are your elements at quench out—": followed by time reference, range-and-bearing figures, and doppler data.

  And again: "Here are later and better figures, Salamander—hurry!"

  And finally, only a few minutes ‘before: "Salamander, why the delay in light-off? Is your computer broken down? Shall we compute a ballistic for you?"

  The idea that anyone but a torcher could work a torch ballistic did not sink in. He tried to work fast, but his hands bothered him—he punched wrong numbers and had to correct them. It took him a half hour to realize that the trouble was not just his fingers. Ballistics, a subject as easy for him as checkers, was confused in his mind.

  He could not work the ballistic.

  "Salamander to Proserpino—Request ballistic for approach into parking orbit around Pluto."

  The answer came so quickly that he knew that they had not waited for his okay. With ponderous care he cut the tape and fed it into the autopilot. It was then that he noticed the boost... four point oh three.

  Four gravities for the approach— He had assumed that the approach would be a normal one—and so it might have been if he had not wasted three hours. But it wasn't fair! It was too much to expect. He cursed childishly as he settled himself, fitted the collar, and squeezed the button that turned control to the autopilot. He had a few minutes of waiting time; he spent it muttering peevishly. They could have figured him a better ballistic—hell, he should have figured it. They were always pushing him around. Good old Joe, anybody's punching bag! That so-and-so Kleuger over there, grinning like a fool and leaving the work for him—if Kleuger hadn't been so confounded eager— Acceleration hit him and he blacked out.

  When the shuttle came up to meet him, they found one man dead, one nearly dead, and the cargo of whole blood.

  The supply ship brought pilots for the Salamander and fetched Appleby home. He stayed in sick bay until ordered to Luna for treatment; on being detached he reported to Berrio, escorted by the flight surgeon. The Commodore let him know brusquely that he had done a fine job, a damn' fine job! The interview ended and the surgeon helped Joe to stand; instead of leaving Joe said, "Uh, Commodore?"

  "Yes, son?"

  "Oh, there's one thing I don't understand, uh, what I don't understand is, uh, this: why do I have to go, uh, to the geri­atrics clinic at Luna City? That's for old people, uh? That's what I've always understood—the way I understand it. Sir?"

  The surgeon cut in, "I told you, Joe. They have the very best physiotherapy. We got special permission for you."

  Joe looked perplexed. "Is that right, sir? I feel funny, go­ing to an old folks', uh, hospital?"

  "That's right, son."

  Joe grinned sheepishly. "Okay, sir, uh, if you say so."

  They started to leave. "Doctor—stay a moment. Messenger, he
lp Mr. Appleby."

  "Joe, can you make it?"

  "Uh, sure! My legs are lots better—see?" He went out, leaning on the messenger.

  Berrio said, "Doctor, tell me straight: will Joe get well?"

  "No, sir."

  "Will he get better?'

  "Some, perhaps. Lunar gravity makes it easy to get the most out of what a man has left."

  "But will his mind clear up?"

  The doctor hesitated. "It's this way, sir. Heavy acceleration is a speeded-up aging process. Tissues break down, capillar­ies rupture, the heart does many times its proper work. And there is hypoxia, from failure to deliver enough oxygen to the brain."

  The Commodore struck his desk an angry blow. The sur­geon said gently, "Don't take it so hard, sir."

  "Damn it, man—think of the way he was. Just a kid, all bounce and vinegar—now look at him! He's an old man-­senile."

  "Look at it this way," urged the surgeon, "you expended one man, but you saved two hundred and seventy."

  "‘Expended one man'? If you mean Kleuger, he gets a medal and his wife gets a pension. That's the best, any of us can expect. I wasn't thinking of Kleuger."

  "Neither was I," answered the surgeon.

  Goldfish Bowl

  On the horizon lay the immobile cloud which capped the incredible waterspouts known as the Pillars of Hawaii.

  Captain Blake lowered his binoculars. "There they stand, gentlemen."

  In addition to the naval personnel of the watch, the bridge of the hydrographic survey ship U. S. S. Mahan held two civilians; the captain's words were addressed to them. The elder and smaller of the pair peered intently through a spyglass he had borrowed from the quartermaster. "I can't make them out," he complained.

  "Here—try my glasses, doctor," Blake suggested, passing over his binoculars. He turned to the officer of the deck and added, "Have the forward range finder manned, if you please, Mr. Mott." Lieutenant Mott caught the eye of the bos'n's mate of the watch, listening from a discreet distance, and jerked a thumb upward. The petty officer stepped to the microphone, piped a shrill stand-by, and the metallic voice of the loud-speaker filled the ship, drowning out the next words of the captain: "Raaaaange one! Maaaaaaaan and cast loose!"