Adventures in the Far Future

by Donald A. Wollheim

  The creature swung open the capsule door after some incomprehensible process that probably served to sterilize it. Its Galactic Code whistle came through Vic’s shoes from the floor. “We greet you, Earthman. Our mansions are poor, but they are yours. Our fives are at your disposal.” Then the formal speech ended in a sharp whistle. “Literally, it would seem. We die.”

  It didn’t fit with Vic’s expectations, but he tried to take his cue from it. “That’s why I’m here. Do you have some kind of ruler? Umm, good. How do I get to see this ruler?” He had few hopes of getting there, but it never did any harm to try.

  The Ecthindar seemed unsurprised. “I shall take you at once. For what other purpose is a ruler but to serve those who wish to see it? But—I trespass on your kindness in the delay. But may I question whether a strange light came forth from your defective transmitter?”

  Vic snapped a look at it, and nodded slowly. “It did.”

  Now the ax would fall. He braced himself for it, but the creature ceremoniously elaborated on his nod.

  “I was one who believed it might. It is most comforting to know my science was true. When the bombs came through, we held them in a shield, but, in our error, we believed them radioactive. We tried a negative aspect of space to counteract them. Of course, it failed, since they were only chemical. But I had postulated that some might have escaped from receiver to transmitter, being negative. You are kind. And now, if you will honor my shoulder with the touch of your hand, so that my portable unit will transport us both …”

  Vic reached out and the scene shifted at once. There was no apparent transmitter, and the trick beat anything he had heard from other planets. Perhaps it was totally unrelated to the teleport machine.

  But he had no time to ask.

  A door in the little room opened, and another creature came in, this time single from pelvis to shoulders, but otherwise the same. “The ruler has been requested,” it whistled. “That which the ruler is, is yours, and that which the ruler has is nothing. May the ruler somehow serve?”

  It was either the most cockeyed bit of naïveté or the fanciest runaround Vic had found, but totally unlike anything he’d been prepared for. He gulped, and began whistling out the general situation on Earth.

  The Ecthindar interrupted politely. “That we know. And the converse is true—we too are dying. We are a planet of a thin air, and that little is chlorine. Now from a matter transmitter comes a great rush of oxygen, which we consider poison. Our homes around are burned in it our plant life is dying of it, and we are forced to remain inside and seal ourselves off. Like you, we can do nothing—the wind from your world is beyond our strength.”

  “But your science …”

  “Is beyond yours, true. But your race is adaptable, and we are too leisurely for that virtue.”

  Vic shook his head, though perhaps it made good sense. “But the bombs …”

  A series of graceful gestures took place between the two creatures, and the ruler turned back to Vic.

  “The ruler had not known, of course. It was not important. We lost a few thousand people whom we love. We understood, however. There is no anger, though it pleases us to see that your courtesy extends across the spaces to us. May your dead pass well.”

  That was at least one good break in the situation. Vic felt some of his worry slide aside to make room for the rest. “And I don’t suppose you have any ideas on how we can take care of this …”

  There was a shocked moment, with abrupt movements from the two creatures. Then something came up in the ruler’s hands, vibrating sharply. Vic jumped back—and froze in mid-stride, to fall awkwardly onto the floor. A chunk of ice seemed to form in his backbone and creep along his spine, until it touched his brain. Death or paralysis? It was all the same; he had air for only an hour more. The two creatures were fluttering at each other and moving toward him when he abruptly and painlessly blacked out.

  V

  HIS first feeling was the familiar, deadening pull of fatigue as his senses began to come back. Then he saw that he was in a tiny room—and that Pat lay stretched out beside him!

  He threw himself up to a sitting position, surprised to find that there were no after-effects to whatever the ruler had used. The damned little fool, coming through after him. And now they had her, too.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up beside him. “Dam it, I almost fell asleep waiting for you to revive. It’s a good thing I brought extra oxygen flasks. Your hour is about up. How’d you manage to insult them?”

  He puzzled over it while she changed his oxygen flask and he did the same for her. “I didn’t. I just asked whether they didn’t know of some way we could take care of this trouble.”

  “Which meant to them that you suspected they weren’t giving all the help they could, after their formal offer when you came over. I convinced them it was just that you were still learning Code, whatever you said. They’re nice, Vic. I never really believed other races were better than we are, but I do now—and it doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “It’d bother Flavin. He’d have to prove they were sissies or something. How do we get out?”

  She pushed the door open, and they stepped back into the room of the ruler, who was waiting for them. It made no reference to the misunderstanding, but inspected Vic, whistled approval of his condition, and plunged straight to business.

  “We have found part of a solution, Earthman. We die, but it will be two weeks before our end. First, we shall set up a transmitter in permanent transmit, equipped with a precipitator to remove our chlorine, and key it to another of your transmitters. Whichever one you wish. Ecthinbal is heavy, but small, and a balance will be struck between the air going from you and the air returning. The winds between stations may disturb your weather, but not seriously, we hope. That which the ruler is, is yours. A lovely passing.”

  It touched their shoulders, and they were back briefly in the transmitter, to be almost instantly in the Chicago Branch. Vic was still shaking his head.

  “It won’t work. The ruler didn’t allow for the way our gravity falls off faster and our air thins out higher up. We’d end up with maybe four pounds pressure, which isn’t enough. So both planets die—two worlds on my shoulders instead of one. Hell, we couldn’t take that offer from them, anyhow. Pat, how’d you convince them to let me go?”

  She had shucked out of the pressure suit and stood combing her hair. “Common sense, as Amos says. I figured engineers consider each other engineers first, and aliens second, so I went to the head engineer instead of the ruler. He fixed it up somehow. I guess I must have sounded pretty desperate, at that, knowing your air would give out after an hour.”

  They went through the local intercity teleport to Bennington and on into Vic’s office, where Flavin met them with open relief and a load of questions. Vic let Pat answer, while he mulled over her words. Somewhere, there was an idea—let the rulers alone and go to the engineers.

  Then Vic was speaking. “Getting our air through other planets. Our air. It’s a routing job. If we can set up a chain so the air going out of one transmitter in a station is balanced by air coming from another in the same station, there’d be a terrific draft. But most of it would be confined in the station, and there wouldn’t be the outside whirlwind to keep us from getting near. Instead of a mad rush of air in or out of the building, there’d be only eddy currents outside of the inner chamber. We’d keep our air, and maybe have time to figure out some way of getting at that hunk of glass.”

  “Won’t work,” Flavin said gloomily. “Suppose Wilkes was asked to route through for another planet. He’d have to turn it down. Too much risk.”

  “That’s where Pat gave me the tip. Engineers get used to thinking of each other as engineers instead of competing races —they have to work together. They have the same problems and develop the same working habits. If I were running a station and the idea was put to me, I’d hate to turn it down, and I might not think of the political end. I’ve always wanted to see
what happened in continuous transmittal; I’ll be tickled pink to get at the instrument rolls in the station And a lot of other engineers will feel the same.”

  “We’re already keyed to Plathgol on a second transmitter,” Pat added. “And the Ecthindar indicated they had full operation when it happened, so they’re keyed to five other planets.”

  “Bomb-dropping starts in about four hours,” Flavin commented. “After that, what?”

  “No chance. They’ll go straight through, and the Ecthindar can neutralize them—but one is pretty sure to start blasting here and carry through in full action. Then there’ll be no other transmitter in their station, just a big field on permanent receive.”

  Vic took over Teleport Interstellar authority. Chicago’s routing setup was the best in the country, he needed it. Now how did he go about getting a staff trained to use it?

  “Know how to find things here?” Flavin asked Pat. He accepted her nod, and looked surprised at Ptheela’s equally quick assent. Then he grinned at Vic and began shucking off his coat. “Okay, you see before you one of the best traffic managers that ever helped pull a two-bit railroad out of the red, before I got better offers in politics. I’m good. You get me the dope, Vic can haggle on the transmitter phones, and I’ll route it”

  He was good. Vic watched him take over with surprise, and a sudden growing liking for the man. Flavin had probably been a lot more of a man, before he’d been shoved into politics. Maybe he’d have done less of drinking and picking up prejudices if he’d been working where he knew he was doing a good job. Certainly he had adapted well enough to the present situation, and he looked happier now as he took over.

  Flavin’s mind seemed to soak up all routing data at once, from a single look at the complicated blocks of transmitter groups and key-ins. He jumped from step to step without apparent thought, and he had to have information only once before engraving it on his mind. It was a tough nut, since the stations housed six transmitters each, keyed to six planets —but in highly varied combinations; every world had its own group of tie-ins with planets, also. Routing was the most complicated job in the whole problem.

  Plathgol was handled by Ptheela, who was still in good standing until the Council would learn of her breaking the law by talking to Vic. There was no trouble there.

  It was a maze, but the list was soon complete, from Earth to Ecthinbal, Ee, Petzby, Norag, Szpendrknopalavotschel, Seloo, Enad, Brjd, Teeni, and finally through Plathgol to Earth. Vic whistled the given signal, and the acknowledgments came through. It was in operation. Flavin’s nod indicated Wilkes had confirmed it and held off the bombs.

  The communicators were chirping busily.

  “Some of the rulers must be catching on and don’t like it,” Ptheela guessed.

  To Vic’s surprise, though, several did like it, and were simply sending along hopes for success. Ecthinbal’s message was short, but it tingled along Vic’s nerves: “It is good to have friends.”

  Bennington was reporting by normal televisor contact, but while things seemed to be improving, they still couldn’t get near enough to be sure. The field was apparently collapsing as the air was fed inside it, though very slowly.

  The harsh rasp of a buzzer woke him from a nap, while a fight blinked on and off near his head. He shook some of the sleep confusion out of his thoughts, and made out an intercom box. Flavin’s voice came over it harshly and he flipped the switch.

  “Vic, where the hell are you? Never mind. Wilkes just woke me up with a call. Vic, it’s helped, but not enough. The field is about even with the building now. It’s stopped shrinking, but we’re still losing air. There’s too much loss at Ecthinbal and at Ee—the engineer there didn’t get the portals capped right, and Ecthinbal can’t do anything. We’re getting about one-third of our air back. And Wilkes can’t hold the pressure for bombing much longer! Get over here.”

  VI

  “WHERE’S Ptheela?” Vic asked as he came into the transmitter room. She needed no sleep, and should have taken care of things.

  “Gone. Back to Plathgol, I guess,” Flavin said bitterly. “She was flicking out as I woke up. Rats deserting the sinking ship —though I was starting to figure her different It just shows you can’t trust a plant.”

  Vic swept his attention to the communicator panel. The phones were still busy. They were still patient. Even the doubtful ones were now accepting things; but it couldn’t last forever. Even without the risk, the transmitter banks were needed for regular use. Many did not have inexhaustible power sources, either.

  A new note cut in over the whistling now, and he turned to the Plathgol phone, wondering whether it was Ptheela and what she wanted. The words were English, but the voice was strange.

  “Plathgol calling. This is Thlegaa, Wife of Twelve Husbands, Supreme Plathgol Teleport Engineer, Ruler of the Council of United Plathgol, and hereditary goddess, if you want the whole letterhead. Ptheela just gave me the bad news. Why didn’t you call on us before—or isn’t our air good enough for you?”

  “Hell, do you all speak English?” Vic asked, too surprised to care whether he censored his thoughts. “Your air always smelled good to me. Are you serious?”

  “I’m absolutely serious about the offer. We’re pulling the stops off the transmitter housing. We run a trifle higher pressure than you, so well probably make up the whole loss. But I’m not an absolute ruler, so it might be a good idea to speed things up. You can thank me later. Oh—Ptheela’s just been banned for giving you illegal data. She confessed. When you get your Bennington plant working, she’ll probably be your first load from us. She’s packing up now.”

  Flavin’s face held too much relief. Vic hated to disillusion the politician as he babbled happily about always knowing the Plathgolians were swell people. But Vic knew the job was a long way from solved. With Plathgol supplying air, the field would collapse back to the inside of the single transmitter housing, and there should be an even balance of ingoing and outcoming air, which would end the rush of air into the station, and make the circular halls passable, except for eddy currents. But getting into the inner chamber, where the air formed a gale between the two transmitters, was another matter.

  Flavin’s chauffeur was asleep at the wheel of the car as they came out of the Bennington local office, yet instinct seemed to rouse him, and the car cut off wildly for the station. Vic had noticed that the cloud around it was gone, and a mass of people was grouped nearby. The wind that had been sucked in and around it to prevent even a tank getting through was gone now, though the atmosphere would probably show signs of it in freak weather reports for weeks after.

  Pat had obviously figured out the trouble remaining, and didn’t look too surprised at the gloomy faces of the transmitter crew who were grouped near the north entrance. But she began swearing under her breath, as methodically and levelly as a man. Vic was ripping his shirt off as they drew up.

  “This time you stay out,” he told her. “It’s strictly a matter of muscle power against wind resistance, and a man has a woman beat there.”

  “Why do you think I was cursing?” she asked. “Take it easy, though.”

  The men opened a way for him. He stripped to his briefs, and let them smear him with oil to cut down air resistance a final fraction. Eddy currents caught at him before he went in, but not too strongly. Getting past the first shielding wasn’t too bad. He found the second entrance port through the middle shield, and snapped a chain around his waist.

  Then the full picture of what must have happened on Plathgol hit him. Chains wouldn’t have helped when they pulled off the coverings from the entrances, the sudden rush of air must have crushed their lungs and broken their bones, no matter what was done. Imagine volunteering for sure death to help another world! He had to make good on his part.

  He got to the inner portal, but the eddies there were too strong to go farther. Even sticking his eyes beyond the edge almost caught him into the blast between the two transmitters. Then he was clawing his way out again.r />
  Amos met him, shaking a gloomy head. “Never make it, Vic. Common sense. I’ve been there three times with no luck. And the way that draft blows, it’d knock even a tractor plumb out of the way before it could reach that hunk of glass.”

  Vic nodded. The tanks would take too long to arrive, anyhow, though it would be a good idea to have them called. He yelled to Flavin, who came over on the run, while Vic was making sure that the little regular office building still stood.

  “Order the tanks, if we need them,” he suggested. “Get me a rifle, some hard-nosed bullets, an all-angle vise big enough to clamp on a three-inch edge, and two of those midget tele-sets for use between house and field. Quick!”

  Amos stared at him, puzzled, but Flavin’s car was already roaring toward Bennington, with a couple of cops leading the way with open sirens. Flavin was back with everything in twenty minutes, and Vic selected two of the strongest, leanest-looking men to come with him, while Pat went down to set the midget pickup in front of the still-operating televisor between the transmitter chamber and the little office. Vic picked up the receiver and handed the rest of the equipment to the other two.

  It was sheer torture fighting back to the inner entrance port, but they made it, and the other two helped to brace him with the chain while he clamped the vise to the edge of the portal, and locked the rifle into it, somehow fighting it into place. In the rather ill-defined picture on the tiny set’s screen, he could see the huge fragment of glass, out of fine from either entrance, between two covering uprights. He could just see the rifle barrel also. The picture lost detail in being transmitted to the little office and picked up from the screen for retransmittal back to him, but it would have to do.

  The rifle was loaded to capacity with fourteen cartridges. He lined it up as best he could and tightened the vise, before pulling the trigger. The bullet ricocheted from the inner shield and headed toward the glass—but it missed by a good three feet.