“And if they don’t believe?” suggested Captain Kleberg.
The second possibility is tougher,” said Stan Owens. “If they have completely adapted to their new environment, then the shock of putting them on this ship would probably be fatal. The change would be too much; their whole culture, the very fabric of their lives, would be shattered with one blow. Ignoring that little point meant the extinction of more people than I like to think about, on Earth and elsewhere, to say nothing of butcher-wars and revolutions. We are smarter now, or at least we like to think that we are.”
Mark Langston nodded at his friend. He had seen enough in his life to back up everything Owens had said, with interest. When you were dealing with human beings, you ignored the human element at your risk. “There’s the question of gravity, too,” he said.
“Of course,” Owens agreed. “If there’s been no power on the Viking for over a century, and thus no artificial gravity, the sudden change would wipe them out—crush them like flies in a vice. And I dare say that Captain Kleberg wouldn’t care to throw this ship into free fall from here to Capella with a load of unconditioned and generally hysterical passengers. We’ve got a culture too, you know.”
Captain Kleberg gave his best approaching-the-guillotine smile. “Don’t even think about it,” he advised. “We’ll all wind up in the funny room. But remember—we’ve got to make it fast, whatever we do. And no mistakes, of course. This may be a life or death matter for those people, and our own orbital error isn’t going to be any joke, even for the computers. Ill hold this ship in position as long as necessary, but well have to get with it. If there are people on that ship—”
‘That’s enough ‘ifs’ for one session, I think,” smiled Mark Langston, stoking up his pipe again.
The small but rugged space launch, utterly dwarfed by the vast distances all around her, came down with a wrenching whine—out of hyperspace and into normal subspace where the dead Viking waited. The shock of the transition stunned even the trained crew, and offered convincing evidence of why the great star ship, the Wilson Langford, could not be so maneuvered into normal space without a minimum of five days of physical and psychological conditioning for her passengers.
Mark Langston nursed the launch toward the dark shadow of the Viking, which was now visible to the naked eye. It floated ahead of them, cold and alone, like a vast creature of the ocean deeps that had grown old and tired and now only floated mindlessly with the currents it once had challenged. Despite the faint throbbing in his bad leg, Mark Langston felt better than he had in a long, long time. He was home, lost in the stars, and the weary years fell away from him one by one and left him young again.
The Viking swam nearer, dominating space. Mark Langston guided the launch with well-remembered skill.
The launch swung alongside the Viking and Mark Langston eased her in toward an exact velocity-match.
“How about that?” questioned Jim McConnell thoughtfully. “If we find anyone alive in there, and manage to do anything for them, what becomes of them when they chug into Capella some twenty-thirty years from now and find out that interstellar travel is already old-hat? You talk about destroying their values, Stan, but how do you think they’re going to feel when they find out that it’s all been for nothing, that they might as well have stayed home?”
The launch hovered next to the black hulk of the Viking and Mark Langston swung her abreast of the engine room and clamped her there with gravitraction beams.
“Space suits,” he said shortly.
“That isn’t quite as tough a problem as it looks like,” Stan Owens explained as he struggled into his suit. “Remember that these are not the original members of the crew—they are a wholly new group, with new values. If they manage somehow to bring the Viking in, that in itself will be enough. Anyhow, in a sense they are the first. We’ve got lots of time before the Viking lands, if she does, and we can set the psychology boys to work in that interval. Don’t worry—when the Viking approaches the Capella system she’ll get a hero’s— or is it heroine’s—welcome that’ll put all others to shame. And what’s more it’ll be completely genuine. There are other distinctions in life besides winning the race, you know.”
“You seem to have this all figured to the last decimal point,” laughed McConnell, “and we don’t even know whether or not the Viking is empty. Nothing like looking ahead.”
The efficient team of the launch, spacesuited for protection, swung the emergency air lock and cutter into position between the launch and the dark shell of the Viking. McConnell’s crew set the cutters with meticulous care. There was a brief whine and the lights dimmed. That was all.
“Let’s go,” said Mark Langston.
Cautiously, ready for anything, the men moved through the air lock one by one into the black interior of the dead Viking.
Four “days” passed. A class was taught and a battle fought, and an old man spoke with his son …
Floating through the dark tunnels, smelling the cold metal all around him, Collins thought of destiny. Destiny, so the books would have you believe, was what you made of it: fate was up to you. But it was a strange destiny, surely, that had placed him in this dark asylum, protected for the moment against the frigid death outside, even deluded into a kind of comfort, but sinking, always sinking, into a living death in the black shadows below.
Sometimes, it did seem hopeless. Without the captain, he knew, they would be lost—the captain would lead them to safety if anyone could. He thought of the early days of the Viking, the early halcyon days that he had read about, when the scientists had lived in a veritable artificial paradise, with unlimited time at their disposal and the company of intelligent, congenial friends to make the long hours pass quickly. Collins wished fervently that he might have lived then, in the golden age-Ruthlessly, he thrust the thought from his mind. What was it that the captain had said? Man could not move backwards and survive. He must go forward, not to the good old days, but to the good new ones.
But how much science had they managed to keep alive?
Was it enough? Time was running out, and the problems yet to be solved were staggering. What was wrong with the engines? Even if they knew, could they fight their way through the world of the other men to the engine room? Where was the ship? If they could manage somehow to bring her to life again, would they have time to go anywhere—go before the synthetics were just a memory and the ship turned into a total horror of starving maniacs?
And how long could even the captain bind the men to his will—men who had never known anything but darkness and free flight, men who with each passing “day” became more and more adapted to their ship asylum in the black sea of space and less and less suited for the lives of human beings? Was their fight only a hopeless race up a blind, fantastic alley?
Perhaps the younger men were right. Perhaps they should simply treat the other men, with their backsliding primitive culture and superstition, as animals and try to exterminate them to make the synthetics last longer. Perhaps, from the initial revolution down to the present, it had all been their fault. Perhaps they should forget about being men, forget about saving the ship, and just make the best of the life with which they were confronted.
Collins shook the thought from his mind. That way only seemed to be the easy way, he knew. That way meant death for all of them. The time would come, the time must come, when they would need those savage people who now crouched around their strange fires in the black world below.
Collins drifted around a comer and there was Malcolm.
Malcolm, now growing old but still with a twinkle in his eyes, seemed dignified as always in the light of his small torch. He floated rigidly in the air, his spine unbending and his clothing faultlessly neat as usual.
“I say, Collins,” he said briskly, “good to see you.”
Collins smiled. Malcolm had discovered from the records that his parents had been British, and he had therefore read all the books he could find upon an incredibly distant England
and her people. He had picked up what he fancied to be British phrases, and he used them doggedly. A pathetic thing, to be sure, and a trifle comic, but Collins respected the man’s effort to build a desperate individual personality in the midst of chaos. Once he had even tried to find tea, although he hardly knew what it was. “How’s the prisoner?” Collins asked.
“Quite well,” Malcolm replied. “He seems to be much stronger now than when you brought him in. Beastly business. What are you going to do with him?”
“Couldn’t say,” Collins shrugged. “You go and get some sleep and I’ll have a talk with our friend. O.K.F’
“Righto,” Malcolm said brightly and shoved off down the corridor.
Collins smiled again. Malcolm always made him feel better somehow. He unlocked the corridor door and floated in to where the other man waited in the darkness. The man watched him steadily, without fear. Collins could feel his presence in the room, vibrant, unafraid.
“You have come to kill me,” the man stated calmly.
“No,” said Collins. “I only want to talk to you. You will not be harmed.”
The man laughed in his face.
Collins ignored him and fired a torch. The flame sputtered and caught as the torch built up air pressure, pushing the shadows back and filling the room with warm orange light. Collins narrowed his eyes to slits against the glare and looked at the man. He returned the gaze frankly. He had a strong face, Collins decided. His hair was long and wild and his teeth were sharp and white. His clothing was old and wrinkled, but not unclean. There seemed to be intelligence in his eyes. Or was it only the uncertain light from the torch that made it seem so?
“Start talking,” the man said shortly. “Or do you always speak without words?”
“My name is Collins,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m the one who—”
“I remember,” the man said.
“Do you have a name, or must I make up one? I’m quite willing to call you Thing or Ug, but maybe you prefer your own name.”
“My name is Owens.”
“O.K., Owens. Now, look—I’d like to help you if I can. I know you’re in a difficult position here—”
“I’ll do my worrying,” Owens said. “You do yours.”
Collins felt himself oddly drawn toward this man before him. A savage? Perhaps. But courage was courage, and even in an enemy it commanded respect.
“You know you could be killed,” he told him quietly. “I may not be able to save you for long. Our food supplies are short. I know what would happen to me if I were your captive.”
“You might make a good meal at that,” Owens stated.
“You,” Collins informed him, “are not exactly a born diplomat. Doesn’t the prospect of death mean anything to you? Your situation is not ideal, you know.”
“Neither’ is yours,” the man said surprisingly. “I have known death all my life. I know that it comes whether you are afraid of it or not, so why be afraid? Your own life will soon be over; perhaps you would do well to reserve your charity.”
Collins floated toward the man through the shadows, his own eyes cold and hard. He gripped Owens’ arm tightly and applied pressure until his fingers ached. Owens did not flinch and continued to meet his gaze squarely.
“What did you mean by that?” whispered Collins tensely. “What do you know about my life?”
“Your world will be dead within twenty sleep periods, and you will die with it,” the man said, his voice edged with hate. The world will be ours.”
Those are big words,” Collins said, fingering his knife with his free hand. “But they are only words.”
Owens smiled coldly. “You think that we are fools because we do not believe as you do,” he said evenly. “You think that we are fools because we know the stars are gods. But we know other things as well, my stupid friend.” “Such as?” suggested Collins, drawing his knife. “You threaten me?” the savage asked, and laughed. Collins pressed closer, his heart pulsing in his throat. What did this man know?
‘The tanks, the air tanks,” Owens hissed, his eyes wild and bright. “You think we don’t know where the air comes from? We do know, and the tanks are in our part of the world— we’re going to seal you off from your air, and the work has already begun.”
Collins floated back, stunned. The air-Before he had a chance to recover himself, the door to the room burst open. Young Lanson hurtled through, his body quivering with excitement.
“There he is, there he is!” Lanson screamed, pointing at Owens. “Kill him!”
“Calm down,” Collins snapped. “What’s the matter?“
“Matter?” whispered Lanson hoarsely. “You fool, it’s the captain, the captain!”
Collins just stared at him, unable to speak.
“Your father is dead,” Lanson said, his voice breaking with hysteria. “He’s been murdered.”
Slowly, inexorably, Collins felt the fury creep through his veins. Not rage, not hot, blinding madness, but fury—cold, chill fury that seeped like ice through his body, into his heart, his mind. The captain, shielded now by a wall of ice, his mind took command. He gestured toward Owens. “Bring him,” he said shortly, and launched himself into the dark corridor. He left his torch with Lanson and hurtled through the darkness that was his home, his mind refusing even to think of what the captain’s death meant to them now. He must think ahead, keep moving …
He swam into the control room, and there was the captain. His chest was red where they had pulled the knife out, and he was very still. His people were clustered around him in the control room and the torch cast broken shadows on the walls, but the captain could not see them. His dead eyes looked outward, out to the silver stars, and now he was alone.
“Dad,” said Collins, and his voice was very small. He could not speak further. The captain had been a symbol to him all his life, a force, a principle, that held the ship together. But now, in death, he was only an old man again, an old man with snow-white hair, and Collins was his son.
Collins felt a hand touch his. He looked up to see Helen, his wife, who knew that she could not comfort him but was brave enough to try. Collins squeezed her hand to show that he understood and then turned to his people.
“We will elect a new captain soon,” he said quietly. “I will not try to assume the position unless I am asked. We have other problems before us now.”
There were murmurs from the crowd, but Collins ignored them. He moved slowly over to where Owens was floating, guarded by Lanson. He looked at Owens coldly for a full minute, staring into his eyes. He waited, smiling very slightly. Then he hit him in the face.
Owens reeled back, shaking his head. Collins hit him again.
“We’re going to get through to the engine room,” Collins hissed, his face very close to his prisoner’s. “This time we’re going to get through, and you’re going to take us.” He hit him again and watched the blood trickle from a split up.
“Understand?”
Lanson pressed in, knife blade gleaming. “Kill him,” he screamed. “Kill the—”
“Shut up,” Collins looked at the man once, and that was enough. “We need our friend here. The other men are blocking off our air supply. This is our last chance. If we fail this time, we die.”
The crowd shifted and moved with the shadows and tension filled the air.
“If he won’t take us through—” one voice began. “Hell take us,” Collins replied. “If we can’t fix the drive after we get there—”
“We’ve got to try,” Collins said coldly. “I tell you, those engines couldn’t have failed! They were tampered with, shut off! If one man can turn them off, another can turn them on.” He paused. “Ill kill any man who stands in my way.”
“I’m on your side, old boy,” Malcolm said, and didn’t smile.
Collins shot him a glance and then relaxed a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to strike any heroic poses.”
Malcolm shrugged. “You lead,” he said. “Ill follow.”
/>
“No, that won’t do,” Collins pointed out. “You pick a detail and stay back here—we may not come back, you know. Set the controls, and make certain that the gravity is adjusted to not more than one-fifth Earth-normal. Understand?”
“Righto,” said Malcolm, and moved off about his task.
“Webb, Renaldo, Echols—you older men who learned your science from the captain—are you with me?”
The men smiled their assent. One muttered something that sounded suspicious like “At last” and went to get his equipment. Spirit and enthusiasm, as though kindled out of the very air, needing only an initial spark, filled the chamber.
Collins spun Owens around and twisted the man’s arm up behind his back. “O.K.,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”
Lanson hesitated. “Now?”
“Now,” said Collins flatly. “We can pick up weapons and synthetics on the way.”
Quite suddenly, Owens twisted himself loose. He floated there before them, his keen eyes flashing.
“Fools!” he said clearly. “He would lead you all into death. We would be butchered before we even drew near my people’s world. Do you think that my people are imbeciles, that you can simply move in and succeed where all others have failed? Your leader is a fool!”
Collins icily hit the man again in the face. Owens just laughed at him, wiping the blood away with his hand.
“You prove nothing,” Owens said calmly. “You cannot answer my arguments with your fists.”
Collins moved in close again and there was death in his eyes. “It’s up to you to get us through,” he told the man, beginning to feel the doubt slink back into the chamber and take its ugly hold on the people. “If you do not, we’ll tear you apart—inch by inch.”
Owens hesitated, cold sweat standing out on his forehead. “There is a way,” he said finally. “There is one way—” Collins gripped his arm, digging his nails into the man’s flesh.
“If you cannot go through,” Owens pointed out, “you have to go around.”
Adventures in the Far Future Page 7
