Adventures in the Far Future

by Donald A. Wollheim

  Brent led the way. Abruptly, he stopped and sprinted out the way to climb across the girders. Kit followed him without fear. There were many small sounds here: the dynamo whine, and the air-plant noises, and now and again faint clickings of relays.

  But suddenly there were voices.

  Lights among the empty spaces were few and dim. The voices sounded eerily, reflected so many times and so erratically among strange metal shapes. But there was a near-riot in being. There were yappings. There were snarlings.

  Then a deep voice roared. There was a crackling, rasping sound. Someone screamed. The deep voice roared again.

  Brent whispered:

  They’re getting worked up. That sounded like a try at mutiny, and a hand heat-beam ending it. The crew probably wanted to smash the overdrive regardless, and somebody had to be shot… I wouldn’t like to be in the skipper’s boots.”

  The yappings and snarlings ceased. There were whinings instead. The deep voice bellowed. The babbling and whining stopped.

  The skipper’s still in charge,” said Brent. “Well soon end that!”

  Kit’s shoulder touched his. She clung to a narrow girder in a dimness filled with geometrical shapes. There were humming re-echoes of the noises just ended.

  “I’ve got my blaster ready if they come this way,” whispered Kit. “If they do smash the overdrive, can you fix it?”

  He nodded. She smiled at him. Their faces were very close. It was a ridiculous time and place for such things, but suddenly he found himself kissing her.

  She kissed him back. Her eyes were joyous. She had to hold fast with both hands or she would drop from the girder. He stopped in panic. She laughed softly. This was the strangest of possible times and places for a man and a girl to kiss each other. Then he said feverishly:

  “Come on! Let’s get to some place where it’s solid!”

  VIII

  ON A GREAT plain outside the capital city of the planet Maiden there were gigantic structures showing the silvery films of matter-transmitters. No visitors ever came to this city. It was not allowed. Very, very few visitors indeed ever came to Maiden any longer. Travelers were told there was a quarantine, or that space lines to Maiden ran rarely.

  If a traveler did reach Maiden, he did not leave—not ever.

  But the people of Maiden did not mind. From time to time the communicator systems of the planet gave notice. Then great mobs assembled before the matter-transmitter films. Presently the blunt noses of spaceships appeared, and spaceships came out of the wavering films, in long lines of ugly shapelessness, and they settled on the meadows. Then the mobs surged toward them.

  And the crews of the spaceships threw out treasure to the mobs. Jewels, and gold, and fine fabrics, and all the treasures of looted Galaxy were lavished on the Maiden population. And then the Emperor showed himself, strutting, and shouts of adulation filled the air. True, only a fraction of the brigand-ships’ cargoes was distributed, but that was richness. True, the Emperor himself possessed such wealth as had never been dreamed possible, but that was natural.

  The Emperor and the people of Maiden, alike, believed that they would go on forever in his fashion: that the planet Maiden could be a bandit stronghold while it tore down the civilization of the worlds beyond, and then—without changing —be the capital of the empire of all inhabited worlds.

  That was foolish. Its downfall had already begun… .

  The man at the controls of the Delilah began to scream crazily. The controls did not control anything. The ship sped on through a horrible blackness which had only one tiny point of light in it, and that faint glimmering blinked and wavered and seemed perpetually about to go out. Nothing changed her motion. Nothing could touch her. Nothing could communicate with her. She was a runaway in a cosmos of nothingness which seemed constantly about to swallow her forever.

  The helmsman, whose helm controlled nothing, beat with his fists at the bow ports which opened on blackness. He seized something—he did not know what—and battered blindly at everything and anything about him. And he screamed …

  Brent finished his work. It was a highly unlikely task he had set himself, and he performed it in a most improbable fashion. He took control of the Delilah with a pair of tiny, animal-hair brushes and two containers of quick-drying fluid, plus two small instrument cases from his pockets.

  He took one of the cases out and wrenched off a magnetic keeper, and put the case against a girder. It clung instantly. It was very near to one of the rods of greenish overdrive-alloy which ran through all the ship in a specific design. He opened a container of liquid and began to paint, very painstakingly, a line of quickly drying liquid from one point of the box to another spot some little distance away. He painted another line, and another, and another, perhaps a dozen, in all. A little later he painted narrower lines down the center of each of the original fines, with liquid from the second container, and using the second brush. This was nearly the end of his task.

  Kit stayed close to him. When he moved, she moved to remain as close to him as she could. As he worked. Brent thought in astonishment. So this is how it happens! He led a tiny line of liquid to the greenish-tinted rod. He moved back to the small box clinging to the steel beam. Kit followed him. I like it! Brent thought absorbedly. He made a liquid connection to a metal stud on the box. It dried immediately.

  He stood up in the near-darkness.

  “Finished,” he said.

  Kit went back into his arms.

  The space liner Delilah sped on. She traveled, now, at some two thousand times the speed of light. In a day she covered nearly twice the average distance between solar systems. In a week she would go from one star cluster to another. In a month from one quadrant to another. In a year she would travel farther than mankind had expanded in the first two thousand years of space travel.

  Presently, almost reluctantly, Brent and Kit moved back toward the passengers’ quarters. In the airlock that led in they were again pressed closely together. But this time Brent bent down hungrily to the face lifted up to him.

  Later in Den Harlow’s cabin, Brent closed and locked the door. He took the second of the two essential cases from his pocket.

  “This is a microwave relay,” he explained. “I was working on ships out in the Cephis cluster, you remember. This is a gadget used to test circuits when you don’t want to be right on the spot. The relay box is out near the ship’s skin. This controls it. I’ve got a dozen different circuits lined in to that box, and from here I can work with any one of them. As long as I have this in my hand, I should be able to run the ship from anywhere in it, only since I can’t see outside the ship, it’s no use for navigating.”

  He explained the manner of his rewiring job. Of course the ancient practice of bulky insulation had long since been abandoned. Nowadays, dipped in dun lacquer, a wire became insulated by a transparent, almost infinitesimal film which was proof against any voltage.

  He recounted the Thommasson Law, which explains the superconductivity of mercury and tin and other metals at four degrees Kelvin. He explained that he had made his connections to his relay box by first painting a stripe of insulation along the ship’s girders, and then had painted a narrower stripe of dissolved superconductor in the middle. A superconductor has literally no electrical resistance at all. A thread the size of a spider’s web will carry a hundred thousand amperes without heating. So Brent had very simply and effectively concentrated all the controls of the Delilah at his remote-controlled relay by means of strips of practically invisible lacquer. And he should now have the ship entirely obedient to him in his cabin.

  “We’ll shake ‘em up a bit first,” he said tensely, “and then send some dot-dash stuff on their lighting system.”

  Kit watched his face. He opened the relay-control box. He pushed a button. Instantly there was the dizzy spiralling of all space and a feeling of acute nausea. The Delilah’s overdrive was off again. He left it off for three seconds. He pressed another button. The spiralling—in reverse
—and again the nausea. The ship was again traveling at two thousand times the speed of fight. He left it on three seconds, and cut it, and left it off three seconds, and threw it on again. He did it with deliberate rhythm, so there could be no doubt that it was being done by intention.

  “The passengers will panic again,” he said, “but I can’t help that!”

  He gave them a series of jolts by flicking the overdrive on and off.

  “Now I’ll talk to them,” said Brent. “This is the ticklish part.”

  He began to press and release another button on the relay box. It was dot-dash communication, utterly primitive in form but still used for emergency communication by spacecraft. As Brent pushed and released his button, the lights in the crew’s quarters and all the working part of the ship dimmed and brightened. It would amount to the most self-evident yet untraceable form of signaling.

  “I a-m s-t-o-w-a-w-a-y,” he ticked off. “Y-o-u c-a-n-n-o-t f-i-n-d m-e.”

  The light in the cabin went out. Brent groped in his bag and a tiny but very fierce bluish-white battery lamp glowed. It lighted the small room, with Den Harlow watching, and Kit looking warmly at Brent.

  “Smart man, the Skipper,” said Brent grimly. “He thinks fast. When I started sending him signals, he turned out our lights. If I demanded to have them back on again he’d know a passenger was responsible.”

  He ticked off:

  “I w-i-1-1 r-e-s-t-o-r-e c-o-n-t-r-o-1 t-o y-o-u i-f y-o-u p-r-o-c-e-e-d t-o n-e-a-r-e-s-t h-a-b-i-t-a-b-l-e p-l-a-n-e-t a-n-d 1-a-n-d a-n-s-w-e-r v-i-a c-r-e-w 1-i-g-h-t-i-n-g s-y-s-t-e-m.”

  “What could he do?” asked Kit breathlessly, “if he won’t believe you?”

  “He could pump air out of the passengers’ quarters,” said Brent. “But he couldn’t bleed it out into space while we’re in overdrive. Not unless he went crazy!”

  He watched a tiny dial on the relay-control box.

  A long time later, the dial on his control box kicked. He watched it.

  “He’s agreed,” he said skeptically. “My guess is he’d have to shoot all his crew if he didn’t. But he’s in a bad fix!” He signalled again, for a long time.

  “I’ve told him his new speed and given him ten hours to find a planet. I told him how to handle the ship on planetary approach. Now we’ll see what happens.”

  He put the case in his pocket. He unlocked the door. He put out the light from his bag before he opened it.

  Blackness pervaded the passengers’ lounge. A woman was weeping hysterically. Then someone flicked on a pocket lighter. It was a tiny point of light. The overdrive went off. It stayed off for minutes. Brent murmured: “He’s picking a nearby solar system—astrogation.” The overdrive went on again. Kit said:

  “Shouldn’t the … passengers be given some hope?”

  “Not yet,” said Brent.

  There was a long wait. A tense wait. Then the lights came on.

  There were crewmen coming out of the bar and the kitchen and the steward’s airlock. They had blasters bearing on all who stirred. They were frightened, as well as desperate. A man in a skipper’s uniform, with dark brows almost meeting over his forehead, glared at the again-terrified passengers.

  Brent said sharply to the two beside him, “Get hold of something! Quickly!”

  He caught at a chair rail on the wall with his right hand. His left went swiftly into his pocket.

  The skipper said, raging, “Go ahead! Wipe them out!”

  He raised his blaster to aim at Den Harlow.

  And then all weight vanished. The ship’s artificial gravity went off.

  Brent shifted hands, holding himself steady with his left hand. The skipper did not realize, for a moment. He raised his blaster. As his arm and the heavy weapon rose, his body tilted gracefully forward. The blast made a spurt of smoke from the floor. Then Brent fired with his soundless pocket weapon. There were shrieks of terror from the passengers.

  They fell—endlessly, horribly, interminably. Their feet did not press upon the floor. They could not flee or dodge. They could not even turn their bodies. If a woman tried to thrust her child behind her, she found herself floating inches from the floor and the child an uncontrollable floating object which moved her as she moved it. A man lifted his hands before his eyes to shut out the sight of doom, and his body rotated grandly so that he floated face-down. There was not a person who could move from the spot where he had been standing— because there was no traction of his feet upon the floor. But there was no movement of a body’s member which did not change the angle of the body to the floor and walls and ceiling. And there was the sensation of ghastly falling towards infinity .. .

  But Brent was anchored. His first shot had killed the skipper as the skipper’s aim was made impossible by his lack of weight. There was bedlam. Crewmen, their faces contorted, tried to shoot, but they could not aim either. To move one’s hand meant that one’s body moved also, in the opposite direction. And the crew was half-mad anyhow.

  Holding fast and steadied by his grip, Brent fired with complete ruthlessness. He found himself gripped, and Kit was steadying herself by him and shooting gallantly, too. And Den Harlow had not heard Brent’s command in time to obey. But he floated calmly, and turned his wrist only, and deliberately pulled trigger when, and only when, his blaster bore upon a crewman with a blaster he was trying to use.

  Brent bellowed, “Throw your blasters away or every man dies!”

  Six men threw down their blasters and bleated for mercy. They were in such a state of panic and horror that their cries were unintelligible.

  Then Brent put his left hand back in his pocket and the ship’s artificial gravity came back on. Passengers and crew members alike toppled to the floor from whatever position they had assumed with relation to it.

  “Harlow!” barked Brent. “Pick up those blasters! Shoot any man who tries to get them again!”

  Kit’s father moved forward grimly to help. Kit pressed close against Brent, desperately ready to fire in his defense, until the crew members who survived were backed into one of the cabins and the door locked upon them with a key Harlow nonchalantly pulled out of his pocket.

  “Now,” said Brent, his eyes burning. “We’ve got to see if there are any more. They figured they had to yield to an unknown stowaway, but they weren’t going to let anybody tell about them after he got off. Distribute those blasters where they’ll do some good, Harlow! Who’s coming with me to the control room?”

  Brent surveyed the situation. The control room was familiar enough, if old-fashioned. Panels of the wall were dented and smashed. Somebody had gone out of his head with panic. But the instrument board was unharmed. Kit was close behind him, her brows knitted.

  “Hm …” said Brent. “I’m no astrogator, but I can manage after a fashion.”

  He pushed a button marked “General Communication.” He spoke into a microphone.

  “I am about to cut the overdrive once more,” he said firmly, “to make sure we are headed for a planetary system. I will let you know what I find.”

  His voice would resound through every portion of the Delilah’s fabric. The passengers might still be fearful, but that could not be helped.

  Brent cut the drive. With the ship’s main telescope he inspected the star straight ahead. He made quick estimates.

  “We are within ten minute’s travel of a solar system,” he said to the microphone. “I am going to take the Delilah there and land.”

  He slipped the ship into overdrive. He smiled at Kit. Then he said:

  “Orders for former members of this ship’s crew. Harlow, take the spacemen down to the exit-port. Have them carry all dead bodies of other spacemen—no passengers. Have them ready to land.”

  He smiled again at Kit. Time passed, and passed, and passed. Brent threw off the overdrive. The stars sprang into being all around the ship. And they were amazingly close to a habitable world. Brent regarded them critically and said:

  “Passengers will not land until all members of the
crew are off. This is an order!”

  He had no authority to give it, but there would be no protest.

  He swung the ship on her gyros. He let down, slowly at first but then with increasing confidence. Mountains appeared below. They swelled and grew large. He saw signs of cultivation—not intensive, but there were humans here.

  He could see trees. He slowed the Delilah’s rate of descent. Handling an unfamiliar ship was an uneasy business. Tree branches and then tree trunks crashed and crackled as the ship settled to the ground. Brent punched the exit-port speaker button and ordered:

  “Crew to ground, carrying all bodies of crew members.”

  A light glowed on the panel. “Exit Port Open.” Kit’s father had done that. Only moments later Harlow’s voice came: “Crew all aground.”

  The “Exit Port Open” light faded. Brent gave the interplanetary drive his attention. The Delilah lifted once more. In seconds the blue sky turned purplish. Presently it was black, with many stars.

  In half an hour. Brent turned off the drive. The Delilah floated on. He stared out the ports. The local sun was definitely sol-type and there were other planets. He used the main telescope. He said briefly: “That one is inhabited. Ice caps and all the rest. Some oceans.”

  He began to operate the gyro controls to turn the ship. All the multitude of stars about the Delilah seemed to turn in a stately maneuver. He centered the planet. Then he carefully placed it a trifle away from the crosshairs of the scope. He reached over and barely touched the overdrive. Space swirled and swirled again. They were in perfect landing position. He sent the ship toward the second planet.

  “Well let the passengers off here,” he said. “It’s inhabited and they’ll get along all right. But I don’t get off. After all, the Profession’s no advantage. It’s an obligation. According to the law I’m a pirate for mutinying against the lawful skipper of this ship, and of course it’s a capital offense to maroon anybody, as I just did to the survivors of the crew. I’m liable to prosecution for several murders, mutiny in space, marooning, piracy … and when the passengers tell their side of the story—I’m going to take the ship and go on off.”.