“I know. Succeeds. I don’t even want to think of the possibility he might fail.”
In seconds, the gleaming white dot crawled across the surface of the tri-dim chart from sector C-17 to sector S-1.
* * * *
The Glory of the Galaxy was now nineteen million miles out from the sun and rushing through space at a hundred miles per second, normal space drive. The Glory of the Galaxy thus moved a million miles closer to fiery destruction every three hours—but since the sun’s gravitational force had to be added to that speed, the ship was slated to plunge into the sun’s corona in little more than twenty-four hours.
Since the ship’s refrigeration units would function perfectly until the outer hull reached a temperature of eleven hundred degrees Fahrenheit, none of its passengers knew that anything was wrong. Even the members of the crew went through all the normal motions. Only the Glory of the Galaxy’s officers in their bright new uniforms and gold braid knew the grim truth of what awaited the gleaming two-thousand ton spaceship less than twenty-four hours away at the exact center of its perihelion passage.
Something—unidentified as yet—in all the thousands of intricate things that could go wrong on a spaceship, particularly a new one making its maiden voyage, had gone wrong. The officers were checking their catalogues and their various areas of watch meticulously—and not because their own lives were at stake. In spaceflight, your own life always is at stake. There are too many imponderables: you are, to a certain degree, expendable. The commissioned contingent aboard the Glory of the Galaxy was a dedicated group, hand-picked from all the officers in the solar system.
* * * *
But they could find nothing. And do nothing.
Within a day, their lives along with the lives of the enlisted men aboard the Glory of the Galaxy and the passengers on its maiden run, would be snuffed out in a brilliant burst of solar heat.
And the President of the Galactic Federation would die because some unknown factor had locked the controls of the spaceship, making it impossible to turn or use forward rockets against the gravitational pull of the sun.
Nineteen million miles. In normal space, a considerable distance. A hundred miles a second—a very considerable normal space speed. Increasing….
* * * *
Ever since they had left Earth’s assembly satellites, Sheila Kelly had seen a lot of a Secret Serviceman named Larry Grange, who was a member of the President’s corps of bodyguards. She liked Larry, although there was nothing serious in their relationship. He was handsome and charming and she was naturally flattered with his attentions. Still, although he was older than Sheila, she sensed that he was a boy rather than a man and had the odd feeling that, faced with a real crisis, he would confirm this tragically.
It was night aboard the Glory of the Galaxy. Which was to say the blue-green night lights had replaced the white day lights in the companionways and public rooms of the spaceship, since its ports were sealed against the fierce glare of the sun. It was hard to believe, Sheila thought, that they were only nineteen million miles from the sun. Everything was so cool—so comfortably air-conditioned….
She met Larry in the Sunside Lounge, a cabaret as nice as any terran nightclub she had ever seen. There were stylistic Zodiac drawings on the walls and blue-mirrored columns supporting the roof. Like everything else aboard the Glory of the Galaxy, the Sunside Lounge hardly seemed to belong on a spaceship. For Sheila Kelly, though—herself a third secretary with the department of Galactic Economy—it was all very thrilling.
“Hello, Larry,” she said as the Secret Serviceman joined her at their table. He was a tall young man in his late twenties with crewcut blond hair; but he sat down heavily now and did not offer Sheila his usual smile.
“Why, what on earth is the matter?” Sheila asked him.
“Nothing. I need a drink, that’s all.”
The drinks came. Larry gulped his and ordered another. His complete silence baffled Sheila, who finally said:
“Surely it isn’t anything I did.”
“You? Don’t be silly.”
“Well! After the way you said that I don’t know if I should be glad or not.”
“Just forget it. I’m sorry, kid. I—” He reached out and touched her hand. His own hand was damp and cold.
“Going to tell me, Larry?”
“Listen. What’s a guy supposed to do if he overhears something he’s not supposed to overhear, and—”
“How should I know unless you tell me what you overheard? It is you you’re talking about, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I was going off duty, walking by officer quarters and … oh, forget it. I better not tell you.”
“I’m a good listener, Larry.”
“Look, Irish. You’re a good anything—and that’s the truth. You have looks and you have brains and I have a hunch through all that Emerald Isle sauciness you have a heart too. But—”
“But you don’t want to tell me.”
“It isn’t I don’t want to, but no one’s supposed to know, not even the President.”
“You sure make it sound mysterious.”
“Just the officers. Oh, hell. I don’t know. What good would it do if I told you?”
“I guess you’d just get it off your chest, that’s all.”
“I can’t tell anyone official, Sheila. I’d have my head handed to me. But I’ve got to think and I’ve got to tell someone. I’ll go crazy, just knowing and not doing anything.”
“It’s important, isn’t it?”
* * * *
Larry downed another drink quickly. It was his fourth and Sheila had never seen him take more than three or four in the course of a whole evening. “You’re damned right it’s important.” Larry leaned forward across the postage-stamp table. A liquor-haze clouded his eyes as he said: “It’s so important that unless someone does something about it, we’ll all be dead inside of twenty-four hours. Only trouble is, there isn’t anything anyone can do about it.”
“Larry—you’re a little drunk.”
“I know it. I know I am. I want to be a lot drunker. What the hell can a guy do?”
“What do you know, Larry? What have you heard?”
“I know they have the President of the Galactic Federation aboard this ship and that he ought to be told the truth.”
“No. I mean—”
“They sent out an SOS, kid. Controls are locked. Lifeboats don’t have enough power to get us out of the sun’s gravitational pull. We’re all going to roast, I tell you!”
Sheila felt her heart throb wildly. Even though he was well on the way to being thoroughly drunk, Larry was telling the truth. Instinctively, she knew that—was certain of it. “What are you going to do?” she said.
He shrugged. “I guess because I can’t do a damned thing I’m going to get good and drunk. That’s what I’m going to do. Or maybe—who the hell knows?—maybe in one minute I’m going to jump up on this table and tell everyone what I overheard. Maybe I ought to do that, huh?”
“Larry, Larry—if it’s as bad as you say, maybe you ought to think before you do anything.”
“Who am I to think? I’m one of the muscle men. That’s what they pay me for, isn’t it?”
“Larry. You don’t have to shout.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“If you don’t calm down I’ll have to leave.”
“You can sit still. You can park here all night. I’m leaving.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Oh … that.” Larry got up from the table. He looked suddenly green and Sheila thought it was because he had too much to drink. “You don’t have to worry about that, Sheila. Not now you don’t. I all of a sudden don’t feel so good. Headache. Man, I never felt anything like it. Better go to my cabin and lie down. Maybe I’ll wake up and find out all this was a dream, huh?”
“Do you need any help?” Sheila demanded, real concern in her voice.
“No. ’Sall right. Man, this headache really snuck u
p on me. Pow! Without any warning.”
“Let me help you.”
“No. Just leave me alone, will you?” Larry staggered off across the crowded dance floor. He drew angry glances and muttered comments as he disturbed the dancers waltzing to Carlotti’s Danube in Space.
Why don’t you admit it, Grange, Larry thought as he staggered through the companionway toward his cabin. That’s what you always wanted, isn’t it—a place of importance?
A place in the sun, they call it.
“You’re going to get a place in the sun, all right,” he mumbled aloud. “Right smack in the middle of the sun with everyone else aboard this ship!”
The humor of it amused him perversely. He smiled—but it was closer to a leer—and lunged into his cabin. What he said to Sheila was no joke. He really did have a splitting headache. It had come on suddenly and it was like no headache he had ever known. It pulsed and throbbed and beat against his temples and held red hot needles to the backs of his eyeballs, almost blinding him. It sapped all his strength, leaving him physically weak. He was barely able to close the door behind him and stagger to the shower.
An ice cold shower, he thought would help. He stripped quickly and got under the needle spray. By that time he was so weak he could barely stand.
A place in the sun, he thought….
Something grabbed his mind and wrenched it.
* * * *
Johnny Mayhem awoke.
Awakening came slowly, as it always did. It was a rising through infinite gulfs, a rebirth for a man who had died a hundred times and might die a thousand times more as the years piled up and became centuries. It was a spinning, whirling, flashing ascent from blackness to coruscating colors, brightness, giddiness.
And suddenly, it was over.
A needle spray of ice-cold water beat down upon him. He shuddered and reached for the water-taps, shutting them. Dripping, he climbed from the shower.
And floated up—quite weightless—toward the ceiling.
Frowning with his new and as yet unseen face, Johnny Mayhem propelled himself to the floor. He looked at his arms. He was naked—at least that much was right.
But obviously, since he was weightless, he was not on Deneb IV. During his transmigration he had been briefed for the trouble on Deneb IV. Then had a mistake been made somehow? It was always possible—but it had never happened before.
Too much precision and careful planning was involved.
Every world which had an Earthman population and a Galactic League—now, Galactic Federation—post, must have a body in cold storage, waiting for Johnny Mayhem if his services were required. No one knew when Mayhem’s services might be required. No one knew exactly under what circumstances the Galactic Federation Council, operating from the Hub of the Galaxy, might summon Mayhem. And only a very few people, including those at the Hub and the Galactic League Firstmen on civilized worlds and Observers on frontier planets, knew the precise mechanics of Mayhem’s coming.
* * * *
Johnny Mayhem, a bodiless sentience. Mayhem—Johnny Marlow then—who had been chased from Earth a pariah and a criminal seven years ago, who had been mortally wounded on a wild planet deep within the Sagittarian Swarm, whose life had been saved—after a fashion—by the white magic of that planet. Mayhem, doomed now to possible immortality as a bodiless sentience, an elan, which could occupy and activate a corpse if it had been preserved properly … an elan doomed to wander eternally because it could not remain in one body for more than a month without body and elan perishing. Mayhem, who had dedicated his strange, lonely life to the services of the Galactic League—now the Galactic Federation—because a normal life and normal social relations were not possible to him….
It did not seem possible, Mayhem thought now, that a mistake could be made. Then—a sudden change in plans?
It had never happened before, but it was entirely possible. Something, Mayhem decided, had come up during transmigration. It was terribly important and the people at the Hub had had no opportunity to brief him on it.
But—what?
* * * *
His first shock came a moment later. He walked to a mirror on the wall and approved of the strong young body which would house his sentience and then scowled. A thought inside his head said:
So this is what it’s like to have schizophrenia.
What the hell was that? Mayhem thought.
I said, so this is what it’s like to have schizophrenia. First the world’s worst headache and then I start thinking like two different people.
Aren’t you dead?
Is that supposed to be a joke, alter ego? When do the men in the white suits come?
Good Lord, this was supposed to be a dead body!
At that, the other sentience which shared the body with Mayhem snickered and lapsed into silence. Mayhem, for his part, was astounded.
Don’t get ornery now, Mayhem pleaded. I’m Johnny Mayhem. Does that mean anything to you?
Oh, sure. It means I’m dead. You inhabit dead bodies, right?
Usually. Listen—where are we?
Glory of the Galaxy—bound from Earth to Mars on perihelion.
And there’s trouble?
How do you know there’s trouble?
Otherwise they wouldn’t have diverted me here.
We’ve got the president aboard. We’re going to hit the sun. Then, grudgingly, Larry went into the details. When he finished he thought cynically: Now all you have to do is go outside yelling have no fear, Mayhem is here and everything will be all right, I suppose.
Mayhem didn’t answer. It would be many moments yet before he could adjust to this new, unexpected situation. But in a way, he thought, it would be a boon. If he were co-inhabiting the body of a living man who belonged on the Glory of the Galaxy, there was no need to reveal his identity as Johnny Mayhem to anyone but his host….
* * * *
“I tell ya,” Technician First Class Ackerman Boone shouted, “the refrigeration unit’s gone on the blink. You can’t feel it yet, but I ought to know. I got the refrigs working full strength and we gained a couple of degrees heat. Either she’s on the blink or we’re too close to the sun, I tell you!”
Ackerman Boone was a big man, a veteran spacer with a squat, very strong body and arms like an orangutan. Under normal circumstances he was a very fine spacer and a good addition to any crew, but he bore an unreasonable grudge against the officer corps and would go out of his way to make them look bad in the eyes of the other enlisted men. A large crowd had gathered in the hammock-hung crew quarters of the Glory of the Galaxy as Boone went on in his deep, booming voice: “So I asked the skipper of the watch, I did. He got shifty-eyed, like they always do. You know. He wasn’t talking, but sure as my name’s Ackerman Boone, something’s wrong.”
“What do you think it is, Acky?” one of the younger men asked.
“Well, I tell ya this: I know what it isn’t. I checked out the refrigs three times, see, and came up with nothing. The refrigs are in jig order, and if I know it then you know it. So, if the refrigs are in jig order, there’s only one thing it can be: we’re getting too near the sun!” Boone clamped his mouth shut and stood with thick, muscular arms crossed over his barrel chest.
* * * *
A young technician third class said in a strident voice, “You mean you think maybe we’re plunging into the sun, Acky?”
“Well, now, I didn’t say that. Did I, boy? But we are too close and if we are too close there’s got to be a reason for it. If we stay too close too long, O.K. Then we’re plunging into the sun. Right now, I dunno.”
They all asked Ackerman Boone, who was an unofficial leader among them, what he was going to do. He rubbed his big fingers against the thick stubble of beard on his jaw and you could hear the rasping sound it made. Then he said, “Nothing, until we find out for sure. But I got a hunch the officers are trying to pull the wool over the eyes of them politicians we got on board. That’s all right with me, men. If they want to, they got
their reasons. But I tell ya this: they ain’t going to pull any wool over Acky Boone’s eyes, and that’s a fact.”
Just then the squawk box called: “Now hear this! Now hear this! Tech/1 Ackerman Boone to Exec’s office. Tech/1 Boone to Exec.”
“You see?” Boone said, smiling grimly. As yet, no one saw. His face still set in a grim smile, Ackerman Boone headed above decks.
* * * *
“That, Mr. President,” Vice Admiral T. Shawnley Stapleton said gravely, “is the problem. We would have come to you sooner, sir, but frankly—”
“I know it, Admiral,” the President said quietly. “I could not have helped you in any way. There was no sense telling me.”
“We have one chance, sir, and one only. It’s irregular and it will probably knock the hell out of the Glory of the Galaxy, but it may save our lives. If we throw the ship suddenly into subspace we could pass right through the sun’s position and—”
“I’m no scientist, Admiral, but wouldn’t that put tremendous stress not only on the ship but on all of us aboard?”
“It would, sir. I won’t keep anything from you, of course. We’d all be subjected to a force of twenty-some gravities for a period of several seconds. Here aboard the Glory, we don’t have adequate G-equipment. It’s something like the old days of air flight, sir: as soon as airplanes became reasonably safe, passenger ships didn’t bother to carry parachutes. Result over a period of fifty years: thousands of lives lost. We’d all be bruised and battered, sir. Bones would be broken. There might be a few deaths. But I see no other way out, sir.”
“Then there was no need to check with me at all, I assure you, Admiral Stapleton. Do whatever you think is best, sir.”
The Admiral nodded gravely. “Thank you, Mr. President. I will say this, though: we will wait for a miracle.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Well, I don’t expect a miracle, but the switchover to subspace so suddenly is bound to be dangerous. Therefore, we’ll wait until the last possible moment. It will grow uncomfortably warm, let me warn you, but as long as the subspace drive is in good working order—”
“I see what you mean, Admiral. You have a free hand, sir; let me repeat that. I will not interfere in any way and I have the utmost confidence in you.” The President mopped his brow with an already damp handkerchief. It was growing warm, come to think of it. Uncomfortably warm.
The 8th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK ™: Milton Lesser Page 39
