I surely saw him. A bright, white-yellow spotlight fixed on his bone-thin face and there was sweat beading on his ashened brow. His hands were trembling, but I didn’t care.
“Anarchist! Anarchist!” I began to chant.
Several others joined in. “Anarchist, anarchist,” we chanted.
Before I knew it, there were but three of us left in the whole of the auditorium, myself, someone in the far right wing, and the illustrious Dr. Martin Schwenne. The last of my anarchist chants drowned in my throat. But by this time, I felt too poorly to leave.
Dr. Schwenne cleared his throat one, two, three, four times. Then in his meek voice, he began again. As he spoke, I moved closer. After all, I had ruined his day. He may as well get a clear view of my face. The man in the far right wing didn’t stir — probably sleeping, or so I imagined.
I didn’t tune back into Martin’s speech until I was front row center.
“Heavenly objects,” he was saying, “move in circular paths, you cannot fall into the sun. It is impossible. And yet, this is what people imagine every time the E-M shuttle trajectory goes errant. There is but one swift way to get from the Earth to the Moon and that is a linear path — two hundred and thirty-nine thousand miles in one great shot… In theory only of course, the trajectory isn’t directly linear by any means…”
I yawned and momentarily fought off the urge to sleep, which would have been impolite.
“Time moves in linear paths, you can only journey forward in time, not back, never back. You can only look back. That was the thinking that the scientific community held for an epoch and thus when they measured space, distance, time and ultimately speed they similarly measured it in tangible means. First it was the speed of sound that was the ultimate barrier… 1100 feet-per-second at sea level. Whoopee! Can you imagine? Eleven hundred feet-per-second, children’s toys are faster by today’s standards. The next measurement chosen was the speed of light — one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles-per-second. Alas, a speed never to be attained for we were looking in the wrong direction.”
Martin paused, wiped his eyes, continued. “Up until a decade ago, the Earth-Moon Shuttle Speed Record held the highest recorded speed at an insignificant forty-eight thousand miles-per-hour. A year ago the sixty thousand miles-per-hour barrier was broken. New records will be achieved. However, innerspace and cryodrives will never be realized. In the beyond, all matter breaks down. Magnetohydrodynamic coils can only provide so much additional power.”
“There simply is no way to break the barrier and achieve the unachievable. Am I correct, Doctor?” asked Dr. Schwenne pointing to a man in the audience.
The man in the far right wing nodded his head slightly, then Martin Schwenne continued. “Sound, measured in waves, vibrations transmitted through a medium. The human range of sound is limited, approximately twenty hertz to eight thousand hertz at optimum. Light, electromagnetic radiation, thought once to be corpuscular, then described as waves, and even as Quantum phenomenon. The wavelength visible to the naked eye 4,000 to 7,700 Angstrom units.
“Physical objects, described once quite innocently as the elements fire, water, air, and earth, comprised of molecules, atoms, and hundreds of smaller elements. Each new discovery a step closer to the infinitely minuscule. If we cannot see it, then it was never there — until we discover it. That’s the thinking. That’s what they said about quarks. Look what happened after that discovery.
“Oh sure, you can measure the ultrasonic. You can measure the ultraviolet and the infrared. Feynman would have been proud of the evolution of space-time diagrams. But if we cannot see it — measure it — then it was never there, even with quantum mechanics. For you see, conventional thinkers never change. Deep down they will always be conventional thinkers despite what they profess.
“We attached the same physical limitations to our way of realizing speed and breaching distance — space. We attached the phrases subsonic, supersonic, and hypersonic to measurements of speed. When that wasn’t enough we raced to achieve light speed.
“We described space in the same manner, two dimensional, three dimensional, adding the element of time to obtain a fourth dimension, finally settling on the hyperspatial as we raced to reach innerspace. We exploited space linearly and when that didn’t fit the theory of innerspace we warped it, while still trying to remain within the bounds of our physical limitation laws. But we never achieved innerspace and we never achieved cryoterraform — those things beyond the braking off point, just at the brink of the thing we cannot attain. No one understand how the two are linked but—”
Front row center, I was sitting straight up in my chair, hands gripped to both armrests. Martin Schwenne’s hands were trembling violently. His spectacles had slid down to the very tip of his nose. I waited, breathless. What was the answer? What was the next stage in evolution for space colonization and for space travel? I wanted to know. I had to know. Surely there was more than four-hour shuttle rides to look forward to? Surely, we could reach innerspace and use the same forces to tap into cryoterra.
I waited and waited, with a lump that was my heart in my throat. Dr. Schwenne didn’t say another word and he never did turn to look at me as he left the stage as I thought he would. I imagined that he had stopped there on the verge of revelation to torment me for what I had done. And it was then I realized that Martin Schwenne had probably given the best speech of his entire life and that there had been but two people to hear it.
Chapter Four:
Fading Memories
“Recorders off please,” the voice said.
The hot white lights dimmed and I saw insolent eyes, a dark mop of hair, and eventually a thick-jawed face.
The man said, “What about the imagcam, you didn’t mention it?”
“No,” I said. “I never found the imagcam. The recordings are lost.”
“So, why are you here then, Dr. Steelbridge?”
“Why?” I scratched my jaw and maintained the fight against their drugs. “I’m not quite sure. I could ask you why have you brought me here. What would you say if I did?”
“You were brought here for an evaluation and not by us. Yet I think the evaluation is complete, you are free to leave any time you wish.”
“Free to leave?” I asked.
“Yes, free. Go any time you wish. Good-bye.”
I got out of my chair; my legs seemed suddenly weak.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“You said I could leave, I’m going home.”
“No, I said you were free to leave. Sit, please. I have one final question for you. Your memories of the event were quite complete, quite complete. Yet it seems you overlooked a few details. The story is too complete I am afraid, too complete.”
“Which part do you want me to retract? I’ll retract it.”
“Do you recall the day EOS-7 Security brought you to us? Will you tell me about it?”
I offered a toothless grin, blood trickling down my cheek dropped into a pool forming on the tabletop. “Certainly…”
* * *
“Twenty-two minutes to shuttle departure,” called out a mechanical-sounding feminine voice. I glanced at my wristwatch, headed for the pre-departure lounge.
A handful of eyes followed me in through the access way. I shrank into a corner and hurriedly gulped down the drink I had pre-ordered on the shuttle ride from Earth. Naturally, I tuned in to the conversation of the couple beside me.
“Oh, it was awful, dreadful, didn’t you hear? He was to have been hired on at the end of the week—” The woman was sobbing and there were tears in her eyes. “—There was to be no more living off the doll, no more part-time for me, no more double overtime for him…”
“There, there, Margaret, things will work out right, they always do.”
What a horrible thing to say, things don’t always work out right.
“He can’t go back to Galactic, not now. Five lectures and that was to be it, the contract would have been irrevocable… Ten ye
ars on Moon Colony would’ve been grand.”
The woman’s companion cooed. “Would’ve been grand indeed.”
That’s life, a roll of the dice. I listened, not so intently now. And the mechanical, feminine voice counted down the time.
Before I knew it, I was settling into one of those comfortable yet not-so-comfortable shuttle chairs — the ones with hardly any armrest space. Vying for my space was already a given. I plopped both arms down firmly before the fellow next to me could settle in.
Strapped in, I waited. I gleaned a pillow from a shuttle stewardess passing by. The hum of the overdrive engines during preflight checks caught my ear. I had never really thought about it before — sixty thousand miles-per-hour, wow!
A disturbance cross-cabin caught my attention. A pencil-necked gentleman had spilled the contents of his vacuum case. Books and papers were everywhere. And there was Margaret — poor faithful Margaret — at the man’s side. She was scooping papers from the floor and putting them back into the vacuum case. The man just stood there, his face buried in his hands.
I did my part, picking up the scattered papers near my seat. Margaret sobbed through several heartfelt thanks. The man never looked over to me, not even once and I must’ve put four or five stacks of assorted papers and books back into that vacuum bag.
Afterward, Margaret took the man’s hand and led him away. It was a sad sight. I heard her female companion’s voice cooing to her a moment later, “There, there Margaret, don’t cry.”
I grabbed a blanket from a passing stewardess, closed my eyes even though I’d never been able to sleep on the E-M shuttle.
Three hours fifty-nine minutes later, the shuttle was approaching Earth Orbit Station-7 for docking. The familiar mechanical service voice called out, “E. O. S. Seven. Docking procedures underway.”
My seat rocked as retros kicked in. Four and a half minutes later, I was eagerly stepping from my seat. Had to beat the crowd, only six minutes till the next shuttle to the surface. If I missed it, it would mean a fifteen-minute wait I couldn’t afford — fifteen minutes subtracted from the two hours I had scheduled for sleep. I had a full day after those two hours sleep — another twenty-four-hour day and red beepers only nurtured so long.
Midstride I noticed it. It looked innocent enough, a single piece of paper strewn next to my chair. Several others beside it were partially obscured by the chair. I picked up the papers, but I didn’t look at them as I had first thought to. They had to belong to Margaret’s man.
I folded them in half, stuffed them into my pocket. I turned back to grab my briefcase, and by that time, the insidious crowd had already formed in front of me. There was no way I’d make the first shuttle now. I’d have to wait the fifteen minutes.
* * *
The hot white light was turned off again. The mop of dark hair slowly fell before my eyes.
The voice said, “How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” The man sighed. “Two years.”
I agreed. “Yes, two years.”
“Two years, are you sure?”
I shrugged.
“See, you’re not sure anymore, are you? Take me back to EOS-7. Tell me about the imagcam.”
The hot white light returned.
Chapter Five:
Final Salute
The fifteen-minute wait had been ugly and quite ungodly. But there I was strapped in again, last seat on the left of the five hundred twenty-second row waiting to enter Earth’s atmosphere.
EOS-7 had been crowded. Too crowded. And there had been endless lines everywhere.
I felt the first ripples and braced for reentry. Descending into Earth’s atmosphere was akin to riding a stellar wave until it slammed into the face of the moon. Quick, short, bumpy, and sometimes deadly.
A few seconds passed. Things started to smooth out. I cursed myself for paying ten thousand credits for the hundred-million-credit aborted-entry insurance. Then without warning, the shuttle lurched to a halt.
Naturally, I filed out of the shuttle and eventually filtered into the line with everyone else waiting for the three-minute fifteen-second shuttle to New L.A. In the crowd were Margaret, her female companion and the pencil-necked man with the vacuum bag. Margaret’s lady friend was still cooing in her ear.
“There, there Margaret,” she was still saying.
Margaret was sobbing and blowing her nose into a saturated handkerchief.
Recalling the papers in my pocket, the spilled vacuum bag and how I felt about poor Margaret, I made a dash for her. But she was soon lost in the insidious crowd.
I continued the search for a moment — only a moment. I had but one minute to be strapped in on the three-minute fifteen-second shuttle to New L.A. I didn’t find her, so I turned and dashed back to the departure bay. The hold line had shifted and I had to conduct a limited assault campaign to get my place back.
A siren sounded. A lull swept through the crowd. The mechanical service voice called out, “The three-minute fifteen-second shuttle to New L.A. has been delayed by two minutes forty-five seconds.”
A murmur erupted from the crowd. I shrank against the wall, held onto my briefcase with a death grip. In an instant, this would get ugly. The last time this had happened they had to cordon off three departure bays and airport security in full riot gear had to be called in.
“I have deadlines to meet!” shouted one man.
Another screamed, “I want my money back!”
Several others carried on his chant.
Far behind me and to the right, I heard a woman crying. I had nothing to lose now. I peered through the stirring mob. It was Margaret, poor, sad Margaret. The announcement must’ve been too much for her. I could see her female companion cooing into her ear. The man with his vacuum bag sat still, slumped over onto his haunches with his face buried in his hands. Poor, sad Margaret.
I recalled the papers in my pocket. Surely the papers would cheer her up. Ninety-eight seconds remained in the delay, so I made a heroic dash.
The crowd growing irate, didn’t bend. I had to fight my way through, wielding my briefcase before me. I had played full contact hyberball more than a few times, but things here were different. These guys really wanted to hurt me. I managed, barely, to weave my way through to Margaret.
I unfolded the small stack of papers nicely, taking out the creases the way a gentleman would. I handed the papers to Margaret, only then glancing at the imprinted words. The first page of a technical manuscript stared back at me. It was entitled:
Space Colonization is Dead
And underneath the manuscript header and title were these words:
Written by
Dr. Martin Schwenne
&
Dr. Ishad Ballin
I paused briefly to look at the gentleman whose face was still buried in his hands. I wanted to say something, though I didn’t know what. Poor, sad Margaret, someone had to brighten her day.
“Things will turn out all right, they always do,” I said, smiling though I didn’t believe it.
Margaret’s sobs intensified. I turned away. The delay was over. The angry mob became a crowd. I was nearly late for the three-minute fifteen-second shuttle to New L.A. Halfway to the shuttle doors, I realized something. It struck me like a ball of red lightning and my legs froze. Dr. Ishad Ballin had been in the Space Pro Labs auditorium — the one person I idolized was working with Dr. Martin Schwenne. Then I realized something else.
I looked back over my shoulder, but Margaret, her female companion and the illustrious Martin Schwenne, were gone. I stood there for what seemed the longest time. Minutes may have passed; I’m not quite sure. Then I hurried off.
I missed the three-minute fifteen-second shuttle to New L.A. — not because I couldn’t have made it. The stewardess had already taken my boarding pass. The countdown timer had been ticking away. The departure bay doors were closing as I looked on. I was one step away, but I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move
. I didn’t want to hurry off. I had done what I had set out to do, what I had been hired to do, for you see, that is what I do.
My hands trembling just as violently as Martin Schwenne’s hands had been trembling hours earlier, I unclasped my briefcase. I emptied its contents, including the imagcam, into the nearest refuse receptacle. No immediate second thoughts, I strode off.
Then I got to thinking. I never should have accepted payment from Galactic Project IV on such an issue yet could I let forty million credits slip away? The answer was right there before me. No, I couldn’t.
I hurried back to the receptacle.
I reached my hand into the trash and groped around. But it wasn’t there. I screamed, “Dear God, it’s gone, it’s gone,” then proceeded to tear the receptacle off the wall. Trash sprayed into the corridor. On hands and knees, I groped my way through it. But there was no imagcam. And forty million credits slipped away in an instant because I was going soft. Soft, could you imagine? Me, soft.
I searched through that trash until EOS-7 Security carried me away. I never found the imagcam. I never received the final installment.
* * *
“Mr. Steelbridge, you’ve told that story the same way every time, except this last time. What did you change this last time? What is it that you no longer wish to tell us?” The man sucked in a breath ominously. “What if I told you we recovered something of yours from the EOS-7 disposers, what then? I’ll ask one last time, what happened to the imagcam?”
I offered an ugly smile. “I gave it to Margaret.”
“And Dr. Schwenne?”
“No.”
“What do you mean by that? And I’ll thank you to wipe that smile off your face.” The man waited for my expression to change, but it didn’t. Then he repeated, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, no. No is what I mean.”
The man’s spidery arm reached out for my shirt and wrenched me across the table.
The Robert Stanek Short Story & Novella Collection Page 3
