Futures Past

by James White

  Something had torn loose, he saw as soon as he reached the control-room trap. There was a one-foot square gap in the almost solid canopy of control panels and tell-tales which was the nose cone. Four projecting lugs showed in the empty space, to which had been bolted the missing item of equipment, and raw metal gleamed in the empty hole of each lug. Herdman wondered briefly if some over-zealous member of the ground crew had tightened one of those bolts so thoroughly that he had stripped the thread, and the stress and vibration of five Gs had done the rest. But it would be very difficult to bring a negligence charge against a man who was guilty of being too careful.

  The equipment had fallen a distance of three feet onto the captain's position, although with an acceleration of five Gs acting on it the object's speed and inertia had been the equivalent of a fall of fifteen feet under normal conditions. It had struck the captain's shoulder and dented the side of his helmet before rolling off to go bulleting through the port at the bottom of the passenger lounge.

  Ramsey's suit was badly crushed where the right arm joined the body and inside the visor the pilot's face was white and sweating. The captain wasn't moving although the suit was still airtight. Herdman pulled himself closer and saw that the other's eyes were closed, that he was breathing and that little red beads were floating about inside the helmet, eddying with every breath that he took.

  If Ramsey wasn't taken out of his suit quickly, or at least had his helmet removed, there was danger of him breathing in one of those tiny red beads and choking to death on it. But before he removed the helmet, Herdman would have to restore pressure to the ship....

  While he was applying a number one patch to the holed port Herdman became aware of three heads looking down at him over the edges of the occupied bunks. None of the passengers made any attempt to leave their places; they probably thought he was the captain, and Herdman ignored them until air was hissing into the compartment and the pressure gauge told him that it was staying there. Then with an atmosphere present to carry his voice he flipped his outside speaker switch and said, "All right, gentlemen, you can take them off now," and dived toward Control again.

  There he swung himself over the pilot's couch, locking his legs around it at the level of Ramsey's waist, and began carefully removing the helmet.

  The face he uncovered was the same one that had looked out at him from the pages of newspapers and magazines with increasing frequency over the past five years, but the utter relaxation of unconsciousness gave the features an unfamiliar look. There were three deep lacerations above and behind the right ear, caused by the radio earpiece which had practically shattered itself against Ramsey's skull. He swung away and began searching for the ship's log.

  During the three minutes it took him to find it he discovered, by a process of elimination, that it was the radio unit which had come adrift. He also found that his hands shook and he was driven close to panic at the sight of all those familiar panels and controls in their subtly unfamiliar positions. But the feeling passed when he had the log to concentrate on.

  Herdman quickly found the page giving the names and all-up weights of the passengers. Dr. F. Brett, he read: Dr. J. Forsythe, Dr. M. Wallace and Mr. J. Herdman. . . . He snapped the log shut and replaced it in its clip, wishing he had more detailed knowledge of the qualifications of these three no-doubt eminent doctors. But it was customary to give only minimum information about any passenger, the theory being that during the long, boring trip everything there was to know—but everything—about one's fellow-passengers would come out in conversation, and any prepublished biographical material would spoil the fun of finding out. His only course was to go and ask them, although he was going to feel awfully silly asking three doctors if one of them was a doctor....

  When he put the question, it was a tall, rangy individual, who already had his suit off and was performing a weightless adagio dance with it in his efforts to stow it away, who was the first to speak. He said, "If you mean is one of us a real doctor and not just one of these common PhDs, the answer is yes. My name is Forsythe, Captain ..."

  "I'm not the captain!" said Herdman sharply, then in a quieter tone: "The captain has been injured, Doctor. A piece of equipment came loose during takeoff. Head and shoulder injuries. I didn't want to risk taking off his suit in case I compounded—"

  "Quite right," said Forsythe briskly. He steadied himself against a bunk, then dived awkwardly toward the cone. He reappeared a moment later to remove the medical kit from its rack and returned without speaking. Herd-man turned to the other passengers.

  "This compartment is tight and there is no immediate danger," he said quietly. "But the rest of the ship has lost pressure and there may be some damage. I'm, uh, familiar with the layout of the ship and will check the damage while the doctor is attending to Captain Ramsey...."

  Herdman had never been in a ship like Ramsey before, but he had kept abreast of all the literature as it became available. He knew that the current thinking in the field was that spaceflight was reaching the point where it should no longer be necessary for the various governments to foot the bill completely. There were colonies and projects on the Moon and inner planets which were becoming self-sufficient in that the financial returns from their research paid for the astronomical cost of keeping them supplied, and it was felt that the time had come for spaceflight to be put on a paying basis. Ramsey was the first step in a long journey that would enable space travel to be undertaken by tired businessmen rather than reserving it for the intrepid adventurer types. It was luxurious and, for a spaceship, extraordinarily roomy. It even boasted a swimming pool.

  Ramsey was the last word, Herdman thought bitterly as he squeezed through the interior lock; the only trouble was that its designers were already thinking up later ones. But Ramsey was a good man and he had a fine ship—a clean, simple design that might go for eight or nine years without major modifications. In that, Ramsey was lucky. It was a terrible thing to be rendered obsolete at thirty-one.

  Herdman severed that line of thought quickly before it dragged him into a morass of self-pity. Maybe the captain wasn't so lucky, or anyone else on board his ship. Herd-man wouldn't know until he had finished his check.

  The ship's layout was conventional in that Control and its associated instrumentation was housed in the nose cone, which widened from a blunt point to the ten feet which was the maximum diameter of the ship until it tapered slightly below the reactor. The twenty-five-foot cylinder below Control was divided vertically by thin metal plating supported by two of the main structural members, one half forming the passenger lounge and the other containing the air and water recycling gear and the control links to the reactor. A three-way lock built into this compartment connected it with the passenger compartment and the cargo hold, which occupied the next twenty feet below. Then came the storage compartments, the fuel tank/swimming pool and finally the reactor. A hollow pipe two feet wide joined the cargo hold with the reactor room via the center of the tank in case something went wrong.

  As he had half expected, the air regeneration section still retained the atmosphere brought aboard before takeoff but in the cargo space pressure was nil. When Herd- man saw the extent of the damage he found himself wishing that just this once the radio unit's circuits had not been sealed into a block of rock-hard plastic to protect them against vibration. As it was, that small, dense piece of equipment had wrecked havoc enough to make an armor-piercing shell feel proud.

  The missile's path through the cargo space had been deflected by a pressurized crate which had bounced it toward the food storage bin. This it had entered close to deck level, bursting through the tightly packed food containers therein and exiting where the hull joined the deck. The plastic containers held the concentrated liquid and semi-liquid meals designed for weightless conditions, and when the compartment had been opened to space, vapor pressure from the contents of the burst containers had forced most of the undamaged packs out through the opening in the hull. And if that wasn't enough there was a
slight but detectable fog in the compartment.

  The fuel tank, whose upper wall formed the floor of the food storage bin, had also been opened.

  The first job was to rescue what food containers remained in the bin, and these he tossed gently into the main cargo space for collection later, noticing as he did so that there were a few others drifting outside the rent in the hull. They also could be retrieved later. Then he traced and sealed off the puncture in the tank, entering it to make sure that all was tight, and only then did he start work on the damaged hull. He was slowed down at times because certain tools and equipment were racked in unfamiliar places, and it was three hours before pressure was restored to the rest of the ship.

  But he didn't go immediately to Ramsey. The things he had been doing would have registered on the control-room tell-tales, and Ramsey had not contacted him on the suit radio. Which meant that either the captain was still unconscious or he approved of what Herdman was doing. Herdman wriggled out of his spacesuit, drank some water and began a careful inventory of the cargo hold and its associated storage spaces.

  The cargo consisted of lab equipment, medical supplies, light-weight books and drums of black, white and red paint which, the labels stated, had been developed to withstand both the sand abrasion and the extremes of temperature to be found on Mars. There was nothing edible in the cargo, which was unfortunate. He was beginning to realize the full extent of their predicament.

  Unfortunate, he thought grimly, was far too mild a word to describe it.

  When he finally returned to the passenger compartment the captain, fully conscious and talking quietly, was surrounded by a weightless shoal of passengers. Ramsey's head was bandaged, the sleeve and part of the shoulder of his tunic had been cut away and his arm was strapped to his side and rendered immobile by a lumpy, irregular mass of sealing compound. Considering the fact that it must be Forsythe's first experience with a casualty in weightless conditions it was a very tidy job. The captain nodded when he saw Herdman, winced as if the movement had hurt his head, and went on speaking.

  ". . . And I don't want to burden you at this stage with a long list of 'Don'ts'," he was saying. "As you come to know the ship your common sense will tell you what you should do or should not do. The one strict rule, however, is that which forbids entrance to the control-room to everyone but the captain. There are many reasons for this, some of which are psychological.. .."

  Ramsey did not dwell on that point but went on quickly to discuss the measures devised to relieve boredom during the long voyage and spoke of the necessity for politeness and consideration between passengers at all times, for control of irritating mannerisms or habits of speech, for personal hygiene....

  Herdman was only half-listening to him. He was trying desperately to catch the captain's eye before the other said too much. Before he got onto the subject of food, for instance.

  ". . . One effect of boredom," Ramsey went on, "is the tendency for some people to try to relieve it by eating. Surprisingly large quantities of popcorn can be shifted during a very boring show, for example. But it is a medical fact that the body requires much less food in the weightless condition than . . . Yes, Mr. Herdman, what is it?"

  Ramsey had caught his eye at last and realized that something was wrong. The others were looking at him, too, seeing him for the first time without his suit and put- ting his name and face together in their minds and coming up with the inevitable answer. Within seconds they all had the expressions of people who had been introduced to royalty twice in the same day. Herdman wondered if there was a polite and considerate way to tell them that they were all going to die. If there was he couldn't find it.

  He said, "I've checked the ship, sir. Apart from the loss of the radio unit there is no mechanical or electrical damage. Some minor structural damage to the hull in the region of the food storage bin and fuel tank has been repaired, but we've lost most of our food and a good quantity of fuel...."

  "How much?" said Ramsey sharply.

  "Counting what was left in the bin together with the few odds and ends drifting outside," said Herdman carefully, "I'd estimate enough for three weeks. Where the fuel is concerned I can't be nearly so accurate. A lot."

  The captain was silent. His eyes had grown dull with pain and his features had the smudged, contrasty look of a bad photograph. The others were looking anxious but not frightened. They were probably thinking that Earth still filled half the sky behind them, that it was only a few hours away and that a lot of things could happen in three weeks. All the implications had not sunk in with them yet.

  "It looks very bad," Herdman went on, strain making his voice sound harsh even to his own ears. "I can't say how bad exactly until I have an accurate damage report on you." He looked suddenly at Forsythe. "What about it, Doctor?"

  It was obvious that Dr. Forsythe was a man who had been polite and considerate all his life and not just be cause it was the thing done during space voyages. At the same time his gentler instincts were offended by Herd-man's tone and the manner in which he had referred to the captain's injuries. He looked ready to erupt.

  "Go ahead, Doctor," said Ramsey. "As an integral part of the ship's machinery I, too, would like to know the extent of my loss of efficiency and how long it is likely to last."

  The doctor looked from Herdman to the captain and back again, then shook his head. He said coldly. "The head injuries comprise lacerations, contusions and possibly a fracture of the left parietal. As for the shoulder and arm, there is a fracture close to the head of the humerus, damage to the coracoid process and indications that the glenoid fossa is—"

  "What chance has he of regaining full mobility in time for the landing four months from now?" Herdman broke in roughly.

  "Yes, Doctor," Ramsey added in a quieter voice. "We have to know."

  Forsythe looked at Herdman with extreme disfavor and at the captain with compassion. He said, "With the facilities available on the ship—no possibility of obtaining X-rays to chart the damage accurately and with only a glorified first aid kit to work with—my only course is to immobilize the limb until proper hospital treatment can be given. Until then you will not be able to use the arm at all. I'm sorry."

  For a long time Ramsey stared at, and through, the doctor, until the silence was broken by one of the other passengers, a swarthy, round-faced individual whose plumpness was accentuated into near obesity by the absence of weight, who said sullenly, "I . . . I'm beginning to feel hungry...."

  "You will get used to that feeling, Dr. Brett," said Ramsey sharply, and winced again. Suddenly he looked puzzled and a little frightened. He began staring hard at each of them in turn, as if trying to see through a dense fog. His voice, when he went on, had become slurred:

  "Mr. Herdman, will you explain what this means to these people. And . . . and try to work something out. . ." The voice faded and his eyes, which were open, turned up to show their whites. His fingers relaxed their hold on the nearby bunk and he, began drifting toward the passengers.

  Ramsey had passed out, Herdman saw, and the fact that a man could lose consciousness without his head lolling forward onto his chest or, as sometimes happened in free fall, without his eyelids dropping closed was having a disquieting effect on the other passengers. Not unnaturally it was Forsythe who reacted first.

  "He might injure himself against something," the doctor said gruffly. "He's unconscious. We'll have to strap him down somewhere. . . ."

  'The control-room couch," said Herdman.

  Forsythe shook his head. "One of the passenger bunks would be better. Then I could keep an eye on him. . . ."

  "The control-room," said Herdman firmly, and took hold of the captain's good arm and with his fingers gently closed Ramsey's eyes. Then he launched them both toward the cone, judging the dive so that he would arrive first and be able to absorb the shock of contact with his own body.

  When he returned a few minutes later the passengers had their heads together and, despite the fact that he could not hear anyth
ing of what was being said, Herdman could tell that the doctor was angry because of the apparently high-handed manner in which his advice regarding the captain had been ignored and that the others were merely frightened. They stopped talking suddenly as he approached, obviously because they had been talking about him.

  This time it was Wallace, the third doctor on the passenger list, who spoke first. He was a small, thin-faced, nervous man who was trying hard to hide his fear behind a jocular tone. He said, "Uh, Mr. Herdman, the captain said you would explain things to us. Er, what exactly is our problem?"

  This was a question which Herdman had been considering since the moment he had realized the full extent of the damage, which meant that he had had nearly three hours to prepare a short, non-technical answer to it. He had considered all the possible angles and permutations and no matter which way he looked at it the situation was bad, so bad that he had neither the ability nor the inclination to match Wallace's tone when he replied.

  "It is a three-cornered problem," he said grimly. "First, our captain is physically incapable of handling the approach and landing when we reach Mars. Second, when we reach Mars we will be going too fast because we haven't enough fuel to decelerate into a landing orbit. And third, there isn't enough food to keep us alive until then anyway."

  He watched them try to accept the idea that they were all going to die and then reject it, just as he had rejected it himself a few hours ago. Then the objections and counter-suggestions began to come. Herdman answered them all, quietly and always negatively.

  No, he told them, they could not jerry-rig a radio and call for help. All communications equipment with the exception of the suit radios and the landing radar had been contained in the lost unit, and letting people know they were in trouble did not mean that they would be automatically rescued—things did not happen that way in space. And no, they could not turn back while they were still close to Earth—they hadn't sufficient fuel for landing on a light-gravity planet like Mars, so they could not decelerate to a stop and go back. The suggestion that they modify course to put them into a circumlunar orbit was a good one, except that the Moon was in the wrong position at present to try it. Even if they checked their velocity away from Earth, and Earth control had been worried enough by their failure to report after takeoff to set one of the big radio scopes to tracking them, there were no spaceships in existence which could take off from Earth, decelerate to match velocities with them and return.