Futures Past

by James White

  But when a ship became obsolete, when the design was replaced by something newer, safer, more sophisticated, so did its captain.

  Despite the fantastic generosity of their severance pay and pension, none of the retired captains were happy men. Some of them worked very hard or played very hard or drank very hard, and others did things which, had they not been heroes, would have landed them in jail. And some of them—no, one of them—was stupid enough to want to try doing it all over again.....

  ". . . Anyhow," Herdman went on, "I got wind of this project—strictly experimental and non-government sponsored—one of the development companies was starting on Mars. They had the idea of recommissioning Wilkinson. ..."

  George Wilkinson had been a classmate of Herdman's, which meant that their ships were of a similar basic design. To the similarity between ships was added that of the men. They had been friends, they'd shared much the same views on things and, what was perhaps more important in this case, they were physically alike in vision, reach and reaction time. When George had gone obsolete along with Herdman and the others of their class his ship had been on Mars, and there had been no point in bringing an obsolete ship back to Earth. George had died shortly afterward—a malfunction of his breathing equipment while out walking, it was said—and the Wilkinson had stood for five years before someone began getting ideas about it.

  ". . . The design was, and is, good," Herdman continued, excited despite himself, "although the quarter-G reactor needed a chemical assist during landing, and that could be downright unsafe at times. But these new reactors will let it take off from Mars or any other low-G body without an assist. It means that the chemical section of the control panel would be dead, that I'd have to forget it was even there. Probably it would feel as if I was flying the ship with one arm tied behind my back, but there are a couple of psychologists up there who think they can rebuild me to handle it. And they're going to rename the ship Herdman 11. . .."

  "I don't like it!" said Ramsey violently. "Like taking over control of a dead body...."

  "George was a friend of mine," Herdman broke in angrily. "He wouldn't mind my trying to take over his ship!" Ramsey turned his eyes away. In a low voice he said, "I'd hate to think of anyone doing it to my ship. . . ."

  The sound of loud but respectful knocking on the control-room trap made the captain break off. Herdman opened the trap quickly, saw Forsythe outside and motioned him back. When he was outside himself and with the trap closed behind him he said, "Talk quietly, Doctor. I haven't told him anything yet."

  The doctor nodded but did not speak until they had drifted close to the other passengers, then he said, "It's about the food problem. I think we might be able to manage something after all."

  "Go on, Doctor," said Herdman, trying hard to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

  Forsythe glared at him, then went on, "As you are the most important person in this operation I've calculated as closely as possible the number of calories per day needed to maintain you at optimum physical efficiency and this number has been omitted from my calculations regarding the other people on the ship. But here I must warn you that the amount of food which I as a doctor know will keep you fit is not enough to keep you from feeling hungry—in effect, you will be just well enough fed to realize that you are dying of starvation.

  "Where the others are concerned," he continued, "my first idea was to divide the remaining food four ways and stretch it as far as possible. But that was not a very good idea, for the reason that two of us at least would have died. So in order to give everyone an equal chance of survival the food will have to be distributed unequally. We have discussed this among ourselves and have reached complete agreement...."

  Herdman did not say anything, but his face must have said a lot.

  ". . . We're assuming that Captain Ramsey will go along with the majority," Forsythe went on quickly. "The exact timing and amounts will have to be worked out later, but basically the idea is for rations to be allocated in inverse proportion to the quantity of adipose carried. Take Brett, for instance. His fatty reserve will enable him to go without food for a considerable time...."

  At that point Brett scowled and muttered to himself in a way which seemed to indicate that his complete agreement had been gained with some difficulty.

  ". . . And the same applies to myself to a lesser degree. . . ." Self-consciously Forsythe patted the barely perceptible bulge at his waist, and went on, "Captain Ramsey and Dr. Wallace will thus have the largest allocation next to yourself."

  He stopped, looked all round and ended seriously, "Dividing in this way will mean that all of us should be alive—just barely alive, I must add—when the time comes to land on Mars. I suppose we're fortunate in one thing, at least. Mars and Earth are favorably placed at present, and this will be a fast trip as space voyages go."

  Fast, thought Herdman grimly, as in hunger.

  There was a long silence during which they all stared at Herdman. When he did speak finally he was not thinking about the food problem or even the shortage of fuel, he was seeing himself in the cone of a ship which was not his and with a well-nigh impossible landing to make, and he felt no hope at all. He could not look Forsythe in the eye as he said, "I don't know."

  "Naturally it will be a very close thing," the doctor went on, reassuringly, but with a touch of asperity in his voice. "In order to make the food stretch absolute rest will be necessary on our part. No odd jobs about the ship, no weightless exercises or games, no movements of any kind which would use up calories needlessly. I would even advise against talking. I've no doubt we will suffer intense boredom as well as hunger, but we would all prefer to be bored and hungry for four months than to die in a few weeks.

  "It also means, Mr. Herdman," Forsythe continued, "that you will have to perform all the duties about the ship normally delegated as make-work for the passengers, in addition to familiarizing yourself with Ramsey's controls. ..."

  The doctor's voice trailed off. He hesitated, then ended firmly, "It's the only chance we have. We've got to try it."

  While Forsythe had been talking Herdman's mind had gone back to his investigation of the cargo hold and fuel tank. Then and until the doctor had told him the full extent of Ramsey's injuries he himself had had hopes of them being able to make the food and fuel stretch until they reached Mars. But he didn't seem to be able to make these people understand that it wasn't the food or fuel that worried him, that it was the sheer impossibility of one ex-captain being able to fly another and later captain's ship, Admittedly they would know about the conditioning which pilots had to undergo, or they would think that they knew, and now Herdman was tempted to keep them in ignorance.

  One reason for this was that he did not want to kill all hope in them even when their cause was hopeless. Another was the fact that he wanted to live as much as they did, and they were offering, insisting, that he keep himself fed while they starved. Both reasons prompted his reply, but one, he felt ashamed to admit, was stronger than the other.

  "All right," he said. "We'll try it."

  They were all grinning and their eyes shone. Even Brett was looking as if Herdman had just conferred some priceless boon on him. All of which made Herdman feel angry and even more ashamed of himself, although only the anger showed in his voice when he went on.

  "Now that you've decided what you want to do," he said harshly, "we will get down to the fine details. For instance, the timing of meals and their distribution. In the present circumstances is it psychologically desirable for us to eat together? And if talking is to be forbidden, should we stay together at all? In weightless conditions you can rest just as comfortably in one part of the ship as another. Also, if rest is vitally necessary, should unnecessary motion be rendered physically impossible rather than merely forbidding it?"

  The hours began to slip past while they hammered out these and other points. Sometimes they spoke quietly, but more often not. The smiles left their faces very early in the discussion although the light of hope
never quite left their eyes. Brett, in between occasional flare-ups of temper, became sullen. Brett realized that ordinarily his fatness would have increased his chance of survival to a considerable extent, but the chances of the others were being increased at the expense of his own because his fair share of the food was being withheld from him. Logically he knew that the measure equalized all their chances, but emotionally he could not see it. At one point he demanded angrily whether it wouldn't be simpler if they just cut slices off his more well-rounded regions and served them up.

  There was a short, pregnant silence then which everyone rushed to fill as they tried to hide the fact that for an instant they had all been thinking about the same thing.

  Cannibalism. ...

  Wallace said very little. After supplying the initial idea and enthusiasm which had put the plan in motion he had faded into the background so far as talk was concerned. He watched each speaker's face anxiously and trustingly, looking frightened when a serious obstacle was raised and relieved out of all proportion when it was knocked down.

  Forsythe did not display emotion beyond occasionally raising his voice, and then it was usually only to make himself heard above Brett. But there was a certain vacancy about his expression, Herdman thought. As a doctor, Forsythe would, in theory, know all about the physiological processes of starvation, but he must be wondering how those processes actually felt.

  And all the time at the back of Herdman's mind were the two details which most closely concerned himself. One was the landing, which could be put off for a while. But the other, telling the captain what was being planned, he could not put off for more than a few hours.

  How was he going to tell Ramsey?

  When he finally told the captain, Herdman did not know whether Ramsey took it well or not, there being no previous incident like this on record to serve as a yardstick The news seemed to affect him with all the pain and shock of a sudden obsolescence, with the added agony that it wasn't obsolescence but. simple injury that was responsible and that another man was going to take over and crash his ship—unlike the passengers, Ramsey had no doubt at all that both were synonymous. So Herdman was prepared when the captain lashed out at him with his good hand, and evaded the first blow,

  But reaction sent Ramsey's body twisting backward in his loosened straps and his head hit the metal edge of the acceleration couch. He groaned and swung again, but this time the punch lacked power and direction. Herdman closed in, hoping to restrain the captain while he talked some sense into him, but Ramsey went On fighting. Finally Herdman called the doctor.

  While they were both holding onto the weakly struggling captain for the few minutes it took Forsythe's shot to take effect, Herdman tried to explain the reasons behind Ramsey's violent reaction to the sorely puzzled doctor, and the patient was peacefully asleep before he had finished.

  At the conclusion Forsythe said thoughtfully, "Now I realize why you insisted that he would be more comfortable in the nose-cone. I hadn't fully realized how, er, attached a captain is to his ship. And I can see now that the landing may be trickier than we thought____"

  "I tried to tell you .. ." began Herdman. "That you did," said Forsythe wryly. "So much so that I thought you had a suicide complex. But you also said that you would try it. . . ." He broke off, hesitated, then in a more authoritative voice went on, "To get back to the captain, I realize that it was kindness which prompted your placing him here. Now, however, I must insist on him being moved to the lounge where I can keep an eye on him. During our tussle with him you must have noticed the weak movements and lack of coordination in the left arm and leg. The indications are that there is a parietal fracture after all, and some cerebral bleeding, which has caused a mild stroke. With rest, especially with the complete rest possible in free fall, the condition may not worsen and may even clear itself, but he will have to be moved from here."

  The doctor paused again as if expecting an argument, then continued, "I know that this will cause him mental distress, but I hope to relieve it as much as possible by keeping him under sedation.

  "I will move him out now," he ended briskly. "You stay here, Mr. Herdman, and get used to the idea of being a spaceship captain again.. . ."

  For nearly an hour Herdman lay strapped loosely to the control couch trying hard to fit himself to the ship. This was the job he had trained fifteen years to do and the environment fitted him like a glove—like a left-hand glove three sizes too large fits the right hand, he thought sickly. When he tried a dry run on the controls his hands were slippery with sweat and his stomach was knotted in panic, he fumbled and he was terribly, lethally slow.

  He remembered how the old Herdman had felt, and that made him feel even worse. He had to close his eyes and do nothing for several minutes until he could control his shaking hands again. Suddenly he realized that he didn't want to fly this ship, that his conditioning had been too thorough and narrowly specialized for him to adapt himself to it.

  One man and one ship, he thought helplessly, 'til death do us part....

  When he left the cone Herdman had accomplished nothing. He wanted to tell the passengers that their voluntary starvation was an utter waste of time. But they were all, with the exception of the doctor, strapped to their bunks. Ramsey was strapped firmly into Forsythe's bunk and the doctor was tethered loosely to it where he could keep the injured man under observation. All eyes went to Herdman as soon as he appeared, but nobody spoke— they were taking the rest business very seriously, it seemed. Herdman went past them without speaking, pretending that he had something to do in the cargo hold.

  At the end of the third week they were still taking it seriously. Herdman had had to adjust the air and water purifying equipment several times because they were using less oxygen than expected and Forsythe had advised them to drink plenty to blunt the pangs of hunger. Herdman suspected that the doctor was conning them in this, but since it was in a good cause he didn't question it. And anyway, they had plenty of water for drinking even if there wasn't enough for landing.

  Wallace and Ramsey had grown very thin and Brett appeared fatter and flabbier. But appearances were deceptive—it was simply that his skin was getting a little too large for him and, in the weightless condition, what adipose he had left tended to wobble more. Forsythe had grown positively bony and his practically nonexistent paunch had long since disappeared.

  Herdman felt obliged to mention it one day while he was helping the doctor give Ramsey a bath in the fuel tank.

  "You should allow yourself a little more food, Doctor," he said. "You seem to be working on a one-inch bulge for a very long time."

  "Always was a small eater," said Forsythe shortly.

  In addition to the" tanks and breathing masks from their suits they had headsets directly connected by cable. They could speak without being overheard, but even then the sentences were kept short because to speak at all was against the law.

  "All the same," Herdman said as another thought occurred to him, "you should bring yourself level with Wallace and the captain here. Unless you're already passing your ration on to Ramsey, because he's—"

  "If I had any to spare," the doctor interrupted sharply, "I'd pass them to you. I'm a practical man and you are in a position just now to save more lives than I could."

  Which made Herdman remember his continued lack of success in the control room. He changed the subject hastily.

  "I'm not an expert on this," he said carefully, "but it seems to me that the physical effort of talking—moving the tongue and so on—is not noticeably greater than the effort of breathing. Do we have to impose this absolute silence?"

  "No," said the doctor, then added quickly, "but I think that if we'd talked all the time we'd have done nothing but bellyache all day long, which would have been very detrimental to morale. And anyway, silence is said to be good for the soul. It's a form of mental discipline, and discipline of the mind is something we are going to need badly in the weeks to come.. .."

  Herdman could not see the
doctor although they were both holding Ramsey and so were only a few feet from each other. The half-liquid, half-gaseous contents of the tank, stirred into slow turbulence by their entry and illuminated by its interior lighting, made a sparkling, opaque curtain between them. Only when Forsythe moved between one of the lights and himself did he see a vague, distorted picture that was like a scene observed through cut glass.

  But the water had mass if no weight. As it curled and crawled along and around the tank it tugged and pushed at their bodies like a gentle, irresistible giant. It was an exhilarating experience, Herdman thought, or would have been if the circumstances had been different. He wondered why nobody had thought of using the reactor fuel tank as a swimming pool before now.

  ". . . In a few days' time," Forsythe resumed suddenly, "I'm going to suggest that a little talking will do us no harm. Say for an hour before and after, uh, lunch. By then I think the novelty of being able to talk again will keep everyone from dwelling too much on the menu— a case of trying to satisfy our hunger with a gabfest. . . ."

  From the fourth until halfway through the eight week Forsythe's idea worked as he had hoped it would, although the first few days the discussions were practically welded onto the subject of food. But the passengers were all above the average in intelligence and they realized quickly when a discussion was totally unproductive, so they moved onto other subjects and gradually the two-hour talking period became almost a game with them.