The Best of Bova: Volume 1

by Ben Bova

  The coal mines, the oil refineries, the electricity-generating plants, the nuclear power piles . . . all shattered into radioactive rubble. There could be no return to any kind of organized society while men had to scavenge for wood to warm themselves and to run their primitive machines.

  Then someone had remembered the satellite.

  It had been designed, before the war, to collect solar energy and beam it to a receiving station on Earth. The satellite packages had been fired into a 24-hour orbit, circling the Earth over a fixed point on the Equator. The receiving station, built on the southeastern coast of the United States, saw the five units as a single second-magnitude star, low on the horizon all year, every year.

  Of course the packages wavered slightly in their orbits, but not enough in eighteen years to spread very far apart. A man could still put them together into a power-beaming satellite.

  If he could get there.

  And if they were not damaged.

  And if he knew how to put them together.

  Through months that stretched into years, over miles of radioactive wilderness, on horseback, on carts, on foot, those who knew about the satellite spread the word, carefully, secretly, to what was left of North America’s scientists and engineers. Gradually they trickled into the once-abandoned settlement.

  They elected a leader: Jason, the engineer, one of the few men who knew anything about rockets to survive the war and the lunatic bands that hunted down anyone suspected of being connected with prewar science.

  Jason’s first act was to post guards around the settlement. Then he organized the work of rebuilding the power-receiving station and a man-carrying rocket.

  They pieced together parts of a rocket and equipment that had been damaged by the war. What they did not know, they learned. What they did not have, they built or cannibalized from ruined equipment.

  Jason sent armed foragers out for gasoline, charcoal and wood. They built a ramshackle electricity generator. They planted crops and hunted the small game in the local underbrush. A major celebration occurred whenever a forager came back towing a stray cow or horse or goat.

  They erected fences around the settlement, because more than once they had to fight off the small armies of looters and anti-scientists that still roved the countryside.

  But finally they completed the rocket . . . after exhausting almost every scrap of material and every ounce of willpower.

  Then they picked a pilot: Thomas H. Morris, age 41, former historian and teacher. He had arrived a year before the completion of the rocket after walking 1,300 miles to find the settlement; his purpose was to organize some of the scientists and explore the bombed-out cities to see what could be salvaged out of man’s shattered heritage.

  But Tom was ideal for the satellite job: the right size—five-six and one-hundred thirty pounds; no dependents—wife and two sons dead of radiation sickness. True, he had no technical background whatsoever; but with Arnoldsson’s hypnotic conditioning he could be taught all that was necessary for him to know . . . maybe.

  Best of all, though, he was thoroughly expendable.

  So Jason made a deal with him. There could be no expeditions into the cities until the satellite was finished, because every man was needed at the settlement. And the satellite could not be finished until someone volunteered to go up in the rocket and assemble it.

  It was like holding a candy bar in front of a small child. He accepted Jason’s terms.

  The Earth turned, and with it the tiny spark of life alone in the emptiness around the satellite. Tom worked unmindful of time, his eyes and hands following Jason’s engineering commands through Arnoldsson’s post-hypnotic directions, with occasional radio conferences.

  But his conscious mind sought refuge from the strangeness of space, and he talked almost constantly into his radio while he worked, talked about anything, everything, to the woman on the other end of the invisible link.

  “. . . and once the settlement is getting the power beamed from this contraption, we’re going to explore the cities. Guess we won’t be able to get very far inland, but we can still tackle Washington, Philadelphia and New York . . . plenty for us there.”

  Ruth asked, “What were they like before the war?”

  “The cities? That’s right, you’re too young to remember. They were big, Ruth, with buildings so tall people called them skyscrapers.” He pulled a wrench from its magnetic holder in the satellite’s self-contained tool bin. “And filled with life, millions of people lived in each one . . all the people we have at the settlement could have lived on one floor of a good-sized hotel.”

  “What’s a hotel?”

  Tom grinned as he tugged at a pipe fitting. “You’ll find out when you come with us . . . you’ll see things you could never imagine.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll come with you.”

  He looked up from his work and stared Earthward. “Why?”

  “Well . . . Jason . . . he says there isn’t much left to see. And it’s all radioactive and diseased.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “But Jason says . . .”

  Tom snorted. “Jason hasn’t been out of the settlement for six years. I walked from Chicago to the settlement a year ago. I went through a dozen cities . . . they’re wrecked, and the radioactivity count was higher than it is at the settlement, but it’s not high enough to be dangerous.”

  “And you want to explore those cities; why?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a historian,” Tom answered while his hands manipulated complex wiring unconsciously, as though they belonged not to him but to some unseen puppeteer.

  “I don’t understand,” Ruth said.

  “Look—those cities hold mankind’s memory. I want to gather up the fragments of civilization before the last book is used for kindling and the last machine turns to rust. We need the knowledge in the cities if we expect to rebuild a civilization.”

  “But Jason and Dr. Arnoldsson and the engineers—they know all about—”

  “Jason and the engineers,” Tom snapped. “They had to stretch themselves to the breaking point to put together this rocket from parts that were already manufactured, waiting for them. Do you think they’d know how to build a city? Dr. Arnoldsson is a psychiatrist, his efforts at surgery are pathetic. Have you ever seen him try to set a broken leg? And what about agriculture? What about tool making or mining or digging wells, even . . . what about education? How many kids your own age can read or write?”

  “But the satellite . . .”

  “The satellite won’t be of any use to people who can’t work the machines. The satellite is no substitute for knowledge. Unless something is done, your grandchildren will be worshipping the machines, but they won’t know how to repair them.”

  “No . . .”

  “Yes, Ruth,” he insisted.

  “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the static-streaked hum in his earphones. “You’re wrong, Tom. You’re wrong. The satellite will send us the power we need. Then we’ll build our machines and teach our children.”

  How can you teach what you don’t know? Tom wanted to ask, but didn’t. He worked without talking, hauling the weightless tons of satellite packages into position, electronically welding them together, splicing wiring systems too intricate for his conscious mind to understand.

  Twice he pulled himself back along the lifeline into the ship for capsule meals and stimulants.

  Finally he found himself staring at his gloved hands moving industriously within the bowels of one of the satellite packages. He stopped, suddenly aware that it was piercingly cold and totally dark except for the lamp on his helmet.

  He pushed away from the unfinished satellite. Two of the packages were assembled now. The big parabolic mirror and two other uncrated units hung nearby, waiting impassively.

  Tom groped his way back into the ship. After taking off his helmet and swallowing a couple of energy pills he said to the ship’s radio:

  “What time is it?’�
� The abrupt sound of his own voice half-startled him.

  “Nearly four a.m.” It was Jason.

  “Earth’s blotted out the sun,” Tom muttered. “Getting damned cold in here.”

  “You’re in the ship?”

  “Yes, it got too cold for the suit.”

  “Turn up the ship’s heaters,” Jason said. “What’s the temperature in there?”

  Tom glanced at the thermometer as he twisted the thermostat dial as far as it would go. “Forty-nine,” he answered.

  He could sense Jason nod. “The heaters are on minimum power automatically unless you turn them up. It’ll warm you up in a few seconds. How’s the satellite?”

  Tom told him what remained to be done.

  “You’re not even half through yet.” Jason’s voice grew fainter and Tom knew that he was doing some mental arithmetic as he thought out loud. “You’ve been up about twenty hours; at the rate you’re going you’ll need another twenty-four to finish the job. That will bring you very close to your oxygen limit.”

  Tom sat impassively and stared at the gray metal and colored knobs of the radio.

  “Is everything going all right?” Jason asked.

  “How should I know? Ask Arnoldsson. “

  “He’s asleep. They all are.”

  “Except you.”

  “That’s right,” Jason said, “except me.”

  “How long did Ruth stay on the radio?”

  “About sixteen hours. I ordered her to sleep a few hours ago.”

  “You’re pretty good at giving orders,” Tom said.

  “Someone has to.”

  “Yeah.” Tom ran a hand across his mouth. Boy, could I use a cigarette. Funny, I haven’t even thought about them in years.

  “Look,” he said to the radio, “we might as well settle something right now. How many men are you going to let me have?”

  “Don’t you think you’d better save that for now and get back to work?”

  “It’s too damned cold out there. My fingers are still numb. You could have done a better job on insulating this suit.”

  “There are a lot of things we could have done,” Jason said, “if we had the material.”

  “How about the expedition? How many men can 1 have?”

  “As many as you can get,” the radio voice answered. “I promised I won’t stand in your way once the satellite is finished and operating.”

  “Won’t stand in my way,” Tom repeated. “That means you won’t encourage anyone, either.”

  Jason’s voice rose a trifle. “I can’t encourage my people to go out and risk their lives just because you want to poke around some radioactive slag heaps!”

  “You promised that if I put the satellite together and got back alive, I could investigate the cities. That was our deal.”

  “That’s right. You can. And anyone foolish enough to accompany you can follow along.”

  “Jason, you know I need at least twenty-five armed men to venture out of the settlement . . .”

  “Then you admit it’s dangerous!” the radio voice crackled.

  “Sure, if we meet a robber band. You’ve sent out enough foraging groups to know that. And we’ll be travelling hundreds of miles. But it’s not dangerous for the reasons you’ve been circulating . . . radioactivity and disease germs and that nonsense. There’s no danger that one of your own foraging groups couldn’t handle. I came through the cities last year alone, and I made it.”

  Tom waited for a reply from the radio, but only the hissing and crackling of electrical disturbances answered him.

  “Jason, those cities hold what’s left of a worldwide civilization. We can’t begin to rebuild unless we reopen that knowledge. We need it, we need it desperately!”

  “It’s either destroyed or radioactive, and to think anything else is self-delusion. Besides, we have enough intelligence right here at the settlement to build a new civilization, better than the old one, once the satellite is ready.”

  “But you don’t!” Tom shouted. “You poor damned fool, you don’t even realize how much you don’t know.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Jason snapped. “Get outside and finish your work.”

  “I’m still cold, dammit,” Tom said. He glanced at the thermometer on the control console. “Jason! It’s below freezing in here!”

  “What?”

  “The heating unit isn’t working at all!”

  “Impossible. You must have turned it off instead of on.”

  “I can read, dammit! It’s turned as high as it’ll go. “

  “What’s the internal thermometer reading?”

  Tom looked. “Barely thirty . . . and it’s still going down.”

  “Hold on, I’ll wake Arnoldsson and the electrical engineers.”

  Silence. Tom stared at the inanimate radio, which gave off only the whines and scratches of lightning and sun and stars, all far distant from him. For all his senses could tell him, he was the last living thing in the universe.

  Sure, call a conference, Tom thought. How much more work is there to be done? About twenty-four hours, he said. Another day. And another full night. Another night, this time with no heat. And maybe no oxygen, either. The heaters must have been working tonight until I pushed them up to full power. Something must have blown out. Maybe it’s just a broken wire. I could fix that if they tell me how. But if it’s not . . . no heat tomorrow night, no heat at all.

  Then Arnoldsson’s voice floated up through the radio speaker: soft, friendly, calm, soothing.

  The next thing Tom knew he was putting on his helmet. Sunlight was lancing through the tinted observation port and the ship was noticeably warmer.

  “What happened?” he mumbled through the dissolving haze of hypnosis.

  “It’s all right, Tom.” Ruth’s voice. “Dr. Arnoldsson put you under and had you check the ship’s wiring. Now he and Jason and the engineers are figuring out what to do. They said it’s nothing to worry about . . . they’ll have everything figured out in a couple of hours.”

  “And I’m to work on the satellite until they’re ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s all right, Tom. Don’t worry.”

  “Sure, Ruth, I’m not worried.” That makes us both liars.

  He worked mechanically, handling the unfamiliar machinery with the engineers’ knowledge through Arnoldsson’s hypnotic communication.

  Just like the pictures they used to show of nuclear engineers handling radioactive materials with remotely-controlled mechanical hands from behind a concrete wall. I’m only a pair of hands, a couple of opposed thumbs, a fortunate mutation of a self-conscious simian . . . but, God, why don’t they call? She said it wasn’t anything big. Just the wiring, probably. Then why don’t they call?

  He tried to work without thinking about anything, but he couldn’t force his mind into stillness.

  Even if I can fix the heaters, even f 1 don’t freeze to death, I might run out of oxygen. And how am I going to land the ship? The takeoff was automatic, but even Jason and Arnoldsson can’t make a pilot out of me.

  “Tom?” Jason’s voice.

  “Yes!” He jerked to attention and floated free of the satellite.

  “We’ve . . . eh, checked what you told us about the ship’s electrical system while Arnoldsson had you under the hypnotic trance.”

  “And?”

  “Well . . . it, eh, looks as though one of the batteries gave out. The batteries feed all the ship’s lights, heat, and electrical power . . . with one of them out, you don’t have enough power to run the heaters.”

  “There’s no way to fix it?”

  “Not unless you cut out something else. And you need everything else . . . the radio, the controls, the oxygen pumps . . .”

  “What about the lights? I don’t need them, I’ve got the lamp on my suit helmet.”

  “They don’t take as much po
wer as the heaters do. It wouldn’t help at all.”

  Tom twisted weightlessly and stared back at Earth. “Well, just what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Don’t get excited,” Jason’s voice grated in his earphones. “We’ve calculated it all out. According to our figures, your suit will store enough heat during the day to last the night . . .”

  “I nearly froze to death last night and the ship was heated most of the time!”

  “It will get cold,” Jason’s voice answered calmly, “but you should be able to make it. Your own body warmth will be stored by the suit’s insulation, and that will help somewhat. But you must not open the suit all night, not even to take off your helmet.”

  “And the oxygen?”

  “You can take all the replacement cylinders from the ship and keep them at the satellite. The time you save by not having to go back and forth to the ship for fresh oxygen will give you about an hour’s extra margin. You should be able to make it.”

  Tom nodded. “And of course I’m expected to work on the satellite right through the night.”

  “It will help you keep your mind off the cold. If we see that you’re not going to make it—either because of the cold or the oxygen—we’ll warn you and you can return to the settlement.”

  ‘Suppose I have enough oxygen to just finish the satellite, but if I do, I won’t have enough to fly home. Will you warn me then?”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Dr. Arnoldsson said he could put you under,” Jason continued unemotionally, “but he thinks you might freeze once your conscious mind went asleep.”

  “You’ve figured out all the details,” Tom muttered. “All I have to do is put your damned satellite together without freezing to death and then fly 22,300 miles back home before my air runs out. Simple.”

  He glanced at the sun, still glaring bright even through his tinted visor. It was nearly on the edge of the Earth-disk.

  “All right,” Tom said, “I’m going into the ship now for some pills; it’s nearly sunset.’’

  Cold. Dark and so cold that numbers lost their meaning. Paralyzing cold, seeping in through the suit while you worked, crawling up your limbs until you could hardly move. The whole universe hung up in the sky and looked down on the small cold figure of a man struggling blindly with machinery he could not understand.