by Ben Bova
Dark. Dark and cold.
Ruth stayed on the radio as long as Jason would allow her, talking to Tom, keeping the link with life and warmth. But finally Jason took over, and the radio went silent.
So don’t talk, Tom growled silently, I can keep warm just by hating you, Jason.
He worked through the frigid night, struggling ant-like with huge pieces of equipment. Slowly he assembled the big parabolic mirror, the sighting mechanism and the atomic convertor. With dreamy motions he started connecting the intricate wiring systems.
And all the while he raged at himself: Why? Why did it have to be this way? Why me? Why did I agree to do this? I knew I’d never live through it. Why did I do it?
He retraced the days of his life: the preparations for the flight, the arguments with Jason over exploring the cities, his trek from Chicago to the settlement, the aimless years after the radiation death of his two boys and Marjorie, his wife.
Marjorie and the boys, lying sick month after month, dying one after the other in a cancerous agony while he stood by helplessly in the ruins of what had been their home.
No! His mind warned him. Don’t think of that. Not that. Think of Jason, Jason who prevents you from doing the one thing you want, who is taking your life from you; Jason, the peerless leader; Jason, who’s afraid of the cities. Why? Why is he afraid of the cities? That’s the hub of everything down there. Why does Jason fear the cities?
It wasn’t until he finished connecting the satellite’s last unit—the sighting mechanism—that Tom realized the answer.
One answer. And everything fell into place.
Everything . . . except what Tom Morris was going to do about it.
Tom squinted through the twin telescopes of the sighting mechanism again, then pushed away and floated free, staring at the Earth bathed in pale moonlight.
What do I do now? For an instant he was close to panic, but he forced it down. Think, he said to himself. You’re supposed to be a Homo Sapiens . . . use that brain. Think!
The long night ended. The sun swung around from behind the bulk of Earth. Tom looked at it as he felt its warmth penetrating the insulated suit, and he knew it was the last time he would see the sun. He felt no more anger—even his hatred of Jason was drained out of him now. In its place was a sense of—finality.
He spoke into his helmet mike. “Jason.”
“He is in conference with the astronomers.” Dr. Arnoldsson’s voice.
“Get him for me, please.”
A few minutes of silence, broken only by the star-whisperings in his earphones.
Jason’s voice was carefully modulated. “Tom, you made it.”
“I made it. And the satellite’s finished.”
“It’s finished? Good! Now, what we have to do—”
“Wait,” Tom interrupted. “It’s finished but it’s useless.”
“What?”
Tom twisted around to look at the completed satellite, its oddly-angled framework and bulbous machinery glinting fiercely in the newly-risen sun. “After I finished it I looked through the sighting mechanism to make certain the satellite’s transmitters were correctly aimed at the settlement. Nobody told me to, but nobody said not to, either, so I looked. It’s a simple mechanism. . . . The transmitters are pointed smack in the middle of Hudson’s Bay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certainly.”
“You can rotate the antennas. “
“I know. I tried it. I can turn them as far south as the Great Lakes.”
A long pause.
“I was afraid of this,” Jason’s voice said evenly. I’ll bet you were, Tom answered to himself.
“You must have moved the satellite out of position while assembling its components.”
“So my work here comes to nothing because the satellite’s power beam can’t reach the settlement’s receivers.”
“Not . . . not unless you use the ship . . . to tow the satellite into the proper orbital position,” Jason stammered.
You actually went through with it, Tom thought. Aloud, he said, “But if I use the ship’s engine to tow the satellite, I won’t have enough fuel left to get back to Earth, will I?” Not to mention oxygen.
A longer pause. “No.”
“I have two questions, Jason. I think I know the answers to them both but I’ll ask you anyway. One. You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve calculated this insane business down to the last drop of sweat,” Tom growled. “You knew that I’d knock the satellite out of position while I was working on it, and the only way to get it back in the right orbit would be for me to tow it back and strand myself up here. This is a suicide mission, isn’t it, Jason?”
“That’s not true. . . .”
“Don’t bother defending yourself. I don’t hate you anymore, Jason, I understand you, dammit. You made our deal as much to get rid of me as to get your precious satellite put together.”
“No one can force you to tow the satellite . . .”
“Sure, I can leave it where it is and come back home. If I can fly this ship, which I doubt. And what would I come back to? I left a world without power. I’d return to a world without hope. And some dark night one of your disappointed young goons would catch up with me . . . and no one would blame him, would they?”
Jason’s voice was brittle. “You’ll tow it into position?”
“After you answer my second question,” Tom countered. “Why are you afraid of the cities?”
“Afraid? I’m not afraid.”
“Yes, you are. Oh, you could use the hope of exploring the cities to lure me up here on this suicide-job, but you knew I’d never be back to claim my half of the bargain. You’re afraid of the cities, and I think I know why. You’re afraid of the unknown quantity they represent, distrustful of your own leadership when new problems arise . . .”
“We’ve worked for more than ten years to make this settlement what it is,” Jason fumed. “We fought and died to keep those marauding lunatics from wrecking us. We are mankind’s last hope! We can’t afford to let others in . . . they’re not scientists, they wouldn’t understand, they’d ruin everything.”
“Mankind’s last hope, terrified of men.” Tom was suddenly tired, weary of the whole struggle. But there was something he had to tell them.
“Listen, Jason,” he said. “The walls you’ve built around the settlement weren’t meant to keep you from going outside. You’re not a self-sufficient little community. You’re cut off from mankind’s memory, from his dreams, from his ambitions. You can’t even start to rebuild a civilization—and if you do try, don’t you think the people outside will learn about it? Don’t you think they’ve got a right to share in whatever progress the settlement makes? And if you don’t let them, don’t you realize that they’ll destroy the settlement?”
Silence.
“I’m a historian,” Tom continued, “and I know that a civilization can’t exist in a vacuum. If outsiders don’t conquer it, it’ll rot from within. It’s happened to Babylonia, Greece, Rome, China even. Over and ove again. The Soviets built an Iron Curtain around themselves, and wiped themselves out because of it. Don’t you see, Jason? There are only two types of animals on this planet: the gamblers and the extinct. It won’t be easy to live with the outsiders, there’ll be problems of every type. But the alternative is decay and destruction. You’ve got to take the chance, if you don’t, you’re dead.”
A long silence. Finally Jason said, “You’ve only got about a half-hour’s worth of oxygen left. Will you tow the satellite into the proper position?”
Tom stared at the planet unseeingly. “Yes,” he mumbled. “I’ll have to check some calculations with the astronomers.”
Jason’s voice buzzed flatly in his earphones. A background murmur, scarcely audible over the crackling static.
Then Ruth’s voice broke through, “Tom, Tom, you can’t do this! You won’t be able to get back!”
“No! Come back, Tom, please. Come back. Forget the satellite. Come back and explore the cities. I’ll go with you. Please. Don’t die, Tom, please don’t die . . .”
“Ruth, Ruth, you’re too young to cry over me. I’ll be all right, don’t worry.”
‘‘No, it isn’t fair.”
“It never is,” Tom said. “Listen, Ruth. I’ve been dead a long time. Since the bombs fell, I guess. My world died then and I died with it. When I came to the settlement, when I agreed to make this flight, I think we all knew I’d never return, even if we wouldn’t admit it to ourselves. But I’m just one man, Ruth, one small part of the story. The story goes on, with or without me. There’s tomorrow . . . your tomorrow. I’ve got no place in it, but it belongs to you. So don’t waste your time crying over a man who died eighteen years ago.”
He snapped off his suit radio and went the rest of the way to the ship in silence. After locking the hatch and pumping air back into the cabin, he took off his helmet.
Good clean canned air, Tom said to himself. Too bad it won’t last longer.
He sat down and flicked a switch on the radio console. “All right, do you have those calculations ready?”
“In a few moments.” Arnoldsson’s voice. Ten minutes later Tom reemerged from the ship and made his ghostlike way back to the satellite’s sighting mechanism. He checked the artificial moon’s position, then went back to the ship.
“On course,” he said to the radio. “The transmitters are pointing a little northwest of Philadelphia.”
“Good,” Amoldsson’s voice answered. “Now, your next blast should be three seconds’ duration in the same direction . . .”
“No,” Tom said, “I’ve gone as far as I’m going to.”
“What?”
“I’m not moving the satellite any farther.”
“But you still have not enough fuel to return to Earth. Why are you stopping here?”
“I’m not coming back,” Tom answered. “But I’m not going to beam the satellite’s power to the settlement, either.”
“What are you trying to pull?” Jason’s voice. Furious. Panicky.
“It’s simple, Jason. If you want the satellite’s power, you can dismantle the settlement and carry it to Pennsylvania. The transmitters are aimed at some good farming country, and within miles of a city that’s still half-intact.”
“You’re insane!”
“Not at all. We’re keeping our deal, Jason. I’m giving you the satellite’s power, and you’re going to allow exploration of the cities. You won’t be able to prevent your people from rummaging through the cities now; and you won’t be able to keep the outsiders from joining you, not once you get out from behind your own fences.”
“You can’t do this! You . . .”
Tom snapped off the radio. He looked at it for a second or two, then smashed a heavy-booted foot against the console. Glass and metal crashed satisfactorily.
Okay, Tom thought, it’s done. Maybe Jason’s right and I’m crazy, but we’ll never know now. In a year or so they’ll be set up outside Philadelphia, and a lot better for it. I’m forcing them to take the long way back, but it’s a better way. The only way, maybe.
He leaned back in the seat and stared out the observation port at the completed satellite. Already it was taking in solar energy and beaming it Earthward.
In ten years they’ll send another ship up here to check the gadget and make sure everything’s okay. Maybe they’ll be able to do it in five years. Makes no difference. I’ll still be here.
INSPIRATION
Many academic papers have been written about the influence of scientific research on science fiction, and vice versa. Whole books have been written about the interplay between science and science fiction. It struck me that it might be interesting to try a story that explores that theme.
I did a bit of historical research. When H. G. Wells first published “The Time Machine,” Albert Einstein was sixteen. William Thomson, newly made Lord Kelvin, was the grand old man of physics, and a stern guardian of the orthodox Newtonian view of the universe. Wells’ idea of considering time as a fourth dimension would have been anathema to Kelvin; but it would have lit up young Albert’s imagination.
Who knows? Perhaps Einstein was actually inspired by Wells.
At any rate, there was the kernel of a story. But how could I get Wells, Einstein, and Kelvin together? And why? To be an effective story, there must be a fuse burning somewhere that will cause an explosion unless the protagonist acts to prevent it.
My protagonist turned out to be a time traveler, sent on a desperate mission to the year 1896, where he finds Wells, Einstein, and Kelvin and brings them together.
And one other person, as well.
* * *
He was as close to despair as only a lad of seventeen can be.
“But you heard what the professor said,” he moaned. “It is all finished. There is nothing left to do.”
The lad spoke in German, of course. I had to translate it for Mr. Wells.
Wells shook his head. “I fail to see why such splendid news should upset the boy so.”
I said to the youngster, “Our British friend says you should not lose hope. Perhaps the professor is mistaken.”
“Mistaken? How could that be? He is famous. A nobleman! A baron!”
I had to smile. The lad’s stubborn disdain for authority figures would become world-famous one day. But it was not in evidence this summer afternoon in AD 1896.
We were sitting in a sidewalk café with a magnificent view of the Danube and the city of Linz. Delicious odors of cooking sausages and bakery pastries wafted from the kitchen inside. Despite the splendid warm sunshine, though, I felt chilled and weak, drained of what little strength I had remaining.
“Where is that blasted waitress?” Wells grumbled. “We’ve been here half an hour, at the least.”
“Why not just lean back and enjoy the afternoon, sir?” I suggested tiredly. “This is the best view in all the area.”
Herbert George Wells was not a patient man. He had just scored a minor success in Britain with his first novel and had decided to treat himself to a vacation in Austria. He came to that decision under my influence, of course, but he did not yet realize that. At age twenty-nine, he had a lean, hungry look to him that would mellow only gradually with the coming years of prestige and prosperity.
Albert was round-faced and plumpish; still had his baby fat on him, although he had started a moustache as most teenaged boys did in those days. It was a thin, scraggly black wisp, nowhere near the full white brush it would become. If all went well with my mission.
It had taken me an enormous amount of maneuvering to get Wells and this teenager to the same place at the same time. The effort had nearly exhausted all my energies. Young Albert had come to see Professor Thomson with his own eyes, of course. Wells had been more difficult; he had wanted to see Salzburg, the birthplace of Mozart. I had taken him instead to Linz, with a thousand assurances that he would find the trip worthwhile.
He complained endlessly about Linz, the city’s lack of beauty, the sour smell of its narrow streets, the discomfort of our hotel, the dearth of restaurants where one could get decent food—by which he meant burnt mutton. Not even the city’s justly famous Linzertorte pleased him.
“Not as good as a decent trifle,” he groused. “Not as good by half.”
I, of course, knew several versions of Linz that were even less pleasing, including one in which the city was nothing more than charred radioactive rubble and the Danube so contaminated that it glowed at night all the way down to the Black Sea. I shuddered at that vision and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
It had almost required physical force to get Wells to take a walk across the Danube on the ancient stone bridge and up the Postlingberg to this little sidewalk café. He had huffed with anger when we had started out from our h
otel at the city’s central square, then soon was puffing with exertion as we toiled up the steep hill. I was breathless from the climb also. In later years a tram would make the ascent, but on this particular afternoon we had been obliged to walk.
He had been mildly surprised to see the teenager trudging up the precipitous street just a few steps ahead of us. Recognizing that unruly crop of dark hair from the audience at Thomson’s lecture that morning, Wells had graciously invited Albert to join us for a drink.
“We deserve a beer or two after this blasted climb,” he said, eying me unhappily.
Panting from the climb, I translated to Albert, “Mr. Wells . . . invites you . . . to have a refreshment with us.”
The youngster was pitifully grateful, although he would order nothing stronger than tea. It was obvious that Thomson’s lecture had shattered him badly. So now we sat on uncomfortable cast-iron chairs and waited—they for the drinks they had ordered, me for the inevitable. I let the warm sunshine soak into me and hoped it would rebuild at least some of my strength.
The view was little short of breathtaking: the brooding castle across the river, the Danube itself streaming smoothly and actually blue as it glittered in the sunlight, the lakes beyond the city and the blue-white snow peaks of the Austrian Alps hovering in the distance like ghostly petals of some immense unworldly flower.
But Wells complained, “That has to be the ugliest castle I have ever seen.”
“What did the gentleman say?” Albert asked.
“He is stricken by the sight of the Emperor Friedrich’s castle,” I answered sweetly.
“Ah. Yes, it has a certain grandeur to it, doesn’t it?”
Wells had all the impatience of a frustrated journalist. “Where is that damnable waitress? Where is our beer?”
“I’ll find the waitress,” I said, rising uncertainly from my iron-hard chair. As his ostensible tour guide, I had to remain in character for a while longer, no matter how tired I felt. But then I saw what I had been waiting for.
