Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Front cover
Back cover
Inside preview
Book credits
Copyright
The Passengers of the Jupiter II
Title
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PyramidBook Order Form
Front cover
Back cover
Inside preview
“YOU CANNOT ESCAPE, EARTHMAN”
Curiously, Smith tried on the mysterious, silvery helmet he had discovered in the workshops of the deserted planet—then, in horror, he turned to face the charge of a giant, rat-faced alien space raider.
Desperately, Smith cried “Stop”—and, amazed, he saw the alien halt, glaring. “What—why are you standing like that?” he asked.
“You told me to stop. I cannot move,” the alien snarled.
Then Smith realized . . . the “helmet” harnessed the incredible mental powers of a forgotten civilization. It had saved his life—and it would do still more for him....
“Power,” he whispered. “Power . . . to rule the Universe!”
Book credits
LOST IN SPACE
DAVE VAN ARNAM
and
RON ARCHER
PYRAMID BOOKS New York
Copyright
For Dorothy Cramer, in hopes she’ll like it- and for Sharon, who won’t
LOST IN SPACE
A PYRAMID BOOK
First printing October 1967
This book is fiction. No resemblance is intendeil between any character herein and any person, living or dead; any such resemblance is purely coincidental.
© 1967, Space Productions
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the U nited States of America
PYRAMID BOOKS are published by Pyramid Publicati ons, I nc.,
444 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10022, U.S.A.
The Passengers of the Jupiter II
The Passengers of the Jupiter II,
Lost In Space
Professor John Robinson-Astrophysicist; acting captain of the Jupiter II since it was lost in space.
Maureen Robinson-His wife.
Judy Robinson-Their 19-year-old daughter.
Penny Robinson-Their 12-year-old daughter.
Will Robinson-Their 10-year-old son.
Dr. Don West-A young fellow scientist to Robinson, who was aboard when the Jupiter II was lost.
Robot-The ship's mobile computer, a mechanized cybernetic aid.
Dr. Zachary Smith-Stowaway aboard the Jupiter II at the time it was lost.
Title
LOST IN SPACE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
In space it is always night.
From the depths of the vast black reaches of intergalactic space, the galaxies are distant, spinning wheels sparkling in the eternal dark.
Even within a galaxy, with its billions of stars, the distances are too great. Night rules the bright jewelled patterns of the starscape scenes.
Somewhere in a galaxy which might be our own—but there is no way to be certain—a gleaming space-research station roams the everlasting night. It is lost, lost in the endless reaches of interstellar space.
There can be no lonelier spot in the universe . . .
“It sure looks like Earth,” sighed Will.
John Robinson tousled his ten-year-old son’s hair and smiled ruefully.
“Emotions have no place in the logical world of the true scientist.” Dr. Zachary Smith, arms folded, observed the large vision plate calmly. From 20,000 miles out, the planet they were approaching filled much of the sky. On one screen they viewed a coastline from an apparent distance of about a hundred miles.
“But,” continued Smith, his face becoming woeful, “it has green grass, cities, vehicles, airplanes, animal life; it is as close to Earth as I could hope to see.” Smith’s eyes glistened.
“Correction,” observed the ship’s Robot, whirling to face Smith. “Earth has polar ice caps. This planet does not. The main continental land mass below us does resemble North America in some respects, that is true. But it has three Alaska-type formations and nothing resembling either Florida or California. That is a variation I cannot accept.”
“What is that to you,” snarled Smith. “You don’t care for oranges anyway, tin man. And what do you know of honest emotions, besides?”
“That they exist, Dr. Smith. It is true I have not ever experienced them, much the same as you, but—” John Robinson put his hand on Dr. Smith’s shoulder as he started to move toward the Robot.
“I’ll pull the plug on you yet, you computerized mouse trap! We Smiths are too proud a race to take insults from a pile of faulty transistors!”
“Correction. A circuit-check reveals all my transistors are functioning properly.”
“All right, you two,” said Robinson then. “We’re close enough to prepare the scoutcraft for landing. Dr. Smith, I believe it is your turn to accompany me on the preliminary exploration?”
Smith nodded reluctantly.
“Very well. Robot, have you checked the monitors? Has the Jupiter II achieved a stable orbit?”
There was a moment’s pause while the moving elements in the visible portion of the Robot’s brain whirled briefly. A series of small electroluminescent panels flicked on and off in a rapid pattern. Elsewhere in the ship, stationary computer monitors provided a complete resume of the ship’s progress since the last time the Robot had called for a report.
“Affirmative,” said the Robot. The pause had lasted no longer than that between two ordinary human beings in conversation, but the Robot, in that period, had assimilated, ordered, and reduced to their essential meaning some 200,000 separate bits of information concerning their course over the last hour.
“Any significant new information on the target planet?” Robinson asked, his fingers running over pressure plates, testing the main control board’s linkages with the scoutcraft, now snug in the underbelly of the Jupiter II.
“Affirmative,” repeated the Robot, who had anticipated Robinson’s question and continued riffling through the distant memory banks. “Mass, 1.124956—“
Smith interrupted. “Robot, standing orders are that information in numerical form is to be limited to four significant digits, correct?” He smiled, smugly.
There was a slightly louder whirr from the Robot, and Robinson spoke up. “Dr. Smith, is this the time to complain about the Robot’s programming? As soon as we get time, you may spend all the time you wish checking his circuits. In the meantime, Robot, will you please continue as you were.”
Smith chuckled as the Robot resumed his toneless recitation. “-92174638920480132-”
Robinson shot an irritated glance at Smith. “All right, Robot, try to keep to four significant digits, will you?”
“Very well, captain,” said the Robot. “The mass of the planet is almost precisely one-eighth greater than that of Earth. Dr. Smith, for example, will weigh approximately 20.6 pounds more than his normal weight, or 185.6 pounds. He has been overeating for some weeks now, and is some ten pounds over normal. Thus his actual weight will be only three pounds under an even 200, indicating—”
“Is this metal monstrosity to leave me no private life aboard this peregrinating telephone booth? Perhaps if we took off its wheels, dismantled its primary circuits, and plugged it directly into the main stationary computers—�
��
“Shut up, fatso,” said the Robot, voice still toneless.
“Bah!” said Smith. ‘Whoever heard of a vindictive animated radio?”
“Perhaps both of you should be dismantled,” observed Robinson sourly. “Can we get on with the report?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the Robot. “The planet is closer by about 15% to its sun than Earth to Sol, but as this system’s sun is some 20% weaker than Sol, the planet is receiving less radiation. The precise comparison depends on a more exact reading of atmospheric conditions, but insulated clothing seems indicated when going outside. If the Jupiter itself lands later, I myself plan to switch to my cold-weather lubrication system.”
“Then there’s nothing in the atmospheric makeup indicating we’ll need breathing helmets, or spacesuits?”
“Spacesuits negative. Breathing helmets may be necessary. Preliminary spectrograms indicate much higher proportion of inert gases. Such gases might build up in your systems and cause cumulative—and unpredictable—damage. But the atmosphere is non-corrosive. Suiting-up should be unnecessary.”
“Good,” said Robinson. Unconsciously he drew a deep breath. “Now the big question. What do you judge the situation is, concerning life? We can see roads and cities and aircraft, so we know there’s intelligence down there. Is it likely to be hostile to us? Has it attempted communication on any bands? Should we attempt communication before landing?” This time the pause was several seconds, while the Robot digested a flood of information from the monitors.
“No indication they are aware of us yet, though we have beamed a standard recognition signal to them.”
“That certainly doesn’t mean much,” observed Dr. Smith acidly. “What would they know of Earth and Earth recognition signals? Why don’t we just land the Jupiter, and beam them if they get too close?”
The Robot answered before Robinson could speak. “Negative, Zachary,” it intoned, “you might as well ask why we don’t put you in a cage or beam you if you get too close to us. Based on past experience this is positively indicated. Professor Robinson, perhaps this would be a good time to—”
“That will be enough, Robot. You too, Dr. Smith. Continue your life-analysis of that planet.”
The artificial voice of the Robot rumbled, as if it were clearing its throat. “Hrrrrrmmph. Most favorable landing spot should be some distance from centers of urban population. High level of mechanized transportation devices observed indicates the complex patterns around cities should not be disturbed. Suggest landing beside a main highway in countryside.”
“Hmmm, good idea. That should indicate were not hostile, and if they are, it’ll give us time to find out and get away. I must say I’m relieved. Ok, Dr. Smith, let’s get down to the scoutcraft.”
Will ran to his father, who picked him up and hugged him. “Will, you take care of your mother,” Robinson said. He looked past his son at Maureen and their daughters. “This shouldn’t be any problem. It looks as routine as . . . well, as routine as such things are ever going to be.”
He heaved a sigh.
“Don’t worry,” said Don West, “we’ll be in touch all the way. If anything goes wrong, we’ll bring down the Jupiter and the big guns immediately.”
Robinson grinned at the young professor. “Ok, chief, but don’t be too quick on the trigger! Come on, Dr. Smith, we’ve got work to do . . . ”
A few minutes later the two Earthmen had changed to insulated suits and had donned breathing helmets—transparent plastic headgear that did not interfere with their vision or freedom of action, but which filtered alien air into the simplified mix of the Jupiter II.
Robinson seated himself beside Smith in the scoutcraft, and began activating pressure panels. On the craft’s small vision plates half a dozen images of the planet leaped into view.
“Sixty seconds to release from the Jupiter, Dr. Smith,” he cautioned, and they busied themselves at the controls.
For a moment, Robinson’s hand paused over the pressure panel that would send them away from the Jupiter II. A wild, vagrant memory of another time, another control board . . . it had been Smith’s fault, of course, but it hadn’t been on purpose and he had more than made up for it since . . . wasn’t even supposed to be on the Jupiter. Robinson had worried about testing the new model thruster—and then it had happened, and the Jupiter had shot off across the entire galaxy and had ended up nowhere they could locate on their maps.
And, of course, he thought bitterly, it wouldn’t have made any difference if they had known where they were—that first time, or now, or ever, as long as the ship’s drive could still not be dependably aimed.
He slapped the pressure panel.
Presently there came a slight jar—and the scoutcraft began speeding down to the planet below.
Several minutes later, Smith looked up to the plate that had shown the seacoast from a hundred miles, and stifled an involuntary noise of alarm. The illusion was of an imminent crash.
“Do not alarm yourself, Dr. Smith,” the ship’s Robot said over the intercom. “You are proceeding on course to a safe landing.”
“I know that, you automated parrot,” snapped Smith angrily. “I did that deliberately. My system needed some adrenelin . . . ”
“Of course, Dr. Smith.”
“When we get back to Earth, I’m going to damp all your circuits and turn you into a hitching post,” muttered Smith.
The alien death ray was waiting for them when they landed. Robinson allowed the Jupiter’s main computers to handle the descent until the last ten miles; then his fingers depressed the pressure plate marked “computer override.”
He always felt better, combining his own visual observations of their descent with those of the radar. There was always the chance of last-minute emergencies on the ground, or near it, which the computers might not react to quickly enough. He hated to override at the last second, especially with the time-lag from scout to ship to scout.
And lately it seemed somehow to upset the computers more and more. It began to seem as if they too were following in the path of the Ship’s mobile Robot, who had become so impossibly human at times during their long wanderings.
A reef of clouds momentarily obscured his view of the spot he’d picked for landing, and his brow broke into sweat. He cursed the breathing helmet that kept him from wiping it away, while he debated going back on radar automatic.
Then the clouds thinned out and the spot was clearly visible on the plates.
A long flat curve of green-tinted roadway stretched from one side of the main vision plate to the other. Nearby were the last wooded foothills of a great mountain-chain, dropping into rolling plains through which the road cut directly, ignoring the soft swells of the plains.
There was a low tuneless whistle from the communicator. “Well,” came Don West’s voice, “it s the first green Interstate I’ve ever seen, but apart from that it looks right homelike. Looks a bit like Nebraska, but—“
Robinson ignored Don as he slowed the descent of the ship for the last hundred yards. Generators whined and the sound rose slowly up the scale. Tire scouteraft quivered like a thing alive, eager to feel ground beneath it once again even though it, like the Jupiter II itself, was a thing of deep space.
There was a slight jar as the ship touched down.
Robinson slumped back in his chair with a sigh, and Dr. Smith surreptitiously wiped his brow with a handkerchief, having failed to secure his breathing helmet.
“Warning,” said the Robot over the communicator. “Metallic structure near landing spot! No indication of friendliness or hostility. Suggestion: caution indicated.”
“Hm. Any further details now on the air here? It would be nice to get rid of these blasted helmets.”
Waiting for the Robot’s answer, Robinson reset the vision plates to scanning their immediate surroundings outside the small scoutcraft.
Vegetation was sparse; large bush-like growths at some distance from each other sat low in the sandy soil.
<
br /> The alien death ray discarded its plastiform disguise and began constructing itself.
Smith howled with alarm when the bush he had been studying gave a shudder and lost all its branches. Standing revealed was a small, shimmering metal construction. Swiftly, it appeared to unfold upwards, with a series of clicks, until the structure stood completed.
“Danger! Danger!” came the voice of the Robot, tinny over the ship’s communicator. “Inglewab jertle . . . trsss . . . awk!”
“Maureen! Don! What’s happened to the Robot?” Robinson flicked the switch several times and shouted urgently.
“John?” His wife’s voice came through as tinnily as the Robot’s, but he felt a surge of relief come over him to hear her calm, if puzzled, voice. “John, I don’t know what’s happened to the Robot—wait. Don’s just told me. Something about his internal power pack. .
Don’s voice came on. “I’m sorry. Looks like I’ll have to dismantle the Robot’s power center. No telling how long it’ll take to fix him.”
“John?” Maureen’s voice came again, this time more doubtful. “John, what’s that horrible metal thing on the screens? Are you in trouble?”
Robinson wished for a moment that the scout screens weren’t keyed into the Jupiter’s own plates. He hated to worry her when he himself didn’t know what was happening. But of course it was safer than not letting the Jupiter know at all. If something went wrong . . .
“Now, Maureen, I don’t know what it is. But it’s not threatening us immediately, so perhaps it means us no harm. I’m going to have to stop talking with you and try to communicate with whoever—or whatever —is behind this.”
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