Before The Golden Age - A SF Anthology of the 1930s

by Edited By Isaac Asimov

  Duane drew a deep breath. The answer would never be known to men. Great as the curiosity was that impelled him to study the riddles of the Moon, the dangers were greater, and greater still the goal of his dream. There was a mystery to all the universe. What lay beyond? Where would the end be, if one started off and traveled at random in any direction for as long as space lasted or life permitted?

  “Let’s land!” cried Anne. “Just imagine—walking on the Moon! And we can do it with your space suits!”

  “Not now. We ought to be returning to Earth. There is little to be gained by landing, and a lot that we might lose.”

  Anne looked hurt. “All this way, all this trouble, and we don’t find out what’s on the Moon?”

  Duane, exasperated, cursed inwardly this plague of woman’s desire, this wish to exhaust the moment. Aloud, he answered: “We can always come. I’ve proved what I wanted—the White Birds capacity. Let’s head home. Our next trip will take us—well, wait and see.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “Outside. Away to the end of things, whatever that may be. The White Bird can do it, and I’m going to where space ends. Whatever lies beyond the universe, empty and endless space or giant atom, I’ll find—with you.”

  Anne’s eyes shone. She held the breathless appearance of a mystic to whom a vision of glory comes. The dream transfigured her face as she gazed at infinity and saw the far places. Sappho might have had so lovely and rapturous an aspect when she stood on a cliff of Lesbos and looked at the sweep of sky and wine-dark sea. Never before, and never again, did Anne’s expression achieve such beauty. And Duane, as he watched her, absorbed something of her mood, that supernal wonder which the old philosophers and the great poets and the prophets have been gifted with.

  Alexander, wishing for more worlds to conquer; Marco Polo, wending his way across lands of legend; Columbus, sailing upon unknown waters; Peary, assaulting the roof of the world; Lindbergh, winging through the skies—the ghosts of all the master explorers and travelers of the past haunted him, and he felt an invisible presence urging him on to that voyage for which history, and almost thought, had no counterpart. An exaltation of spirit possessed the two, and spontaneously they leaned together in unity of mood and vision.

  “The way is homeward,” said Duane at last.

  “And outward,” echoed Anne. She lifted her hazel eyes to his, and even he, well as he knew her, was startled by the unfathomable depths that they showed.

  Almost regretfully, he sent the White Bird flying Earthward, and the crag-strewn, jagged, white ruin of the Moon’s surface fell swiftly away, paled into softer outline, until once again, like a silver disk in the sky, it floated glowing and lovely and bathed in soft radiance. Then the majesty of stars and the procession of the Milky Way; and Earth looming larger. A buoyancy of spirit raised Duane to a peak of mental intoxication.

  Here, in open space, he felt a sense of freedom such as he had never before known. Was it the nearness of Anne, whose mere presence influenced him strangely? His partial escape from the attraction of gravitation? Or a headiness that came inevitably from this preliminary voyage? He looked at the Moon and Earth, Sun and stars, the great void beyond, and then back to Anne. Anne’s eyes were refreshing. Especially when they were as large and reliant as now. Duane parked her beside him on the way back. There was a mutual need for physical reality in the presence of space rampant.

  * * * *

  III.

  September marched into October; and the maples vied with the oaks in colors of russet and tawny and flame. Earth throbbed with the activity that was industrializing Africa, tapping energy from the Gulf Stream, capitalizing power from the Sun. Socialized Russia in the eastern hemisphere stood powerful and defiant against the yellow menace that rolled over northern Asia. The proscripted United States, operating under dictatorship with industrial and capitalistic socialism, wealthier and stronger than ever before, with the unfit retired, the insane eliminated by euthanasia, and the criminal sterilized, surged on to dominance of the western world.

  Economic rivalry in the new market of Africa created estrangement between England and the United States. The ugly undercurrents of competition and diplomatic folly were repeating themselves in the World War. Russia and the United States against Japan and England seemed to be the coming line-up of Titans, with the rest of the world involved in a holocaust that would undoubtedly mark the end of civilization.

  Duane looked at a news sheet. “Japan Creates Secondary Militia of Women; British Claim New Germ That Kills Millions,” ran the headlines.

  “The world goes mad,” he mused. “I only hope that all this slaughter will be over by the time I return.”

  For the remodeling of the White Bird went on swiftly. Adjustments of the delicate power controls to give the ship greater drive, corrections in its sensitive hull so that it might make the utmost of cosmic rays, gravity attractions, and atomic repulsions, correction of instruments to accuracy— these were changes that must be made before the White Bird could start upon that tremendous voyage to the end of the universe.

  The work ran on, and the world raced ahead to disaster. The looming clouds of war grew blacker, and Duane fretted. What did the bickerings of mankind matter when so vast a project neared fruition?

  October nineteenth. Mist opened the day at Havenside. By noon, a fine rain was falling, and the skies were solid gray. Duane roved restlessly around. To-night was the night of launching. The White Bird would set out to the ends of the universe, in an effort to solve one of the greatest riddles that confronted man—the mystery of space.

  Twelve o’clock brought an ominous note. Duane, as always when he felt nervous, sat down at his light-piano and rippled off phrases of his favorites—a Bach fugue, the frantic monotone of Ravel’s Bolero, Lecuona’s wild Malaguena, a few bars from the Peer Gynt suite of Grieg. And while he played, upon a panel in front of him, wizardry of supersonics transformed sound to light and color that wove a visible symphony.

  Duane had reached an impressive passage from The Hall of the Mountain King when the televisor broke forth: “Count Katsu Irohibi, Minister of War for Japan, announced at 11:55 a. m. to-day that Japan was prepared to drop bombs of a new nature upon any part of the world by remote control unless Russian aggression in Central Asia ceased immediately, and unless the United States and England permitted her to compete with them in the development of Africa.”

  Duane felt a growing tightness. He anxiously wanted to fly immediately to Everest and bring Anne back, but she would not be ready until two, by which time Professor Dowell and she would have analyzed the previous night’s photographs—their final effort to riddle the stars and uncover the secret of perplexing vacua beyond the thirty-first magnitude nebulae.

  He rambled through sonatas and fugues, fragments of symphonies. The drizzle turned to a sodden downpour, and the oaks and poplars shook with sodden groans.

  About twelve thirty, the televisor erupted: “Russia replied to Japan’s ultimatum at 12:25 p. m., to the effect that she was not the aggressor, and that her territorial rights would be fully protected in Central Asia. The British and American governments simultaneously issued a redeclaration of African policy, denying the right of interference to any third party.

  “Russia’s defenses and offenses are already fully mobilized, as are Japan’s, according to unconfirmed report. England is expected to issue a proclamation of national peril at any moment. John L. Caverhill, dictator of America, will declare our position shortly, according to reports from Washington. The situation has grown tense. Analysts fear a recurrence of the World War upon a more serious scale. Every effort is being made to avoid armed conflict, but—” the voice droned on.

  Prophetic clouds of war! Events were moving far too swiftly in a world of delicate economic adjustments. Duane turned away from the speaker’s image and strode toward his stratoplane.

  Rain beat upon him and ran in rapid trickles down the slicker he had donned, a sullen, heavy, steady rain splash
ing from skies of slate. Nations plunged toward disaster. Darker than any clouds loomed the threat of war. Mass murder might come by nightfall—and his dream would be ended. Duane had no illusions. If war came, he knew that he would plunge blindly in at the draught like millions of other pawns in the game of economic kings. He would serve for loyalty, patriotism, many reasons, but he would serve unwillingly because a greater goal lay at stake.

  He climbed in his stratoplane, headed toward Tibet. Anne should be ready by the hour of his arrival. The voyage through infinity would begin at sunset—unless war intervened.

  Skies of blue steel overhung Everest. The quarrels of nations seemed something alien and apart from this austere summit of Earth. The skyward pointing finger of the observatory rose like a timeless tower, a thing of perpetual beauty, a challenge above the assaults of weather and war, age and decay.

  But the televisor gave pictures and words of ugly meaning: “War Minister Irohibi issued a proclamation at 1:10 interning all Russian ships lying in Japanese ports. The order will remain in effect until Russia makes a satisfactory explanation and settlement for the mysterious explosion that wrecked the Japanese embassy in Stalingrad yesterday. It is reported that a great concentration of all Russian aircraft is now taking place outside of Stalingrad.

  “Simultaneously, a second note was received at Washington demanding unrestricted colonization privileges for Japanese in the recently formed Anglo-American territory of Tanesia in Southeast Africa. The state department has made no official reply as yet; but a bulletin issued at noon today announced the perfection of a new instrument of war. Short-waves are sent by remote control to cause the collapse by vibration of buildings at any given spot. The situation is critical. Mobilization may be ordered by nightfall.”

  * * * *

  Suppressing the anxiety and weariness he felt over this danger that loomed, Duane landed his ship and walked into the observatory.

  Professor Dowell was striding back and forth irritably, his sandy mustache bristling. “War! War!” he choked. “They want me to work out formulae for the flight of projectiles! They want me to tell them just how to shoot at a point a thousand miles off and kill every one within a mile radius. Me? And there is work to be done on those!” He waved thin fingers toward the sky whose stars were hidden by day.

  “I know; I’m worried, too. It looks like the end.”

  The astronomer raved: “They want to store munitions here! Make this a mere depot! This, the finest observatory ever built!”

  Duane tried to soothe him. “War has not been declared yet. Every one knows that it will be the end if it comes. It will be the last war and maybe the last of civilization. But where’s Anne? I took out the license this morning. We’re to be married at three, and I’ve advanced the takeoff to three-ten.”

  The professor bristled in one of those swift changes of mood that make the individual both fantastic and human. “Running away, eh? On the eve of battle, as the historians would say?”

  “No,” Duane replied steadily. “I’ve got a goal. A tremendous goal. Something that may enrich man’s life more than the last two thousand years. I have a mission. If I fail, what is one life lost? If I succeed, the rewards will be beyond guessing. If I stay here—what? Whether I am killed or not, nothing is gained. Therefore, I go. If that is cowardice, then I am glad to be a coward. If war is declared, I will serve. Frankly, I am trying to get started before war begins.”

  Dowell stalked around. “Madness, all is madness. Let war come. Science must push on. There may never be another opportunity to find out what lies at the end of the universe. Electrons and atoms. Giant atom universes in a vaster molecule.” He paused and stared owlishly a long minute through thick glasses at Duane. “Go away!” he commanded. “I’m upset. I do not know what I say. Find Anne and take her with you, my blessings upon you both!” He snorted and trod about in nervous circles, weighing —who knows what?

  Duane turned away from this spectacle of a fine mind sent askew by the forces of disaster.

  Anne was laboring over photographs. She glanced up as he entered her workroom. “Hello!” she greeted him. “I’m fine, thanks, even if you didn’t ask.”

  “Now, Anne--”

  “I know the rest. These photographs are more important. Nothing beyond thirty-one.”

  “Listen, lady-”

  “And what’s more--”

  Anne never finished the sentence. She suddenly found herself picked up and carried out. She did not seem to mind.

  “Hello!” exclaimed Professor Dowell, surprised. “And good-by!”

  “See you when I return!” Duane called.

  “Good luck!”

  Duane deposited Anne in the cockpit beside him and headed homeward. She leaned back, stretched in a most unfeminine but natural fashion. “So we get married today?” she remarked casually.

  “So it would seem, but don’t let that bother you. You’ll get over it and—”

  The televisor cut in: “Emergency announcement! Japan declared war against Russia at two-five to-day. The Bank of England has just issued a call for the loan of one billion pounds by popular subscription. The department of war of the United States has evoked the compulsory clause of the war code of 1943. All males registered as voters are required to report at their district military station before sundown.”

  Duane stepped up the speed of his stratoplane to the limit.

  “That means—what?” Anne queried.

  “The end,” replied Duane grimly, “unless we leave sooner.”

  The stratoplane bored westward high above the Atlantic. New York City curved into view, a vague blur looking like some fantastic toy with its towers and megaliths, its setbacks and hanging gardens and sky palaces showing as a sodden blur through the rain that still fell.

  Duane headed north of the city and landed at Havenside. Standing beside the hangar that housed the White Bird, with rain pouring down his face and oilskins, he smiled at his bride-to-be. Casual though they had been thus far, he felt the stir of vast, sinister forces that menaced life, and felt, too, a surge of emotion that was novel.

  * * * *

  A small blue plane darted from leaden skies toward them. “That must be the official minister and the National Marriage Bureau’s representative,” Duane speculated.

  Anne, looking suddenly flustered and with heightened color, decided: “Say, darling, I’ll go straighten myself up a bit if you don’t mind,” and turned toward Duane’s bungalow. “What a rotten day!” The steady downpour had soaked fields and trees, and pools gathered in every hollow.

  A blast of sound, an explosion like thunder smote the air! The strato-plane’s televisor crackled: “A terrific explosion has just occurred in New York City. The explosion was preceded by a shrill whine. It is believed that this is the unofficial opening of war. It will be recalled that Japan announced the possession of a new explosive that could be dropped in bomb form on any part of the globe by remote control. Stand by! A second whine has come-”

  Out of the televisor came a roar that deafened. Then silence. And out of the south swept a second blast. Duane looked up. The blue plane rocked wildly in violent currents of air. Rushing winds caught it, flung it upward, sent it spinning to earth. Flames licked it up; the wreck became a funeral pyre. The rain eddied in mad gusts.

  Duane’s face was gray. “It is war,” he said coldly and swiftly. “Get anything you want. We’re leaving now!”

  Anne flung her arms around him like a child, her wet face pressed to his. She kissed him quickly and ran toward the house, after a promise, “I’ll be right back—by the time you’re ready.”

  Duane entered the hangar, and moved his space ship outside. Resting on automatic rolling supports, the White Bird glistened with silvery transparency. Her mechanism in the fore and aft compartments was of provocative design and strangeness. All possible essentials piled the supply room amidship. Behind it lay sleeping quarters. Controls occupied the room behind the fore power chamber. A door, so finely fitte
d that it was unnoticeable, supplied the only entrance midway between stem and tail.

  Duane surveyed everything in a quick appraisal. The long streamlined hull, pointed at each end, passed his inspection. He waited anxiously, peered through mist and water toward his bungalow. He felt relieved when Anne appeared, running through the doorway.

  Something screamed from afar. Duane paled. “Hurry!” he called.

  A blast of flame roared up beyond his home, colossal gouts of soil and rock belched skyward, and his home flattened from a hurricane wind. Rain drove at him like needles. The explosion blew him down and swept the White Bird from her supports.

  “Duane!”

  That faint cry brought him out of his daze as nothing else could have. He staggered toward the spot where he had last seen Anne. He threw boards and planks aside with incredible strength. The rain beat down, but the darker rain of debris ceased.