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The Worlds Of Robert A Heinlein

Page 12

by Robert A. Heinlein

knew that, but he was so utterly exhausted that he doubted his ability to

  finish the race. The thing pursuing him was catching up; he forced his

  leaden, aching legs into greater activity. The thing behind him increased

  its pace, and actually touched him. His heart stopped, then pounded again.

  He became aware that he was screaming, shrieking in mortal terror.

  But he had to reach the end of that corridor; more depended on it than just

  himself. He had to. He had to! He had to!

  Then the sound hit him, and he realized that he had lost, realized it with

  utter despair and utter, bitter defeat. He had failed, the bomb had blown

  up.

  The sound was the alarm going off; it was seven o'clock. His pajamas were

  soaked, dripping with sweat, and his heart still pounded. Every ragged

  nerve throughout his body screamed for release. It would take more than a

  cold shower to cure this case of the shakes.

  He got to the office before the janitor was out of it. He sat there, doing

  nothing, until Lentz walked in on him, two hours later. The psychiatrist

  came in just as he was taking two small tablets from a box in his desk.

  "Easy . . . easy, old man," Lentz said in a slow voice. "What have you

  there?" He came around and gently took possession of the box.

  "Just a sedative."

  Lentz studied the inscription on the cover. "How many have you had today?"

  "Just two, so far."

  "You don't need a sedative; you need a walk in the fresh air. Come, take

  one with me."

  "You're a fine one to talk � you're smoking a cigarette that isn't

  lighted!"

  "Me? Why, so I am! We both need that walk. Come."

  Harper arrived less than ten minutes after they had left the office.

  Steinke was not in the outer office. He walked on through and pounded on

  the door of King's private office, then waited with the man who accompanied

  him � a hard young chap with an easy confidence to his bearing. Steinke let

  them in.

  Harper brushed on past him with a casual greeting, then checked himself

  when he saw that there was no one else inside.

  "Where's the chief?" he demanded.

  "Gone out. Should be back soon."

  "I'll wait. Oh � Steinke, this is Greene. Greene � Steinke."

  The two shook hands. "What brings you back, Cal?" Steinke asked, turning

  back to Harper.

  "Well . . . I guess it's all right to tell you � "

  The communicator screen flashed into sudden activity, and cut him short. A

  face filled most of the frame. It was apparently too close to the pickup,

  as it was badly out of focus. "Superintendent!" it yelled in an agonized

  voice. "The bomb � "

  A shadow flashed across the screen, they heard a dull smack, and the face

  slid out of the screen. As it fell it revealed the control room behind it.

  Someone was down on the floor plates, a nameless heap. Another figure ran

  across the field of pickup and disappeared.

  Harper snapped into action first. "That was Silard!" he shouted, "in the

  control room! Come on, Steinke! He was already in motion himself.

  Steinke went dead-white, but hesitated only an unmeasurable instant. He

  pounded sharp on Harper's heels. Greene followed without invitation, in a

  steady run that kept easy pace with them.

  They had to wait for a capsule to unload at the tube station. Then all

  three of them tried to crowd into a two-passenger capsule. It refused to

  start, and moments were lost before Greene piled out and claimed another

  car.

  The four-minute trip at heavy acceleration seemed an interminable crawl.

  Harper was convinced that the system had broken down, when the familiar

  click and sigh announced their arrival at the station under the bomb. They

  jammed each other trying to get out at the same time.

  The lift was up; they did not wait for it. That was unwise; they gained no

  time by it, and arrived at the control level out of breath. Nevertheless,

  they speeded up when they reached the top, zigzagged frantically around the

  outer shield, and burst into the control room.

  The limp figure was still on the floor, and another, also inert, was near

  it. The second's helmet was missing.

  The third figure was bending over the trigger. He looked up as they came

  in, and charged them. They hit him together, and all three went down. It

  was two to one, but they got in each other's way. The man's heavy armor

  protected him from the force of their blows. He fought with senseless,

  savage violence.

  Harper felt a bright, sharp pain; his right arm went limp and useless. The

  armored figure was struggling free of them.

  There was a shout from somewhere behind them, "Hold still!"

  Harper saw a flash with the corner of one eye, a deafening crack hurried on

  top of it, and re-echoed painfully in the restricted space.

  The armored figure dropped back to his knees, balanced there, and then fell

  heavily on his face. Greene stood in the entrance, a service pistol

  balanced in his hand.

  Harper got up and went over to the trigger. He tried to reduce the

  dampening adjustment, but his right hand wouldn't carry out his orders, and

  his left was too clumsy. Steinke," he called, "come here! Take over."

  Steinke hurried up, nodded as he glanced at the readings, and set busily to

  work.

  It was thus that King found them when he bolted in a very few minutes

  later.

  "Harper!" he shouted, while his quick glance was still taking in the

  situation. "What's happened?"

  Harper told him briefly. He nodded. "I saw the tail end of the fight from

  my office � Steinke!" He seemed to grasp for the first time who was on the

  trigger. "He can't manage the controls � " He hurried toward him.

  Steinke looked up at his approach. "Chief!" he called out. "Chief! I've got

  my mathematics back!"

  King looked bewildered, then nodded vaguely, and let him be. He turned back

  to Harper. "How does it happen you're here?"

  "Me? I'm here to report � we've done it, chief!"

  "Eh?"

  "We've finished; it's all done. Erickson stayed behind to complete the

  power-plant installation on the big ship. I came over in the ship we'll use

  to shuttle between Earth and the big ship, the power plant. Four minutes

  from Goddard Field to here in her. That's the pilot over there." He pointed

  to the door, where Greene's solid form partially hid Lentz.

  "Wait a minute. You say that everything is ready to install the bomb in the

  ship? You're sure?"

  "Positive. The big ship has already flown with our fuel-longer and faster

  than she will have to fly to reach station in her orbit; I was in it � out

  in space, chief! We're all set, six ways from zero."

  King stared at the dumping switch, mounted behind glass at the top of the

  instrument board. "There's fuel enough," he said softly, as if he were

  alone and speaking only to himself; "there's been fuel enough for weeks."

  He walked swiftly over to the switch, smashed the glass with his fist, and

  pulled it.

  The room rumbled and shivered as two and a half tons of molten, massive

  metal, heavier than gold, coursed down channels, struck against baffles,<
br />
  split into a dozen dozen streams, and plunged to rest in leaden receivers �

  to rest, safe and harmless, until it should be reassembled far out in

  space.

  SEARCHLIGHT

  "WILL SHE HEAR YOU?"

  "If she's on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship.

  If her suit radio wasn't damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive.

  Since the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is

  unlikely that she or the pilot lived through it."

  "She's got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge."

  Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. "Lunar Base,

  Commanding General."

  "General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!"

  Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. "Sir, do you know how

  big the Moon is?"

  "No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere � so every man is to search

  until she is found. If she's dead, your precious pilot would be better off

  dead, too!"

  "Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man

  I have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave

  Betsy my best pilot. I won't listen to threats against him when he can't

  answer back. Not from anyone, sir! I'm sick of being told what to do by

  people who don't know Lunar conditions. My advice � my official advice, sir

  � is to let Meridian Station try. Maybe they can work a miracle."

  The answer rapped back, "Very well, General! I'll speak to you later.

  Meridian Station! Report your plans."

  Elizabeth Barnes, "Blind Betsy," child genius of the piano, had been making

  a USO tour of the Moon. She "wowed 'em" at Tycho Base, then lifted by jeep

  rocket for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely missile men behind the

  Moon. She should have been there in an hour. Her pilot was a safety pilot;

  such ships shuttled unpiloted between Tycho and Farside daily.

  After lift-off her ship departed from its programming, was lost by Tycho's

  radars. It was . . . somewhere.

  Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would

  be seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed � or

  made emergency landing � somewhere on the vastness of Luna.

  "Meridian Space Station, Director speaking � " Lag was unnoticeable; radio

  bounce between Washington and the station only 22,000 miles up was only a

  quarter second. "We've patched Earthside stations to blanket the Moon with

  our call. Another broadcast blankets the far side from Station Newton at

  the three-body stable position. Ships from Tycho are orbiting the Moon's

  rim � that band around the edge which is in radio shadow from us and from

  the Newton. If we hear � "

  "Yes, yes! How about radar search?"

  "Sir, a rocket on the surface looks to radar like a million other features

  the same size. Our one chance is to get them to answer . . . if they can.

  Ultrahigh-resolution radar might spot them in months � but suits worn in

  those little rockets carry only six hours air. We are praying they will

  hear and answer."

  "When they answer, you'll slap a radio direction finder on them. Eh?"

  "No, sir."

  "In God's name, why not?"

  "Sir, a direction finder is useless for this job. It would tell us only

  that the signal came from the Moon � which doesn't help."

  "Doctor, you're saying that you might hear Betsy � and not know where she

  is?"

  "We're as blind as she is. We hope that she will be able to lead us to her

  . . . if she hears us."

  "How?"

  "With a Laser. An intense, very tight beam of light. She'll hear it � "

  "Hear a beam of light?"

  "Yes, sir. We are jury-rigging to scan like radar � that won't show

  anything. But we are modulating it to give a carrier wave in radio

  frequency, then modulating that into audio frequency � and controlling that

  by a piano. If she hears us, we'll tell her to listen while we scan the

  Moon and run the scale on the piano � "

  "All this while a little girl is dying?"

  "Mister President � shut up!"

  "Who was THAT?"

  "I'm Betsy's father. They've patched me from Omaha. Please, Mr. President,

  keep quiet and let them work. I want my daughter back."

  The President answered tightly, "Yes, Mr. Barnes. Go ahead, Director. Order

  anything you need."

  In Station Meridian the director wiped his face. "Getting anything?"

  "No. Boss, can't something be done about that Rio station? It's sitting

  right on the frequency!"

  "We'll drop a brick on them. Or a bomb. Joe, tell the President."

  "I heard, Director. They'll be silenced!"

  "Sh! Quiet! Betsy � do you hear me?" The operator looked intent, made an

  adjustment.

  From a speaker came a girl's light, sweet voice: " � to hear somebody! Gee,

  I'm glad! Better come quick � the Major is hurt."

  The Director jumped to the microphone. "Yes, Betsy, we'll hurry. You've got

  to help us. Do you know where you are?"

  "Somewhere on the Moon, I guess. We bumped hard and I was going to kid him

  about it when the ship fell over. I got unstrapped and found Major Peters

  and he isn't moving. Not dead � I don't think so; his suit puffs out like

  mine and I hear something when I push my helmet against him. I just now

  managed to get the door open." She added, "This can't be Farside; it's

  supposed to be night there. I'm in sunshine, I'm sure. This suit is pretty

  hot."

  "Betsy, you must stay outside. You've got to be where you can see us."

  She chuckled. "That's a good one. I see with my ears."

  "Yes. You'll see us, with your ears. Listen, Betsy. We're going to scan the

  Moon with a beam of light. You'll hear it as a piano note. We've got the

  Moon split into the eighty-eight piano notes. When you hear one, yell,

  'Now!' Then tell us what note you heard. Can you do that?"

  "Of course," she said confidently, "if the piano is in tune."

  "It is. All right, we re starting � "

  "What note, Betsy?"

  "Now!"

  "E flat the first octave above middle C."

  "This note, Betsy?"

  "That's what I said."

  The Director called out, "Where's that on the grid? In Mare Nubium? Tell

  the General!" He said to the microphone, "We're finding you, Betsy honey!

  Now we scan just that part you're on. We change setup. Want to talk to your

  Daddy meanwhile?"

  "Gosh! Could I?"

  "Yes indeed!"

  Twenty minutes later he cut in and heard: " � of course not, Daddy. Oh, a

  teensy bit scared when the ship fell. But people take care of me, always

  have."

  "Betsy?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Be ready to tell us again."

  "Now!" She added, "That's a bullfrog G, three octaves down."

  "This note?"

  "That's right."

  "Get that on the grid and tell the General to get his ships up! That cuts

  it to a square ten miles on a side! Now, Betsy � we know almost where you

  are. We are going to focus still closer. Want to go inside and cool off?"

  "I'm not too hot. Just sweaty."
/>   Forty minutes later the General's voice rang out: "They've spotted the

  ship! They see her waving!"

  LIFE-LINE

  THE CHAIRMAN rapped loudly for order. Gradually the cat-calls and boos died

  away as several self-appointed sergeant-at-arms persuaded a few hot-headed

  individuals to sit down. The speaker on the rostrum by the chairman seemed

  unaware of the disturbance. His bland, faintly insolent face was impassive.

  The chairman turned to the speaker and addressed him in a voice in which

  anger and annoyance were barely restrained.

  "Dr. Pinero" � the "Doctor" was faintly stressed � "I must apologize to you

  for the unseemly outburst during your remarks. I am surprised that my

  colleagues should so far forget the dignity proper to men of science as to

  interrupt a speaker, no matter" � he paused and set his mouth � "no matter

  how great the provocation." Pinero smiled in his face, a smile that was in

  some way an open insult. The chairman visibly controlled his temper and

  continued: "I am anxious that the program be concluded decently and in

  order. I want you to finish your remarks. Nevertheless, I must ask you to

  refrain from affronting our intelligence with ideas that any educated man

  knows to be fallacious. Please confine yourself to your discovery � if you

  have made one."

  Pinero spread his fat, white hands, palms down. "How can I possibly put a

  new idea into your heads, if I do not first remove your delusions?"

  The audience stirred and muttered. Someone shouted from the rear of the

  hall: "Throw the charlatan out! We've had enough."

  The chairman pounded his gavel.

  "Gentlemen! Please!"

  Then to Pinero, "Must I remind you that you are not a member of this body,

  and that we did not invite you?"

  Pinero's eyebrows lifted. "So? I seem to remember an invitation on the

  letterhead of the Academy."

  The chairman chewed his lower lip before replying. "True. I wrote that

  invitation myself. But it was at the request of one of the trustees � a

  fine, public-spirited gentleman, but not a scientist, not a member of the

  Academy."

  Pinero smiled his irritating smile. "So? I should have guessed. Old

  Bidwell, not so, of Amalgamated Life Insurance? And he wanted his trained

  seals to expose me as a fraud, yes? For if I can tell a man the day of his

  own death, no one will buy his pretty policies. But how can you expose me,

  if you will not listen to me first? Even supposing you had the wit to

  understand me? Bah! He has sent jackals to tear down a lion." He

  deliberately turned his back on them.

  The muttering of the crowd swelled and took on a vicious tone. The chairman

  cried vainly for order. There arose a figure in the front row.

  "Mr. Chairman!"

  The chairman grasped the opening and shouted: "Gentlemen! Dr. van Rhein

  Smitt has the floor." The commotion died away.

  The doctor cleared his throat, smoothed the forelock of his beautiful white

  hair, and thrust one hand into a side pocket, of his smartly tailored

  trousers. He assumed his women's-club manner.

  "Mr. Chairman, fellow members of the Academy of Science, let us have

  tolerance. Even a murderer has the right to say his say before the State

  exacts its tribute. Shall we do less? Even though one may be intellectually

 

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