Troubled Star

by George O. Smith

  – – –

  So Dusty Britton, who could portray a reasonably convincing role of a wounded hero while mentally contemplating how long it would be before the first pre-prandial martini, plus being the flamboyant type who never lets a few facts stop his flow of words, was not abashed to let on that he knew a lot more than the Marandanian suspected. Furthermore, Dusty felt that he had Gant Nerley on the defensive, and if he could put the Marandanian off balance long enough to accomplish something, Dusty did not care if Nerley accused him of being a four-flusher, at some later date.

  Keeping this in mind, Dusty braced himself with little effort and tried to reduce to bafflegab what he recalled of Scyth Radnor's previous statements.

  "Interstellar travel is, of course, based upon obvious errors in the theoretical mathematics of general relativity," said Dusty, as though he were reciting some of the science-double-talk usually included in Dusty Britton And The Space Patrol. "Of the many schools of thought which have their own theories on how to explain these obvious errors, the group-velocity field seems to be the most successful. But all of them are seeking some evidence to support their theories, and a couple of them, namely the gravitic and the magnetic-field proponents claim that such evidence has already supported their claim. Now, if such is the case, you know it will not be long before some practical experiment will disprove the illogic of providing a finite limit to an infinite system. Once this has been established it seems obvious that star-travel is the next step."

  "Hmmm—I see. This is a situation that must be considered more carefully. May I ask, Dusty Britton, what is your position in your society?"

  "I am Dusty Britton of The Space Patrol," said Dusty with the proper tone of respect. "Commander in Chief of the Junior Division."

  "Indeed! A real Space Patrol!"

  Dusty nodded at the viewscreen. "It may be a bit ambitious," he remarked with even more deference, carefully studied. "But we feel that there is small point in using a conservative name and then having to change it every couple of years."

  "Quite a sensible attitude."

  Dusty nodded again. "Fact is," he said deprecatingly, "we would probably be quite a bit more advanced in our space operations if our sister planets were not so inimical to human life. As it is, our extra-planetary operations are limited and will be limited until we can provide the necessary conversions to terrestrial conditions."

  Gant Nerley nodded back. "Man is not an adaptable animal," he observed. "He does not change himself to suit his environment; he changes his environment to suit himself."

  "That's what I mean."

  "Then why do you object so much to this barytrine field?" asked Gant Nerley. "We can always pick you a stellar group less inimical to human life and thus advance you faster."

  Dusty grunted under his breath. He had talked too much. "Buster," he said angrily, "logic like that will only get you a fat lip."

  Gant Nerley blinked. "Tell me, Dusty, was Scyth Radnor hurt in some altercation over this beacon?"

  – – –

  By this time Dusty figured that he might as well let Gant Nerley have it cold and hard. It would show Gant that the mighty Marandanian was no more distant from the lusty chimpanzee than the terrestrian.

  "No," he said flatly, "Scyth was plugged for monkeying around another man's woman."

  Gant said, "Deplorable," in a tone of voice that indicated an amused disgust, but not easily identified as to whether over the act itself or the business of being caught at it. "What happened?"

  "The other guy shot first," said Dusty, feeling that this was no time to point out that it was he that pulled the trigger.

  "I'm not surprised. Most primitives are inclined to be both hot-headed and impulsive."

  "Tell me," asked Dusty in a cooing voice, "did Scyth confine his amours to primitives, or is it the custom among Marandanians to consider your mate unattractive unless she can prove it by bedding down with an impressive list of lovers?"

  "I don't understand," replied Gant Nerley stiffly.

  "Against primitives I can understand Scyth carrying a weapon to his assignation, for protection against the irate cuckold. Tell me, Gant Nerley, has your emotional balance become so' stable that you can take a more scholarly view of promiscuity? Or," added Dusty sharply, "do you have big black headlines about triangle slayings and love-nest scandals just like the rest of humanity?"

  "Well, now, we—"

  "Then don't blame us primitive souls for slugging a guy that's caught off base!" snapped Dusty. "Now, what are we going to do about Scyth?"

  "Regardless of his depredations against propriety, he must be given medical attention."

  "This I will go along with. How shall we start? I can always take him to one of our hospitals."

  "No. No! You must not."

  "Why not? We're quite competent on gunshot wounds. We're probably more used to them than you are, as primitives with impulse and hot blood."

  "Please. Let's not be facetious over any man's misfortune."

  "In blunt words, the life of a character caught in an awkward situation is more important than someone else losing their familiar stellar scenery and a couple of thousand years of climb up from the swamp of ignorance?"

  "That is another question which I'm sure we can solve. Now—"

  "Look," said Dusty firmly, "you agree to take measures for our safety and we'll agree to take measures for Scyth's. Do you understand exactly what I mean or shall I explain in very blunt words?"

  "That is blackmail."

  "It's worse than that. But we're primitive, and therefore lacking in refinement. As far as I am concerned, Transgalactic can keep their secret of our position locked in their sealed file. Scyth can die, and Bren and Chat can spend the rest of their lives marooned on Mercury."

  "No. That wouldn't be right. You must bring Scyth back home."

  "That's a fine idea! May I suggest that your ship is not as familiar as mine?" Dusty did not mention that the only control room he was familiar with was the one on the Gramer Production Lot, which was an aggregation of fantastic levers and flashing lights and futuristic three-phase busbars which had a most profound effect upon the imagination of the youth of the land but no effect upon space whatsoever.

  "This can be taken care of. As a spaceman, you can understand the principles. They are simple. You can follow directions for flight."

  "Yes? And which way do I go from here?"

  "Not so fast. First, Dusty Britton, tell me the present condition of Scyth Radnor."

  "Wait."

  – – –

  Dusty went below. Scyth was in a state of shock. His temperature "taken with the flat of Dusty's hand" was chill—-and there was a film of perspiration wetting Scyth's body. The breathing was shallow and the face was pale. Scyth's pulse was weak and the heartbeat thin.

  Dusty turned a light blanket over the Marandanian and then went back to report.

  Gant Nerley said, "In the salon you will find a medicine cabinet. The instructions are simple, any intelligent being with a menslator should be able to follow them concisely. How is the bleeding?"

  "Stopped. Clotted by now."

  "Take care of Scyth, Dusty Britton. We'll figure out something for you."

  "How about this barytrine field that's running away with itself?"

  "We'll stop it. Behind you on the auxiliary panel you will see a knob and a pilot lamp, probably orange colored. Turn the knob to the left."

  Dusty did, and the lamp went out.

  "That's it. I see that Scyth has the usual sloppy habits of his kind. No label. According to space regulations the operator is supposed to slip a label into the frame above the auxiliary control whenever he has anything extra set up. I'll mark that oversight down on Scyth Radnor's record. Now—"

  "What about Chat and Bren and that variable-star maker?"

  Gant Nerley grunted. "If they're not keeping a close eye on the barytrine field detector, so they can shut off their own equipment when it fails, I'll revoke their licens
es! They must be looking at the temporal field, or at least keeping watch."

  "We hope."

  Gant nodded thoughtfully. "Now," he said, "this being an emergency, I'll open their course-plan so that I can direct you through space. Don't turn off the viewpanel, Dusty. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  Chapter IX

  As soon as Gant Nerley's face disappeared from the viewpanel, Dusty turned to face Barbara. She was standing far to one side, out of range of the viewpanel, and stifling a giggle. She let it bubble through her fingers as soon as Dusty caught her eye.

  "Funny as hell," he said. "Me—I'm hysterical."

  Barbara sobered immediately. "Honest, Dusty. I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing with you."

  "Why?" he demanded sharply.

  "Because you really fooled that bird. Dusty Britton of The Space Patrol. Yes, I can navigate a ship."

  "I'm going to. Want out?"

  "I wouldn't miss this for the world. Glad we've got the whole galaxy for you to make mistakes in."

  "Stop making fun," he snapped. "Let's try and think of something sensible, Barb."

  "Too bad we haven't time to take a run back to the city."

  "What good would that do?"

  "Well, you could show 'em that bauble you're wearing and I could try the menslator out on 'em, and maybe between us we could convince 'em that there's something more in this tale of mine than wind."

  "That's an idea, but it's out."

  "I know. But—"

  "Dusty, you'll have to carry it to Gant Nerley yourself."

  "Carry what?"

  Barbara shook her head impatiently. "Think!" she cried. "Dusty, this license might be rescinded if we can show that Sol has evolved above the minimum level of acceptability."

  "Yes?"

  "Then go in there with your head up and let 'em know how we're built."

  Dusty waved at the field of instruments on the control position. "Open my yap and let 'em know how ignorant we are? We should have a couple of scientists along."

  Barbara shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "One of the marks of a real scientist is that he usually considers that he knows a lot less than he does. You're better off. You don't know enough to confuse yourself. Besides, Dusty, you're an actor."

  "Um—er—Jeeks! Hang on a mo' will you? I've an idea."

  Dusty loped down the stairs to his car and opened the compartment behind the front seat. It was his emergency kit; it held his Dusty Britton uniform, the complete regalia of The Space Patrol complete with Dusty Britton 'Blaster' concealed against the days when Dusty found himself trapped in public and could not appear out of character.

  He changed in the car and went back to the control room.

  Barbara took one look at him and nodded slowly. "You're a gaudy sight," she said. "But maybe that's what it takes."

  Dusty slapped the 'Blaster' at his hip. "I look authentic enough except for this hunk of hardware," he said. "Hell, it isn't even as useful as a dress sword."

  "Your revolver? Oh—still on my living room floor."

  Dusty unbelted the holster. "I shouldn't have to go armed everywhere, should I?"

  "I suppose not."

  "All right, then. How do I look?"

  – – –

  Barbara smiled thinly, "Dusty, no one on earth would ever accuse you of being anything but a Hollywood actor in that get-up. But a man from halfway across the Galaxy itself might not know about these things. You might be an Admiral of the Swiss Navy. You're impressive-looking. Just don't get pompous."

  "Just you remember that I'm Dusty Britton of The Space Patrol and don't giggle when I start dishing it out."

  "I won't. After all, I call myself an actress, you know." She looked nervously at the viewpanel.

  "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  "Yes. I'm nervous but I'll be all right."

  Dusty went over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Take a deep breath," he commanded. She did. "Now let it out slowly." She did that, too. "Now," he said softly, slipping an arm around her and leading her to the stairway, "You come down below and relax. Pull yourself together, Barb. We'll make it—somehow."

  "Got any ideas?"

  "Not yet. But—"

  Above, the voice of Gant Nerley came back. Dusty raced aloft and apologized for having been absent. Gant was nodding with admiration at something below the level of the view panel, probably something on the desk.

  Gant looked up after a moment and said, "Dusty Britton, this is really a remarkable route. Truly fantastic. So well hidden, and yet right within our grasp all of these centuries! Well, you shall see, Dusty. And doubtless you will agree."

  "Okay," said Dusty, "let's get going."

  "Not so fast, young man. I'm waiting for the direction-finding stations to report so that I can determine where along this prospected route you lie."

  "We're about two-thirds of the way out from the center, I believe," offered Dusty.

  "That's a rather inaccurate generality. You know where you are and we know where we are, but we must know where we are with respect to one another before we can make contact. Now—" Gant's voice stopped suddenly as something caught his eye above the lens of the viewpanel, and he looked over Dusty's head, apparently, so intently that Dusty himself turned to see what Gant was staring at. He saw only instruments, and realized that Gant was looking at another panel-section above the one that communicated with Dusty's panel.

  "Urn," said Gant. "You would appear to lie in what we call 'Sector G-18, Coordinate 307, Galactic Angle 215.86-plus degrees, South altitude-angle 1.017-minus degrees, Co-frame 9654.' Now, Dusty, in your terms, where lies the Galactic Center?"

  Dusty laughed. The tone of his laugh was half bitter and half a note of self-disparagement. "Sorry, Gant. We frame our reference from Terra, naturally."

  Dusty breathed a sigh of relief at having boned up on enough science to play his part convincingly.

  "I do not quite understand what you mean," returned Gant.

  "We compute stellar positions in latitude from the angle above or below the equator of Terra, which we call 'Declination' and in longitude by their rise as the planet rotates, which we call 'Right Ascension'. Therefore the so-called 'Celestial equator' is a projection of the Earth's equator upon the sky, and the colures pass from celestial pole to celestial pole, which are projections of Terra's axis. Now, since the Earth's equator is tilted with respect to the Earth's orbit, and the Earth's orbit is tilted with respect to the Galactic Equator, I'll be darned if I know how to explain in mutual terms. Oh, we assume that the galactic center is in a region of the sky we call 'Sagittarius' but that is meaningless."

  "I agree. Wait a moment."

  – – –

  Gant turned from the window in Dusty's viewpanel and walked away from it by several yards. He worked over a complicated keyboard for some minutes and then returned.

  "Dusty," he said. "I think we can handle this as follows. To your left hand near the top of the control board you will find a key-lever marked Phanobeacon. Pull it towards you."

  Dusty looked, found the key, and pulled. A bright spot of light appeared on the view panel, high in the left hand corner. "That is the true position of Marandis," said Gant Nerley. "If you tried to make it at transgalactic speeds you'd plough into about forty stars and hit about nineteen gas-clouds. You'd either blow up, or spend the rest of your life running at safe velocities. However, if you take off and steer your spacecraft so as to put that beacon spot on the calibration lines G-705, F-318, you should find the next rift-beacon somewhere near to the cross-hairs of the viewpanel. Got it?"

  "I think so."

  "Good. Now, for take-off instructions. Ready?" "Ready."

  Gant Nerley began a running patter of instructions. Those favored few who have ever seen the control room of a spacecraft can possibly grasp the implications of the problem. One does not step into the pilot's chair of a complex device such as a galactic cruiser, push a pedal and then steer any more than a Wall Str
eet Accountant could step into the cockpit of a six-engine airliner and take off, just like that. There was the pre-flight checkoff, probably performed by the competent Marandanian Pilot in a matter of minutes, and quite possibly done with an automatic reflex action which would permit the accomplished pilot }u daydream about the girl on the next planet meanwhile; only the appearance of the wrong pilot-lamp response would bring him out of his automatic response with an abrupt recognition of something awry.

  – – –

  But Dusty was not a pilot, and certainly not a pilot of a Marandanian Spacecraft. So the pre-flight checkoff took almost an hour. Nearly ninety-nine percent of the time Dusty was following Gant Nerley's instructions blindly: Is the pilot lamp registering power source showing red or green? Is the spacelock indicator showing closed? Turn the atmosphere control to Internal. Set the autogravity corrector to Controlled. Co-stator circuits to Regulated; antimagnetic response dial to zero; space-coordinate servo control to Stellar Display. Planetary Drive to Automatic Threshold; match the Gravitic Constant to the Power Delivery. Set the Master Control to Preflight Warmup.

  "Now," said Gant Nerley, "take it slow and easy. Take the 'Tee' bar gently. Find the thumb-buttons and press them both evenly; spread your knees against the paddles under the control panel slowly and press the Force pedal with your right foot. Tell me, what is your trans-atmospheric velocity?"

  "It says 416."

  "Too high. Press the Compensator pedal with your left foot until the TAV meter reads 312."

  "Now."

  "Hold it that way until the Matter Per Cubic Meter indicator drops below the red line."

  "The TAV meter is dropping below 312."

  "Good. Let up on the Compensator pedal and depress the Force pedal more. Keep the TAV meter at 312."

  "The Matter Per Cubic Meter indicator is below the red line, Gant."

  "Free the Compensator pedal. Push the Force pedal all the way home and kick it to the right. Now read the Trans-atmospheric velocity meter."

  "Dropping rapidly."

  "Good. And the MCPM?"