Rocket Ship Galileo

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Three hours later Cargraves was quite willing to admit that von Hartwick was correct when he said that the operation of the Wotan could not be figured out by a stranger. There were strange controls on the arms of the piloting seats which certainly had to be the flight controls, but no matter what they twisted, turned or moved, nothing happened. And the drive itself was sealed away behind a bulkhead which, from the sound it gave off when pounded, was inches thick.

  Cargraves doubted whether he could cut through even with a steel-cutting flame. He was very reluctant to attempt to do so in any case; an effort to solve the mysteries of the ship by such surgery might, as likely as not, result in disabling the ship beyond any hope of repairing it.

  There should be an operation manual somewhere. They all searched for it. They opened anything that would open, crawled under anything that could be crawled under, lifted everything that would move. There was no control manual in the ship.

  The search disclosed something else. There was no food in the ship. This latter point was becoming important.

  “That’s enough, sports,” he announced when he was certain that further search would be useless. “We’ll try their barracks next. We’ll find it. Not to mention food. You come with me, Morrie, and pick out some groceries.”

  “Me too!” Art shouted. “I’ll get some pictures. The moon people! Oh, boy!”

  Cargraves wished regretfully that he were still young enough for it to be impossible to stay worried. “Well, all right,” he agreed, “but where is your camera?”

  Art’s face fell. “It’s in the Dog House,” he admitted.

  “I guess the pictures will have to wait. But come along; there is more electronic equipment down there than you can run and jump over. Maybe raising earth by radio will turn out to be easy.”

  “Why don’t we all go?” Ross wanted to know. “I found the ruins, but I haven’t had a chance to look at them.”

  “Sorry, Ross; but you’ve got to stay behind and stand guard over Stinky. He might know more about this ship than he admits. I would hate to come up that staircase and find the ship missing. Stand guard over him. Tell him that if he moves a muscle you’ll slug him. And mean it.”

  “Okay. I hope he does move. How long will you be gone?”

  “If we can’t find it in two hours we’ll come back.”

  Cargraves searched the officers’ room first, as it seemed the most likely place. He did not find it, but he did find that some of the Nazis appeared to have some peculiar and unpleasant tastes in books and pictures. The barrack room he took next. It was as depressing a place as it had been earlier, but he was prepared for it. Art he had assigned to the radio and radar room and Morrie to the other spaces; there seemed to be no reason for any one but himself to have to touch the bloating corpses.

  He drew a blank in the barrack room. Coming out, he heard Art’s voice in his phones. “Hey, Uncle, look what I’ve found!”

  “What is it?,” he said, and Morrie’s voice cut in at once.

  “Found the manual, Art?”

  “No, but look!” They converged in the central hall. ‘It’ was a Graflex camera, complete with flash gun. “There is a complete darkroom off the radio room. I found it there. How about it, Uncle? Pictures?”

  “Well, all right. Morrie, you go along—it may be your only chance to see the ruins. Thirty minutes. Don’t go very far, don’t bust your necks, don’t take any chances, and be back on time, or I’ll be after you with a Flit gun.” He watched them go regretfully, more than a little tempted to play hookey himself. If he had not been consumed with the urgency of his present responsibilities—

  But he was. He forced himself to resume the dreary search.

  It was all to no good. If there was an instruction manual in existence he had to admit that he did not know how to find it. But he was still searching when the boys returned.

  He glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes,” he said. “That’s more prompt than I thought you would be; I expected to have to go look for you. What did you find? Get any good pictures?”

  “Pictures? Did we get pictures! Wait till you see!”

  “I never saw anything like it, Doc,” Morrie stated impressively. “The place is a city. It goes down and down. Great big arched halls, hundreds of feet across, corridors running every which way, rooms, balconies—I can’t begin to describe it.”

  “Then don’t try. Write up full notes on what you saw as soon as we get back.”

  “Doc, this thing’s tremendous!”

  “I realize it. But it’s so big I’m not even going to try to comprehend it, not yet. We’ve got our work cut out for us just to get out of here alive. Art, what did you find in the radio room? Anything you can use to raise earth?”

  “Well, Uncle, that’s hard to say, but the stuff doesn’t look promising.”

  “Are you sure? We know that they were in communication—at least according to our nasty-nice boy friend.”

  Art shook his head. “I thought you said they received from earth. I found their equipment for that but I couldn’t test it out because I couldn’t get the earphones inside my suit. But I don’t see how they could send to earth.”

  “Why not? They need two-way transmission.”

  “Maybe they need it but they can’t afford to use it. Look, Uncle, they can beam towards the moon from their base on earth—that’s all right; nobody gets it but them. But if the Nazis on this end try to beam back, they can’t select some exact spot on earth. At that distance the beam would fan out until it covered too much territory—it would be like a broadcast.”

  “Oh!” said Cargraves, “I begin to see. Chalk up one for yourself, Art; I should have thought of that. No matter what sort of a code they used, if people started picking up radio from the direction of the moon, the cat would be out of the bag.”

  “That’s what I thought, anyhow.”

  “I think you’re dead right. I’m disappointed; I was beginning to pin my hopes on getting a message across.” He shrugged. “Well, one thing at a time. Morrie, have you picked out the supplies you want to take up?”

  “All lined up.” They followed him into the kitchen space and found he had stacked three piles of tin cans in quantities to make three good-sized loads. As they were filling their arms Morrie said. “How many men were there here, Doc?”

  “I counted forty-seven bodies not counting the one von Hartwick shot. Why?”

  “Well, I noticed something funny. I’ve sort of acquired an eye for estimating rations since I’ve been running the mess. There isn’t food enough here to keep that many men running two weeks. Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Hunnh… Look, Morrie, I think you’ve hit on something important. That’s why von Hartwick is so cocky. It isn’t just whistling in the dark. He actually expects to be rescued.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle?” Art wanted to know.

  “He is expecting a supply ship, almost any time.”

  Art whistled. “He thinks we’ll be caught by surprise!”

  “And we would have been. But we won’t be now.” He put down his load of groceries. “Come along.”

  “Where?”

  “I just remembered something.” In digging through the officers’ quarters he had come across many documents, books, manuals, records, and papers of many sorts. He had scanned them very briefly, making certain only that no one of them contained anything which would give a clue to the operation of the Wotan.

  One of them was the day book or journal of the task-force commander. Among other things it had given the location of the Nazi base on earth; Cargraves had marked it as something he wanted to study later. Now he decided to do it at once.

  It was long. It covered a period of nearly three months with Teutonic thoroughness. He read rapidly, with Art reading over his shoulder. Morrie stood around impatiently and finally pointed out that the time was approaching when they had promised Ross to return.

  “Go ahead,” Cargraves said absently. “Take a load of foo
d. Get a meal started.” He read on.

  There was a roster of the party. He found von Hartwick listed as executive officer. He noted that as an indication that the Nazi was lying when he claimed not to understand the piloting of the Wotan. Not proof, but a strong indication. But falsehood was all that he expected of the creature.

  He was beginning to find what he was looking for. Supply trips had been made each month. If the schedule was maintained—and the state of supplies certainly indicated it—the next ship should be along in six or seven days.

  But the most important fact he was not sure of until he had finished the journal: there was more than one big rocket in their possession; the Wotan was not about to leave to get supplies; she would not leave, if the schedule had been followed, until the supply ship landed. Then she would be taken back empty and the other ship would be unloaded. By such an arrangement the party on the moon was never left without a means of escape—or, at least, that was the reason he read into the account.

  There were just two and only two Nazi moon rockets—the Wotan and the Thor. The Thor was due in a week, as nearly as he could make out, which meant that she would leave her home base in about five days. The transit times for each trip had been logged in; forty-six hours plus for the earth-moon jump was the way the record read.

  Fast time! he thought.

  If the Thor ever took off, it might be too late for good intentions, too late for warnings. The Nazis were certainly aware that the techniques of space flight were now an open secret; there was reference after reference to the Galileo including a last entry noting that she had been located. They would certainly strike at the earliest possible moment.

  He could see in his mind’s eye the row upon row of A-bomb guided-missiles in a near-by cavern. He could see them striking the defenseless cities of earth.

  No time to rig a powerful transmitter. No time for anything but drastic measures.

  Not time enough, he was afraid!

  SQUEEZE PLAY

  • 19 •

  “SOUP’S ON!” MORRIE GREETED him as he came hurrying into the Wotan. Cargraves started shucking off his suit as he answered.

  “No time for that—no, gimme a couple of those sandwiches.”

  Morrie complied. Ross inquired, “What’s the rush?”

  “Got to see the prisoner.” He turned away, then stopped. “No—wait. Come here, guys.” He motioned them into a football huddle. “I’m going to try something.” He whispered urgently for a few minutes. “Now play up. I’ll leave the door open.”

  He went into the hold and prodded von Hartwick with his boot. “Wake up, you.” He took a bite of sandwich.

  “I am awake.” Von Hartwick turned his head with some difficulty as he was trussed up with his ankles pulled up toward his wrists, which were tied behind him. “Ah, food,” he said cheerfully. “I was wondering when you would remember the amenities in dealing with prisoners.”

  “It’s not for you,” Cargraves informed him. “The other sandwich is for me. You won’t need one.”

  Von Hartwick looked interested but not frightened. “So?”

  “Nope,” said Cargraves, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “you won’t. I had intended to take you to earth for trial, but I find I won’t have time for that. I’ll try you myself—now.”

  Von Hartwick shrugged under his bonds. “You are able to do as you like. I’ve no doubt you intend to kill me, but don’t dignify it with the name of a trial. Call it a lynching. Be honest with yourself. In the first place my conduct has been entirely correct. True, I was forced to shoot one of my own men, but it was a necessary emergency military measure—”

  “Murder,” put in Cargraves.

  “—in defense of the security of the Reich,” von Hartwick went on unhurriedly, “and no concern of yours in any case. It was in my own ship, entirely out of jurisdiction of any silly laws of the corrupt democracies. As for the bombing of your ship, I have explained to you—”

  “Shut up,” Cargraves said. “You’ll get a chance to say a few words later. Court’s in session. Just to get it straight in your head, this entire planet is subject to the laws of the United Nations. We took formal possession and have established a permanent base. Therefore—”

  “Too late, Judge Lynch. The New Reich claimed this planet three months ago.”

  “I told you to keep quiet. You’re in contempt of court. One more peep and we’ll think up a way to keep you quiet. Therefore, as the master of a vessel registered under the laws of the United Nations it is my duty to see that those laws are obeyed. Your so-called claim doesn’t hold water. There isn’t any New Reich, so it can’t claim anything. You and your fellow thugs aren’t a nation; you are merely gangsters. We aren’t bound to recognize any fictions you have thought up and we don’t. Morrie! Bring me another sandwich.”

  “Coming up, Captain!”

  “Now as master of the Galileo,” Cargraves went on, “I have to act for the government when I’m off by myself, as I am now. Since I haven’t time to take you back to earth for trial, I’m trying you now. Two charges: murder in the first degree and piracy.”

  “Piracy? My dear fellow!”

  “Piracy. You attacked a vessel of UN register. On your own admission you took part in it, whether you gave the orders or not. All members of a pirate crew are equally guilty, and it’s a capital offense. Murder in the first degree is another one. Thanks for the sandwich, Morrie. Where did you find fresh bread?”

  “It was canned.”

  “Clever, these Nazis. There was some doubt in my mind as to whether to charge you with first or second degree. But you had to grab the gun away from me first, before you could shoot your pal. That’s premeditation. So you’re charged—piracy and first-degree murder. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  Von Hartwick hesitated a bit before replying. “Since I do not admit the jurisdiction of this so-called court, I refuse to enter a plea. Even if I concede—which I don’t—that you honestly believe this to be United Nations territory, you still are not a court.”

  “A ship’s master has very broad powers in an emergency. Look it up some time. Get a ouija board and look it up.”

  Von Hartwick raised his eyebrows. “From the nature of that supposedly humorous remark I can see that I am convicted before the trial starts.”

  Cargraves chewed reflectively. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he conceded. “I’d like to give you a jury, but we don’t really need one. You see, there aren’t any facts to be established because there aren’t any facts in doubt. We were all there. The only question is: What do those facts constitute under the law? This is your chance to speak your piece if you intend to.”

  “Why should I bother? You mongrel nations prate of justice and equality under law. But you don’t practice it. You stand there with your hands dripping with the blood of my comrades, whom you killed in cold blood, without giving them a chance—yet you speak to me of piracy and murder!”

  “We discussed that once before,” Cargraves answered carefully. “There is a world of difference, under the laws of free men, between an unprovoked attack and striking back in your own defense. If a footpad assaults you in a dark alley, you don’t have to get a court order to fight back. Next. Got any more phony excuses?”

  The Nazi was silent. “Go ahead,” Cargraves persisted. “You could still plead not guilty by reason of insanity and you might even convince me. I always have thought a man with a MasterRace complex was crazy as a hoot owl. You might convince me that you were crazy in a legal sense as well.”

  For the first time, von Hartwick’s air of aloof superiority seemed to crack. His face got red and he appeared about to explode. Finally he regained a measure of control and said, “Let’s have no more of this farce. Do whatever it is you intend to do and quit playing with me.”

  “I assure you that I am not playing. Have you anything more to say in your own defense?”

  “No!”

  “I find you guilty on both charges. Have you anyt
hing to say before sentence is passed?”

  The accused did not deign to answer.

  “Very well. I sentence you to death.”

  Art took a quick, gasping breath and backed out of the doorway where he had been huddled, wide-eyed, with Ross and Morrie. There was no other sound.

  “Have you anything to say before the sentence is executed?”

  Von Hartwick turned his face away. “I am not sorry. At least I will have a quick and merciful death. The best you four swine can hope for is a slow and lingering death.”

  “Oh,” said Cargraves, “I intended to explain to you about that. We aren’t going to die.”

  “You think not?” There was undisguised triumph in von Hartwick’s voice.

  “I’m sure of it. You see, the Thor arrives in six or seven days—”

  “What? How did you find that out?” The Nazi seemed stunned for a moment, then muttered, “Not that it matters…four of you—but I see why you decided to kill me. You were afraid I would escape you.”

  “Not at all,” returned Cargraves. “You don’t understand. If it were practical to do so, I would take you back to earth to let you appeal your case before a higher court. Not for your sake—you’re guilty as sin!—but for my own. However, I do not find it possible. We will be very busy until the Thor gets here and I have no means of making sure that you are securely imprisoned except by standing guard over you every minute. I can’t do that; we haven’t time enough. But I don’t intend to let you escape punishment. I don’t have a cell to put you in. I had intended to drain the fuel from your little rocket and put you in there, without a suit. That way, you would have been safe to leave alone while we worked. But, now that the Thor is coming, we will need the little rocket.”