Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  In the interim, H.C. MacDonald organized the E.V. & M., and started it on its steady growth in power and size. In the course of time commercial contracts were made with the inhabited satellites of Jupiter and Saturn—and the demand for iron immediately exceeded the available supply, for iron was a rare element on those smaller, lighter bodies. With customary foresight, H.C. MacDonald bought The Meteoric Iron Co., and made it a brance of the E.V. & M.

  Occasionally Steve Anders left space for a job on earth—but he always returned. It was during one of these periods of absence that “Meteoric Iron” changed hands—and Steve could not come back. Applying to an E.V. & M. employment manager for a job, he met with a curt refusal; meteor mining was the most dangerous industry in space, he was told, and not a job for old men! Steve went away with bowed head.

  Ten years passed, and—but that’s the story.

  There goes the starting bell; they’re closing the airlocks . . . and we’re off!

  A TALL, powerfully built man with close-cropped black hair, and black eyes that when occasion demanded, could become coal black and seem to lose their pupils, sat in the private office of H.C. president of the E.V. & M. He was Captain Cal Barker, the fifty-year-old commander of the fleet of Meteor Miners. A grim, stern-man was Barker, a man who had fought his way to his present position by sheer force of determination—and, at times by efficient use of two battering-ram fists. His nature had a softer side, but it rarely came into view.

  It was October, and he was discussing his superior the forthcoming departure of the fleet for the Andromids[2], the swarm of meteors which touched earth’s orbit, between the seventeenth and twenty-seventh of the following month. The cruisers would follow the path of the swarm for three months, stowing meteoric iron into their holds, then return to earth with their haul, unload, outfit their crafts for another voyage—and head out into space in search of another meteoric swarm.

  Suddenly the sound of a buzzer broke in upon their conversation, and the short-ripped sentences of a secretary came through a radiophone. “A visitor to speak with Captain Barker. He is very persistent—insists on seeing you. His name is Stephen Anders. An old man, poorly dressed—shall I permit him to pass?”

  Captain Barked frowned. “Stephen Anders,” he muttered. “That name sounds familiar. Steve Anders . . . By farm!” he exploded, his face losing its mammary sternness, “old Steve Anders! Show him in—show him in!”

  A moment later the door opened and old Steve Anders shuffled in, nervously twisting a battered derelict of a hat in his gnarled hands. Sparse white hair covered his head, and countless wrinkles creased the skin of his face that was not concealed by his thatch of short, snowy whiskers. His seventy-odd years of life rested heavily upon his bent shoulders as he paused inside the door, his faded, blue eyes shifting almost apprehensively from Captain Cal Barker to H.C. MacDonald and back again.

  Abruptly the Captain leaped to his feet, a smile of genuine pleasure on his face. He caught the old man’s hand and wrung it warmly.

  “Old Steve Anders! You space-eater you! Where’ve you been keeping yourself for the last fifteen years? Somewhere on Mars or Venus, I’ll bet, prospecting! I’m glad to see you, Steve, glad to see you! Come on, man, open up your airlock!”

  Steve Anders smiled his appreciation, tears filling his watery old eyes. He had become so accustomed to hard knocks during the last ten years that a kind word meant much to him.

  “I don’t like to bother you, Cal—Cap’n, sir. I thought maybe you’d forgot me—but I just took a chance.” His voice was thin and quavering, older, it seemed, than the man himself. Yet, somehow, there still clung to it a suggestion of former power.

  “Forget you!” Captain Barker exclaimed. “Forget Steve Anders!” He turned to H.C. MacDonald. “This is the man, sir, who taught me what I know about meteor mining. Twenty years ago he was the best man in the game, sir—barring none: and I worked with him, a raw, space-shy recruit. For two seasons we were high craft for tonnage—and it was all Steve’s doings!”

  H.C. MacDonald looked at the old man with new respect in his eyes. “Some record,” he commented. “I’ve watched meteor men at their work—and it’s not a soft snap, by any means.”

  CAPTAIN CAL BARKER snorted.

  “Soft snap! Huh! What you watched is a soft snap compared to meteor mining in the early days. Today we use magno-bars, separated from the space boats by fifty or a hundred feet. In those days we magnetized the outer steel shell of the cars, and used them to pull the meteors from their course. Lots of fun edging up to a mass of iron flashing through space at the rate of twenty-six miles a second—I don’t think! And that’s their average speed. A little jump in the wrong direction—and your boat was smashed to bits . . . And we didn’t have atomic power in those days, either, we used rockets! Soft snap! Humph!”

  “Say, Cap’n, sir,” old Steve interposed rather timidly, “I still got the old boat! Bought her when they changed over to these new contraptions, and had her stowed away. They was goin’ to scrap her—the best little craft that ever rode the sky-lanes.”

  “You would, Steve, you would! The way you polished that tank! You thought more of her than anything else—next to your wife.” The Captain’s voice softened. “How is your wife, Steve? Passed away?”

  The old man drew himself up proudly. “No, Cap’n, she’s spry as ever. Gettin’ on in years—but she’s still waitin’ for me to settle down, sir. An’—an’ that’s why I came here to see you.

  “Twenty years back, Cal, my lad, we worked together—an’ I was wonderin’ if we couldn’t do it again! You see, I’m tryin’ to make enough money to last me an’ Sarah the rest o’ our days. Ten years ago I tried to get back to meteor minin’.—but they said I was too old. It’s not so, Cap’n; I’m as good a man as I ever was—even if my hair has turned white!

  “I tried prospectin’ on Venus, but it’s pretty hard lines—not my kind o’ work—I don’t feel at home on land. Tried other things, always on my own, but I can’t seem to do any savin’ just make enough to keep me an’ Sarah goin’. An’—an’ I won’t take charity!

  “When I found out that you was in charge of the Iron Fleet, I figured maybe you’d maybe give me a chance, Cap’n, to make my pile so I can settle down. I—I’m as good a man as I ever was!”

  Captain Barker frowned blackly—but not because he felt like frowning. He did it to conceal the sudden unwonted emotion that had stirred him. Steve Anders was old—old and well-nigh useless—but he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself.

  “Steve,” Barker said gruffly, “I think I can do something for you. Drop around to the fleet’s quarters at the space-port about nine to-morrow morning, and ask for me. I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Cap’n—I’m mighty grateful! I knew you was enough of a space man to stick to an old pal.” Sudden eagerness entered his voice. “An’ when we leave for the swarm, sir, I’ll take the old car along! Still got her loaded with fuel, Cal—Cap’n, sir. An’ we’ll show ’em what a real haul is!” He laughed happily. “They said I was done for—but I’m still good for quite a few years.” And mumbling his thanks, old Steve Anders shuffled out through the doorway, one of those pathetic derelicts, tossed aimlessly about by the tides of life.

  For several moments after the old man’s departure, there was silence in the office of H.C. MacDonald. Then the president of the E.V. & M. ran his fingers through his bristling gray hair and cleared his throat.

  “Well!” he exclaimed finally.

  Captain Cal Barker peered at MacDonald from under heavy black brows, a truculent light entering his eyes. “Well,” he returned, “what of it? Sure; I know I acted like a softie! I admit he’s a failure—should have saved his money for his old age! Of course he’s worn-out, done for! But I don’t give a damn!

  “When a man’s served his life in space—given all he’s had to the sky-lanes, he deserves something in return, doesn’t he? I worked with Steve Anders in his prime—a square, two-fisted man if there ever
was one—and I owe him a lot! Think I’m going to turn him down now? No, sir! not for any man!

  “And that wife of his—finest woman I ever met! She’s waited all these years for him to come home with his roll and settle down. He’ll get his chance to do it, or my name’s not Cal Barker!”

  H.C. MacDonald nodded slowly, a faint smile on his lips. “I didn’t say anything, did I?” he asked.

  “Well—” the Captain began, then paused, watching the big boss of the E.V. & M. He had seized a pen and was writing rapidly. After a moment he arose with a slip of pink paper in one hand; wordlessly he gave it to Barker.

  “Your personal check for ten thousand dollars!” the latter exclaimed. “Payable to Stephen Anders . . . By—by damn, that’s white of you! But—” he shook his head regretfully, “but that isn’t the way. He wouldn’t accept it! I know him—and I know he wouldn’t take a cent that he hadn’t earned.” He crushed the check in his hand and dropped it on the desk.

  “Then what’ll we do?” H.C. MacDonald queried gruffly. “He can’t earn his way—no question about that! An’ we can’t ship him as a miner—it’d be sure death for the old man. What’s your idea?”

  Captain Cal Barker frowned reflectively. “Well, I know one way we can work it. We’ll ship him as assistant to the boat dispatcher. All he’ll have to do is watch the visiplates, and warn the meteor men if there’s any danger, or if they’re going too far. And Steve’ll rate a higher pay than he would as a miner.”

  Slowly H.C. MacDonald inclined his head. “Guess it’ll work that way,” he agreed as the Captain arose to leave. He gripped the other’s hand. “Good luck on the voyage. Report when you get back.”

  “Thanks,” Captain Barker returned, his face assuming its normal grimness. “I won’t see you before we leave; be too busy.” And with that he passed from the room.

  H.C. MacDonald sank into a chair, and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It’s tough to be old,” he murmured at length, “but it’s hell to be old—and useless!”

  IN wedge formation the thirty-three cruisers of the Meteor Fleet flashed through space toward the Andromids. The space ship Atlas, with Captain Cal Barker in command, formed the apex of the wedge. They would maintain that formation until they reached the meteoric swarm then they would separate and spread out over the Andromid’s orbit, to reunite three months later for the return to earth.

  Old Steve Anders was on board the Atlas, clad in the conventional E.V. & M. blue. Smooth-shaven, more erect, his appearance was changed slightly, but he was nevertheless an incongruity among the members of a crew whose ages averaged thirty or thirty-five years.

  Old Steve was unhappy. True, he was glad to be back in the vaults of space, glad to feel the rush of acceleration as the cruiser sped through the void, glad to see the starry blackness sweeping past the portholes—but he felt that he had had a submit to a gross injustice at the hands of Captain Barker. He, one time champion of the Meteor Fleet, chained to the cruiser while the miners would speed away to the excitement of the chase in their little, two-men boats! He, Steve Anders, assistant dispatcher! It was ridiculous! They had permitted him to bring his old craft along—but they wouldn’t let him use it! And he was just as good a man as he ever had been.

  Hugo Mott, the Dispatcher, a little, light-haired man of about twenty-five with a big voice and a white liver—so Steve had decided when he met him—noticed his assistant’s gloom.

  “Come on, old-timer,” he bellowed, “snap out of it! What ails you, anyway? You look like one of those Venerian death-worms was chewin’ at your guts!”

  Old Steve scowled distastefully. He didn’t want to talk with this noisy little vacuum-head. But talking might help anyway.

  “Well, if you must know,” he complained in a thin voice, “I think it’s a shame that Cap’n Barker didn’t have sense enough to ship me as a miner. Me, Steve Anders, an inside man! I’d show ’em all somethin’ if they’d let me go.”

  “Yeh?” Mott sneered. “You don’t seem to realize that they’re savin’ your life for yuh by keepin’ yuh in this boat. It’d be suicide for you to go out in that old rocket kettle I saw ’em stow in one of the boat racks. Besides, you’re pullin’ down more money than the miners are—without a risk.” He paused an instant to emit a hoarse laugh, then swept his hand about, indicating the double row of televisor screens. “This is a soft job compared with that . . . And you can’t seem to get it through your dome that you’re done for! I’m surprised that they gave you a berth at all. Barker must be crackin’ up; never did have much sense anyway.”

  Sudden resentment flared up in old Steve Anders, and a hurt look came into his eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. What was the use! It was always thus—had been from the outset. The men had joked about his old boat, and in defense he had told some of the things that the old craft had done—and they had laughed! He’d show them—by God, he’d show them!

  Then he shook his head sorrowfully. He’d never get a chance to show them. Within a few hours they’d reach the Andromids, the fleet would break up, and he’d start on his routine, inside job.

  Suddenly Steve whirled in his tracks, the sound of an angry voice in his ears—Captain Cal Barker’s voice. The latter had entered.

  “So I’m cracking up, am I, Mr. Mott? Never did have much sense, anyway, eh? Be a little more careful, hereafter, what you say, and where you say it!” With the words a hard fist crashed against Hugo Mott’s jaw and sent him sprawling. “If you weren’t such a good man at the screens,” Barker continued in an icy voice, “I’d see that you had your space license taken from you for that. I’ll have discipline on board my ship!”

  The Captain turned to Steve. “Mr. Anders, we’ll hear no more about that old rocket boat of yours. It may cause trouble—and we must have discipline!”

  “Yes, sir,” old Steve replied.

  After Barker had gone, Mott crawled to his feet, caressing his jaw and mumbling curses. Steve saw an ugly, sullen light in his close-set black eyes.

  “I’LL get him for that,” the little Dispatcher muttered—and glanced fearfully over his shoulder as the words left his lips.

  Steve Anders looked at him with scorn in his glance. “Dirty little rat,” he thought. “Yellow clean through.”

  Within the next two hours the incident in the televisor room passed from the mind of old Steve Anders. A nervous tension gripped him. For they had almost reached the orbit of the Andromids. More, they were approaching the main body of the swarm, what had been the head of Biela’s comet, until it had broken up almost two centuries before.

  Even now the fleet was separating at Captain Barker’s orders. In the big visiplate Steve watched them go. One after another they sped away, vanishing in the blackness. Finally all were gone, searching out different portions of the swarm’s orbit, and the Atlas flashed alone through space.

  Suddenly bells rang out through the great, cylindrical space ship—a signal. The meteors lay below them! No man could see them, but delicate detectors revealed their presence on the space charts.

  In a moment the chambers of the Atlas hummed with activity. The meteor miners rushed for their respective two-men crafts, stored in the boat racks near the base of the cruiser, and prepared for their first excursion into space. As they finally closed their airlocks, each crew switched on their radiophones and visiplates; and in the Dispatcher’s room twelve screens flashed into life. Each bore an image of the corresponding meteor car resting in its rack; and beside each screen was a dial that would record the distance separating the smaller craft from the big cruiser.

  When all were ready, Mott released them one by one, and under their own power, each towing a huge iron bar, wound with insulated wire, they darted into the void.

  Watching the screens, old Steve Anders saw them speed into the swarm, find iron meteors, and begin the struggle to check their flight—and a great ache gripped his throat. It wasn’t fair! They wouldn’t give him a chance.

  With his eyes he follow
ed one of the craft in its efforts. Now it was creeping up beside a jagged mass of metal. Suddenly the iron bar leaped out against the meteor as the crew sent a current through its coils, transforming it to an electro-magnet. The cable tautened; and the car and the meteor sped along side by side.

  Slowly the men reduced their pace, arresting the speed of the spatial missile. Slower, steadily slower—and the thing was accomplished. With die mass of Meteoric iron held fast to the steel bar, they moved on, searching for a second victim. One, or possibly two more meteors they’d secure, depending upon their size, then they’d return to the Atlas.

  That was the life! Old Steve watched the visiplates enviously. Of course, all the captures weren’t that easy; occasionally big meteors pulled the cars along—could not be stopped. Sometimes another car had to assist—and sometimes masses of iron had to be abandoned by reversing the current in the magnet coils . . . Steve Anders sighed. He wanted to be out there too!

  Suddenly a harsh voice broke in upon his thoughts. “I’ll bet you’re glad now that you’re safe inside the Atlas.” It was Hugo Mott. “Bein’ old has some compensations, eh? Look at the risks them fools is takin’ out there. Not for me, Old-timer!”

  A hot retort sprang to Steve’s lips, but he checked it as his eyes caught the figures on one of the distant dials.

  “Number six is past the safety limit,” he said.

  “Right!” Mott grunted. He turned a dial; spoke into a radiophone: “Number six has gone too far. Turn back.”

  The work in the televisor room was largely a matter of routine. Mott and Steve had to watch the twelve illuminated screens, six on one wall, and six on the other, and periodically record what took place in space. There were two other screens, one on either side, screens for boats that were kept in the Atlas for emergency use—and a larger screen connected with apparatus in the control room, which revealed the surroundings of the Atlas itself. The latter likewise received some of Mott’s and Steve’s attention, and was the subject of written records.