A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  ALWARD and I were alone. I lighted a cigarette and puffed at it abstractedly, thinking of dawn and of Suzanne. After a while, Alward spoke.

  “Charles.”

  “Yes?” I said, jerking my reluctant mind back to reality.

  “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure everything is all right, sir. Our check-up yesterday was thorough enough.”

  Alward passed a hand wearily over his face. He said slowly, “I’ve thought of this moment for years. I was sure I had everything all planned out, beyond the faintest possibility of error. And now . . . I’m not sure. Now that the actual test is to begin, I feel that I created something too big for understanding or certainty.”

  “You’re tired, sir,” I said. “The ship will work.”

  “You understand everything you are to do?”

  I nodded. Alward pulled reflectively at his pipe for some seconds. Then he said:

  “It’s almost dawn. I’ve thought of a slight change in course which I’d like to discuss with Dan before you leave.” Some of Alward’s old energy seemed to flow back into him. He rose and went to the living room entrance. I heard him call Burdeen.

  Burdeen’s voice answered, and Alward explained his idea. Burdeen’s tone grew a trifle sharp.

  “That will have to be put on the flight charts—and they’re all in the hangar.”

  “We’ll go there, then. It’s almost time to leave anyway.”

  Alward turned and strode from the room, obviously on his way to the hangar. After a moment, Burdeen followed, visibly annoyed. It was tacitly understood that I was to accompany them, but for some obscure yet irresistible reason, I hung back. I heard the measured thuds of their feet on the porch outside, and then, faintly, the scrape of their soles on the gravel path which led to the hangar. Then there was silence.

  I knew suddenly why I had remained behind. I turned slowly back to face the living room entrance, thinking abruptly, achingly, of Suzanne. And as though in answer to my thoughts, the figure of the girl appeared without warning in the entrance.

  I stared at her—guiltily. Her hazel eyes widened on my face, and one small hand crept to her throat. We gazed at each other for a long moment, with a lack of sound or motion that was oddly unreal, dreamlike. Finally Suzanne said:

  “Why, Charles, I thought you had gone.”

  “I . . . I just wanted to say goodbye.”

  “But you’ll be back, won’t you?”

  “. . . Yes.” I looked away, with an embarrassed feeling, as though I’d just done something foolish.

  There was a rustle of motion, and suddenly I felt Suzanne’s hands on my arms. The delicate oval of her face seemed dilated with fear.

  “Charles—you don’t think there’s a chance that . . . that you might not come back?”

  “We’ll be back. Dan will come back. There’s really no danger.”

  Her fingers tightened momentarily on my arms. “Oh, Charles! I wasn’t thinking of Dan.” She sounded impatient, almost angry. But she looked as if she wanted to cry.

  I gazed stupidly down at her, pondering a little bewilderedly the implication of her words. Then I understood. And then suddenly, somehow, she was in my arms and my cheek was pressed tightly against her hair, and a kind of roaring silence beat over me and through me in great, slow waves.

  After a while I looked at her and said, “But Dan?”

  “Forget Dan,” she said.

  “I . . . I must seem terribly dumb. I never guessed—But I love you, Suzanne. Did you know?”

  She shook her head, hazel eyes smiling at me through tears. “I didn’t know. I only knew that you were serious and kind . . . the way my father must have been.”

  “And you love me?”

  “Of course.”

  She was in my arms again. I don’t know how long we stood there when I realized that the darkness beyond the encircling windows had grown gray with approaching light.

  It was dawn.

  CHAPTER II

  The Flight

  WE WALKED slowly, Suzanne and I, down the steps of the porch, to the gravel path which led to the hangar. A few faint streaks of rose and gold showed already in the brightening sky to the east. There was the moist, fresh smell of morning in the air, and the surrounding trees loomed vaguely ghost-like in a gray haze. A cold, thin breeze drifted from the dark expanse of the lake.

  It was quiet, with the deep quiet of open spaces that I’d grown to love. The house and its grounds were located in a wilderness of trees and hills. They had once been the site of a vacation resort, abandoned when spending vacations in space or on the Moon had become the fad. Considering Alward’s desire for secrecy, the spot had been ideal in which to work. Except for the hangar, sheltering the completed Starling, he had made few additions or changes.

  Suzanne stopped, gazing out over the lake. Her voice came to me after a moment, low and faintly bitter.

  “It happened—but so late. Why didn’t we make it happen before?”

  “It happened anyway, Suzanne.”

  “I’m thinking of the flight, Charles. I’m afraid.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The ship will work. I helped build it. I understand it. I know it will work.” She swung around to face me. “You’ll come back?”

  “I’ll come back, Suzanne. I won’t let anything stop me.”

  “I’ll be waiting . . .”

  I took her in my arms and held her tightly a moment. Then I released her slowly and said:

  “I have to go.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You have to go.” The hangar lights had been turned on. Alward and Burdeen stood near the open entrance port of the Starling. They had obviously just finished their discussion.

  Burdeen’s blue gaze narrowed slightly as he saw me with Suzanne. Then he grinned as though dismissing it as insignificant, and strode forward. He spoke to Suzanne, ignoring me.

  “I’m glad you came. You’re just in time to see us off.”

  Suzanne nodded gravely. “Goodbye, Dan. And good luck.” She made no move of invitation, but Burdeen bent suddenly and kissed her.

  I said nothing. For the first time since I’d known him, I felt a little sorry for Burdeen.

  Suzanne turned to me, touching my arm. “Good-bye, Charles.” Her eyes told me that our previous farewell, beyond the need for any further demonstrations, was a secret we would share.

  I said, “Good-bye, Suzanne.” Then Burdeen and I shook Alward’s hand and waited while he and the girl walked back to the house. It wouldn’t have been safe for them to remain in the hangar when the ship took off.

  Finally they were gone. Burdeen continued to gaze after them, frowning, as though something were puzzling him.

  I turned to look at the slim, tapering shape of the Starling, gleaming silver-gray under the hangar lights. It had once been an ordinary atomic rocket, a private cruiser model just coming into general use. Alward and I had removed the protruding jet tubes, useless for our purposes, and now its metallic skin stretched sleek and unbroken. Interior changes had also been made. Alward’s atomic power driven warp-generators had been substituted for the original atomic engines, and the plan of cabins and passageways had been altered to fit in the new machinery. The ship was just a mere shell of its former self. In the pursuit of our work, Alward and I had stripped it ruthlessly of nonessentials. We had not bothered afterward to restore fully its previous comforts and luxuries. Since the first flight was to be a short one, few of these were needed anyway.

  AS I looked at the ship, a surge of excitement rushed over me with the thought that Burdeen and I stood at last upon the threshold of our adventure. For it was an adventure, as are essentially the steps into the unknown, with their accompanying dangers, taken by all pioneers. We would be the first men in history to travel at a speed close to that of light itself. If we returned, we would see, as a result of the risks we had taken, the dawn of a new era—the era of interstellar travel. That alone outweighed beyond consideration the
value we placed upon our respective lives.

  The circumstances of the flight itself were simple. We were to circumnavigate the Sun—or at least insofar as following a vast elliptical orbit can be called circumnavigation. It would take some three hours. Only a half-hour of this time would be spent traveling close to light speed. The rest would be consumed in accelerating and decellerating. It would not be an easy flight, since for the greater part of the time Burdeen and I would be subjected to terrific pressures, which our special cushioning seats, with their tremendously powerfully absorbing springs, would alleviate but not entirely nullify.

  I became abruptly aware that Burdeen had turned and was watching me. His blue eyes seemed oddly intent, speculative. He studied me a moment longer, then said:

  “Well, runt, are you getting in—or have you finally decided to back out?”

  “I’d be the last one in the world to provide you with an excuse to back out yourself,” I said. I climbed into the ship and made my way to the control room. I was seated in my chair, fastening the wide, thick safety straps, when Burdeen entered.

  He dropped into his chair and fumbled for his safety straps. He looked thoughtful. He didn’t buckle them about his body immediately, but held them absently, glancing at me. Something was on his mind.

  Burdeen said finally, “You’re acting pretty cocky, runt.”

  Anger was a sudden glow inside me. But I managed to speak quietly when I answered.

  “Burdeen, this is no time for personalities. We’ve got a job to do—a job that’s bigger than either of us. We aren’t going to get it done by airing our spites.”

  He ignored me. “Listen, runt, I want to know something. Is there anything between you and Suzanne?”

  The glow inside me became a hot blaze of fury. “You’re damned right there is,” I said. “Suzanne loves me. And now, if you have any sense at all, you’ll forget about her and start flying this ship.”

  In a flash of motion, Burdeen leaped out of his chair, and his big fingers closed like the jaws of a steel trap on the front of my jacket.

  “You’re a liar!” he said. “You’re a rotten liar!” His voice was thick, choking.

  “You know better than that,” I answered evenly. “It’s either you or I, if anyone, that Suzanne cares about. And you know very well she hasn’t anything for you, but you aren’t willing to admit it—not even to yourself.”

  I was unable to move. It was the safety straps, however, rather than Burdeen’s grip which held me powerless. I think he realized this after a moment. He released me with a disdaining jerk of his arm. He said grimly:

  “I’m going to have this out with Suzanne. We’re going to settle this once and for all.”

  “You’ll succeed only in making a fool of yourself,” I told him. “Besides, the flight is the only important thing right now. We’ve delayed long enough.”

  BURDEEN slowly grew calm. A mask seemed to slide over his face. He dropped back into his chair and completed his initial act of fastening his safety straps. Then he turned his attention to the controls.

  It was a truce, an armed truce which would exist until we returned. But remembering Burdeen’s secretive expression, I wondered suddenly if he didn’t have other plans. I knew he wasn’t the sort to give up easily. He wanted Suzanne. I was in the way. And if an “accident” happened to me while we were in space, who would be the wiser? It didn’t seem at all a farfetched idea. I knew the way Burdeen’s mind worked.

  Further uneasy speculation in this direction was blotted out as I heard the soft hum of the warp generators. The hum deepened. The Starling began to move. Easily, gently, it lifted from the floor of the hangar, and at Burdeen’s touch on the controls floated through the doorway, into the dawn outside. In the view-plate, tiny but perfect in detail, I saw before the house the figures of Alward and Suzanne. They stared a moment, motionless, as though surprised that the ship had moved. Then they began waving excitedly.

  The hum deepened still more, became something felt rather than heard. The scene in the view-plate tilted crazily as Burdeen pointed the nose of the ship toward space. Then in a flash of motion, the trees and hills, and then the green and brown of the land, vanished. There was just the blue of the sky around us, deep and limitless. We were on our way.

  On the forward control panel the chronometer ticked off the first few minutes of our epochal flight. The hum of the generators filled the silence like the vast, deep roar of a distant river. We were riding the warp, hurtling through the atmospheric envelope at an ever-increasing velocity.

  I must explain at this point how the ship worked. Greatly limited by the nature of the subject, it cannot be—nor do I intend it to be—a very accurate or illuminating explanation. Only mathematics can give the ultimate, clear picture of Alward’s tremendous conception.

  Driven by atomic energy, the generators created a force as the generators of the past created electricity. In some respects the force was electricity, but it was of a higher energy order, containing inherent magnetic properties in a complete union of a kind only vaguely suggested by the term “electro-magnetic,” in which the two forces involved are more or less mutually exclusive, the one giving rise to the other. The force created in the immediate vicinity of the ship a warp in space—a moving warp, which could with fair accuracy be called a ripple in the fabric of space. The ship rode this moving warp or ripple as a surf board rides the moving crest of a wave. The intensity of the force controlled the speed of the warp up to a certain limit.

  This is where the full import of Alward’s principle enters in. The velocity of light through space is a constant set by the very nature of space itself, in exactly the same manner that the velocity of light through air, glass, or water may be said to be a constant set respectively by the nature of these materials. The velocity of light through space, therefore, is the ultimate velocity at which any object—tenuous as light, or solid as a ship—can travel through space. Although, in theory, the propelling power of the force was unlimited, we would not, because of this factor, exceed the speed of light. Nor were we, in actual practice, even to attain it, since the solidity of the ship, in contrast with the tenuity of light, would produce a kind of friction with space that would hold us considerably under light speed. The fact still remained, of course, that we would travel faster than Man had ever traveled before, or ever would travel—in this space.

  THE acceleration of the Starling increased, a giant hand seemed to touch and then to press slowly and inexorably upon my body. The sky, as seen in the view-plate, gradually turned a deep, dark blue. Then it was purple, shading slowly to black, and the stars began to blaze in their full, unobscured magnificence.

  Burdeen, reclining in his huge chair, seemed almost at ease, except that his features were set and tense, his eyes darting from the various dials, gauges, and indicators on the control panels to the studs and switches set in the arm of his chair and manipulated by his fingers. Though I could have piloted the ship in an emergency—my purpose in being aboard—I could not but admire him a little now that he was at work. I could overlook for a moment the unpleasantness between us and see him objectively as he was—a pilot, and a good one. Even at controls different from those to which he was accustomed, his touch was deft and sure.

  In what seemed only a short time, we were beyond the atmosphere of Earth and in space. There was no color in the view-plate now. There was only the incredibly deep, soft, utter blackness of the void, strewn and dotted with countless intolerably brilliant pin-points of light.

  With the difficulty under the pressing weight of acceleration, I reached a hand to the controls in the arm of my chair, dual with Burdeen’s, and turned the dial which would change the scene in the view-plate. The Earth appeared, a tremendous orb, bluish-green and misty with silvery atmospheric haze. It grew visibly smaller as the minutes passed, seeming to shrink in upon itself, and became a great disc that dwindled more and more rapidly. We were already going very fast—faster than any atomic rocket had ever gone—and
our speed was still increasing.

  The giant’s hand of acceleration was pushing me deep into the immensely thick padding of my chair. The absorbing springs were taking most of the relentless pressure, but my body seemed still a weight of tons. I had a trapped, impotent, smothered feeling. How long, I began to wonder anxiously, would it go on? How long could flesh and bone hold out? Would it turn out that our goal of speed was a thing impossible for mere, weak humans to attain?

  A fog crept over my eyes, a gray fog tinted with a red haze of pain, and a blackness and numbness began to fill the corners of my mind. I was losing consciousness. But with the faculties still in my grasp, I wondered apprehensively about Burdeen. If he passed out, the ship, unguided, might very well plunge into the Sun, or stray so far into the uncharted vastness of space as to become hopelessly lost.

  Burdeen didn’t pass out, however, as I learned later. There was a giant’s resistance in that giant body of his. And he was, after all, more accustomed to the ordeals of acceleration than myself.

  As it developed, I didn’t lose consciousness entirely. I managed somehow to keep a kind of fingernail grip on my awareness of things. There were periods which I do not recall clearly, when I seemed to be floating alone in a star-shot darkness with a troubling impression of material things around me, of instruments and machines. It was a kind of semi-state experience on the border-line between sleep and waking.

  I DON’T know how much time passed when I gradually became more cognizant of my surroundings. The unutterable, terrific pressure on my body seemed slowly to be easing. And then came the interval when I was fully alert. The pressure slowly lifted, and by degrees a sensation almost of comfort stole over me. I soon found that I could move without difficulty.

  I glanced at Burdeen. His face was pale, his eyes sunken and blood-shot. Yet there was an air of indomitable energy about him. He had been shaken, but not bowed.