by Jerry
EVAN NODDED, wonderingly, and crowded his chief a little as he craned his neck for a look at the screen.
“Get the hell away from here!” said the wing commander in a restrained yell, and Evan got.
The interceptor squadron swam into the field—a sleek, deadly needle of vessels in perfect alignment, with its little cloud of pick-ups trailing, and farther astern a white hospital ship with the ancient red cross.
The contact was immediate and shocking. One of the rebel ships lumbered into the path of the interceptors, spraying fire from what seemed to be as many points as a man has pores. The Service ships promptly riddled it and it should have drifted away—but it didn’t. It kept on fighting. It rammed an interceptor with a crunch that must have killed every man before the first bulwark, but aft of the bulwark the ship kept fighting.
It took a torpedo portside and its plumbing drifted through space in a tangle. Still the starboard side kept squirting fire. Isolated weapon blisters fought on while they were obviously cut off from the rest of the ship. It was a pounded tangle of wreckage, and it had destroyed two interceptors, crippled two more, and kept fighting.
Finally, it drifted away, under feeble jets of power. Two more of the fantastic rebel fleet wandered into action, but the wing commander’s horrified eyes were on the first pile of scrap. It was going somewhere—
The ship neared the thin-skinned, unarmored, gleaming hospital vessel, rammed it amidships, square in one of the red crosses, and then blew itself up, apparently with everything left in its powder magazine, taking the hospital ship with it.
The sickened wing commander would never have recognized what he had seen as it was told in a later version, thus:
“The crushing course they took
And nobly knew
Their death undaunted
By heroic blast
The hospital’s host
They dragged to doom
Hail! Men without mercy
From the far frontier!”
LUNAR relay flickered out as overloaded fuses flashed into vapor. Arris distractedly paced back to the dark corner and sank into a chair.
“I’m sorry,” said the voice of Glen next to him, sounding quite sincere. “No doubt it was quite a shock to you.”
“Not to you?” asked Arris bitterly.
“Not to me.”
“Then how did they do it?” the wing commander asked the civilian in a low, desperate whisper. “They don’t even wear .45’s. Intelligence says their enlisted men have hit their officers and got away with it. They elect ship captains! Glen, what does it all mean?”
“It means,” said the fat little man with a timbre of doom in his voice, “that they’ve returned. They always have. They always will. You see, commander, there is always somewhere a wealthy, powerful city, or nation, or world. In it are those whose blood is not right for a wealthy, powerful place. They must seek danger and overcome it. So they go out—on the marshes, in the desert, on the tundra, the planets, or the stars. Being strong, they grow stronger by fighting the tundra, the planets or the stars. They—they change. They sing new songs. They know new heroes. And then, one day, they return to their old home.
“They return to the wealthy, powerful city, or nation or world. They fight its guardians as they fought the tundra, the planets or the stars—a way that strikes terror to the heart. Then they sack the city, nation or world and sing great, ringing sagas of their deeds. They always have. Doubtless they always will.”
“But what shall we do?”
“We shall cower, I suppose, beneath the bombs they drop on us, and we shall die, some bravely, some not, defending the palace within a very few hours. But you will have your revenge.”
“How?” asked the wing commander, with haunted eyes.
The fat little man giggled and whispered in the officer’s ear. Arris irritably shrugged it off as a bad joke. He didn’t believe it. As he died, drilled through the chest a few hours later by one of Algan’s gunfighters, he believed it even less.
THE PROFESSOR’S lecture was drawing to a close. There was time for only one more joke to send his students away happy. He was about to spring it when a messenger handed him two slips of paper. He raged inwardly at his ruined exit and poisonously read from them:
“I have been asked to make two announcements. One, a bulletin from General Sleg’s force. He reports that the so-called Outland Insurrection is being brought under control and that there is no cause for alarm. Two, the gentlemen who are members of the S.O.T.C. will please report to the armory at 1375 hours—whatever that may mean—for blaster inspection. The class is dismissed.”
Petulantly, he swept from the lectern and through the door.
PROJECT SPACESHIP
A.E. van Vogt
Robert Merritt Discovers that the Biggest Barrier between Man and Interplanetary Travel Is—Man!
CHAPTER I
Test Run
MERRITT recognized the crisis when VA-2 attained a speed of 4,000 miles an hour.
Modeled on the German V-2 bomb the rocket climbed toward the noonday sun on a column of crooked fire, as its gyroscopic stabilizers worked in their spasmodic fashion to balance the torpedo structure.
Loaded with instruments instead of a warhead it shot up 764 miles. It topped the highest peak of the planet’s 500-mile-deep atmosphere. It broke into the emptiness of space and, for a few moments on the television screen near the launching rack, the stars showed as bright pinpoints against a background of black velvet.
In spite of its velocity it was never in danger of leaving Earth’s gravitational field. It came down. And, after they had exhumed the scarred shell from the desert sands, there was a meeting at which Merritt was appointed a committee of one. He was charged with the positive duty of persuading the government of the United States “to finance and build a spaceship capable of transporting human beings in and through the airless void above the atmosphere of this planet.”
The sum of one thousand dollars was voted him for initial expenses.
* * * * *
Merritt tiptoed into his apartment about 2 o’clock. His excitement, now that he was home and near Ilsa, subsided rapidly. As he undressed in the living room, using only one dim light, he wondered what Ilsa would think of his mission.
“Bob, is that you?”
Merritt hesitated.
“What time is it, Bob?”
Merritt, carrying his shoes, trousers, coat and shirt, walked into the bedroom. Ilsa was sitting up, lighting a cigarette. She was a dark-haired olive-complexioned young woman with passionate lips. She put out her hand and Merritt handed her the check and, while she studied it, he climbed into his pajamas and explained what it was for. She began to laugh before he finished, a staccato laugh.
“With one thousand dollars,” she said finally, controlling herself, “you expect to persuade a political government to build a machine more expensive than any battleship ever constructed. My dear, I was married to a Washington lobbyist and I assure you it isn’t done on the cheap.”
IT was the first time in the four years since their marriage that she had mentioned her first husband. Merritt glanced at her sharply. He saw that her cheeks were flushed, that she was furious with him.
“Really,” she said, “I wish you wouldn’t waste your time with that bunch of dreamers. Spaceships! Such nonsense. Besides, what good is it? I wish you’d get busy and make some money for us.”
Merritt did not answer. He had a theory about money making. But it was not one he could expound to a woman whose first husband had amassed a fortune after she divorced him.
He climbed into his bed. “You have no objection, I hope,” he said, “to my spending the thousand before I come around to your way of thinking?”
Ilsa shrugged. “It’ll give you a trip. But it’s so silly. What are you going to do first?”
“Go see a schoolmate of mine named Norman Lowery. He’s secretary to Professor Hillier, the mathematician and physicist. We have to build up to the
President by degrees, you know.”
“I’ll bet you do,” said Ilsa.
She began to laugh again. She was still at it when Merritt made his first attempt to kiss her. She pushed him away.
“Don’t try to get around me,” she said bitterly. “I’m just beginning to realize that I’m doomed to be the wife of a low-salaried husband. You’ll have to be gentle with me while I get used to the idea.”
Merritt said nothing. Life had become progressively tense of recent months. Almost, he had come to believe that men with obsessions shouldn’t marry. It was too hard on the woman.
“The trouble with you,” said Ilsa, her voice softening, “is that you’re a living misrepresentation. You give the impression that you’re bound for the top but you don’t even try to get started.”
“Maybe I’m further along than you think,” Merritt ventured.
“Nuts!”
She finally let him kiss her—on the neck, not the lips. “I feel as if I would poison you after what I’ve said. And I’m not quite prepared for that yet.”
* * * * *
Norman Lowery met Merritt at the station. He looked older by at least ten years than when Merritt had seen him two years previously. He led Merritt toward an imposing Cadillac and, after they had started, said, “Don’t be too surprised when you see Professor Hillier.”
That was Merritt’s first inkling that something was wrong. “What do you mean?” Sharply.
“You’ll see.”
Merritt studied his friend’s profile in narrow-eyed thoughtfulness but he asked no questions. The big car was out of the town now, bowling along a paved highway at sixty miles an hour.
After about ten minutes it turned off into a valley and came presently to a little dream village. Several large buildings dominated the scene. And there were about two dozen houses in all, scattered along the banks of a pretty winding stream.
As Lowery turned up the driveway of the largest bungalow he said, “Professor Hillier is independently wealthy—luckily for him—and all this is his property. Those buildings over there are his labs. His assistants and their families live in the houses.”
He added, “Notice how were closed in by steep hills. That’s in case of an atomic bomb attack on the big dam twenty-five miles south. All the buildings, including the residences are steel and concrete under their stucco exteriors and paneled interiors, though the professor only laughs at that in his sensible moments.”
Merritt did not like the reference to “sensible moments.” As the car parked in the driveway he climbed out slowly and took another look along the valley.
He thought, “To me atomic energy is open sesame to the future. To these people—”
HE wasn’t sure just what was wrong. But there was a pressing negativeness here as if a man had built himself a mausoleum and was waiting for death to step closer. Long before, Merritt had rejected headlong retreat from the vulnerable cities, had aligned himself with the hundred million whose only hope of escape was that their leaders would have the common sense to solve the problem of the doomsday bomb.
Merritt asked finally, “Has this place got a name?”
“Hillier Haven.”
At least it fitted.
They entered the house through French windows, which opened into a spacious living room. There was a bar in one corner. Lowery ducked through an opening in its side and popped up behind it.
“I’ll mix you a drink,” he said, “then go look for the professor. This is his house, you know, or did I say that before? He and his daughter and I live here. Very cozy.” He laughed grimly. “What’ll you have?”
Merritt had a whisky and soda. He sat down in an easy chair and watched Lowery disappear into the garden beyond the French windows. The minutes passed. After about half an hour he climbed to his feet and walked over to a half-open door that had been intriguing him for some time. It was a library lined with books. Merritt returned to his chair. He was an avaricious reader but not today—not this month.
Another half hour went by. He could feel himself growing tenser. He had already paced the length of the room several times. Now he did it again but without any sense of relaxation.
He had a vision of himself during the next few months, waiting for men like Professor Hillier to condescend to give him a hearing. He began to realize the massiveness of the task he had set himself. He was going to try to push an idea into men who had hacked their own way to success through the equivalent of granite.
Men whose characters were as different and inflexible as their achievements. Men of great talent and great power. He, Robert Merritt, who could scarcely pay his bills every month, was going to do all that.
“We’re nuts!” he thought. “The whole bunch of us. Imagine—a few hundred fanatics trying to push America into a spaceship! Ilsa was right.”
But he stayed where he was.
A door opened, and a girl came in. She was slim and blond with gray eyes. She paused as she saw Merritt. She came forward, smiling.
“You must be Robert Merritt,” she said. “Norman told me about you. I’m Drusilla Julia, Professor Hillier’s daughter.”
She looked cool and refreshing and sane. Merritt answered her smile and said, “Your father must be a student of ancient Rome.”
“Oh, you recognize the origin of my names.” She was pleased.
After a moment however she frowned. “Norman has been telling me about what your club is trying to do. Just what are your plans?”
Merritt told her what VA-2 had accomplished. He went on, “VB-2 is now under construction. It will be somewhat different from the first ship”—he hesitated—“in that its acceleration will never be above six gravities.”
He watched her face to see if she had any inkling of what that meant. For a moment she didn’t seem to. And then her eyes lighted up.
She said in a low, intense tone, “You’re going to put a human being into it. You wonderful men! You wonderful young men! The future really does belong to you, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER II
The Problem Professor
SHE didn’t look so old herself. About twenty-two, Merritt estimated sardonically. If the young people of this age were destined to explore the planets, then she could be right in there pitching. But he liked her for knowing something.
The question most often asked him by people was, “But how can a ship fly in space where there’s no air for the explosions to push against?” He saw that her enthusiasm was subsiding.
She said, “Actually, that isn’t what I meant when I asked you about your plans. What I want to know is what do you expect of father?”
Merritt explained that they wanted the famous Professor Hillier, atomic bomb scientist, to be ready to go to Washington at the proper time to help persuade President Graham to support Project Spaceship. When he had finished, the expression on the girl’s face was distinctly unhappy.
“Can’t you,” she asked, “obtain the support of some other scientist?”
Merritt said simply, “We need a household name. Years ago there was Edison, then it was Einstein, now it’s Hillier. You can’t fight a thing like that. It’s just so. Besides, some of the more famous atomic scientists will have nothing to do with the government since atomic energy was virtually placed under military control.”
He shrugged. “Naturally, since no secret is involved, our members basically support the scientists. But we’re willing to work with the material we have. We’ve found individual military men absolutely cooperative. They’ve given us German V-One and V-Two bombs.
“Jet and other planes have been turned over to us in almost any quantity we could ever hope to need. The armed forces are full of young eager officers and men who are only too anxious for somebody to reach the planets.”
His voice was warming to the level of enthusiasm. He realized suddenly, that he was being boyish. He stiffened.
He said quietly, “The world is as full as ever of the spirit of adventure. But people have to be cajoled a
nd set on the right path to the future.”
“My father,” said Drusilla Julia Hillier, “is going to be difficult. I’ll be frank about that.” She went on earnestly, “Mr. Merritt, as you know, he was one of the atomic bomb scientists. After the war he visited Hiroshima and—well, it affected him.
“Norman and I have prepared a letter which we have already shown father, and which we are trying to persuade him to sign. So far he has not done so. I’m afraid it will be up to you to persuade him.”
The French windows opened and Lowery strode in. “ ’Lo, Dru,” he said. He looked at Merritt. “Sorry, I’ve been so slow but it’s taken me all this time to locate the professor.” His voice had a peculiar note in it, as he added, “Will you come this way, and meet him in one of his favorite poses.”
The girl said, her color high, “Be seeing you at dinner, Mr. Merritt.”
Merritt went out, puzzled. Outside he began in an irritated tone, “For heaven’s sake, Norman, what’s going on here? This mystery is—”
He stopped. They had rounded a line of shrubs and there was a man lying on the grass under the trees. He was a gaunt old fellow with white hair, and a distinctively long head. His face was partly hidden by one arm. His expensive clothes were disheveled and his posture twisted and ungainly.
As Merritt gaped in a gathering comprehension Lowery said, “Liquor has been unfair to Professor Hillier. It just wasn’t meant for him. One or two glasses of the mildest concoctions and his whole system backfires like that. He’s very determined, though. He’s going to lick it yet, he says. Well, shall we go back into the house?”
Merritt went without a word. But he was thinking that getting a full-grown spaceship into the air was going to be more difficult than he had dreamed.