The Collected Stories

by Earl

  He groaned a little. “Now my brother has no protection from the rays. He’ll get a bad cosmic-ray burn on his skin in ten days out in space. It’s worse by far than sunburn. Sometimes it’s fatal. Oh, the fool—he shouldn’t go on!”

  “He shouldn’t even for the record?” asked Perl blandly.

  “The fool!” repeated Royce Howe, but his tone had changed to admiration. “The nervy little fool—bless him! The record’s the thing! That’s our motto. I’d have done it myself.”

  PERRY HOWE came through the IBS system an hour later.

  “Perry Howe, Jules Verne Express. Unloaded my cracked cosmic-ray shield back on Venus. It was useless weight anyway. Results gratifying too—three per cent better acceleration! Everything fine. Signing off.”

  “Likes to talk, doesn’t he?” commented Perl, taking out a big plug of tobacco and biting off a man-sized chew. Smoking, wasteful of oxygen, was prohibited in the outpost dome.

  Royce Howe declined a chew. “Three per cent better acceleration—that’s a lot. He’ll shave some time now, that fool brother of mine!”

  Perl was puzzled. “But how does he gain anything? There’s no weight out in space. What difference does it make if he has a few pounds more or less? It’s zero weight out there.”

  “Weight is a trick term,” returned Royce Howe. “It changes from planet to planet. Fifty pounds on Earth is only forty-five pounds here on Pluto, and it’s a hundred and twenty-five pounds on Jupiter. But mass—quantity of matter—stays the same. Also its inertia. In rocket propulsion, your acceleration is proportional to the speed of ejected gases and mass. Lighten the mass and you get more effect out of your rockets. Perry’s gained all right, but now he’s out there, with the cosmic-rays beating down on him—”

  He stopped, shaking his head worriedly.

  When Mercury reported, Perl’s men had come back from their digging, cold and cursing. They crowded around the radio, their only contact with outside life. They grunted when told of the cosmic-ray shield. Daring men themselves, they appreciated the same quality in another who was defying the worst that space had to offer.

  “The Jules Verne Express just passed over at five hundred-two,” said Mercury’s announcer. “His official time for the sixty-nine-million-mile lap between Venus and Mercury is one hundred and eighty-two minutes! This is thirty-four minutes less than Stevenson’s time. Perry Howe isn’t fooling now!”

  Royce Howe, listening, looked happy. “Keep it up, Perry!” he murmured. “You’ve got the record by the tail now.”

  Commander Perl was mumbling. “He takes two hundred and forty-six minutes to go forty million miles, but only one hundred and eighty-two minutes to go sixty-nine million. What kind of a—” his eyes lit as he thought of the word he wanted—“paradox is that?”

  “More; room for acceleration,” explained Royce Howe, smiling around at the puzzled stares. “He’ll make the Mars run, twice as far, in still less time. Watch and see!”

  But before that, the IBS again picked up Perry Howe direct and broadcast his message to the sport-loving Solar System.

  “Howe. Passing the sun now, at a distance of thirty million miles. Cabin temperature up to one-twenty degrees, but I feel okay. I’m sweating more over these tangent courses I have to revise. I’m ten minutes ahead of every schedule I brought along from Earth. I’ll have to slide-rule myself along from now on. Attention please, Lowell Space Port, Mars. Have a large jar of cosmic-ray burn cream on hand when I arrive. Signing off.”

  “Good thing Perry went to Tycho Astronautic Institute,” sighed Royce Howe. “He’s an expert with the tangent slide-rule for space plotting. Gilder, in his attempt at the record last year, lost out when he missed Mars by ten million miles. He was a hundredth of a degree off course. At these speeds and distances, you carry everything to the seventh decimal place.”

  MARS came in strong and clear with its superpowerful station a while later.

  “Here comes Perry Howe! He has just roared out of space at a terrific clip. His silvery ship looks like a visible bullet as it drops from the sky. It—he’s going to crash! Good God—” There was a horrified moment of silence, while Royce Howe’s knuckles cracked as he gripped his chair. Yet he was not too startled. Space flying was a dangerous game all the way through. Disaster could strike, like a coiled snake, at any given moment. He gripped himself for the coming shock.

  “No, no!” blared the announcer’s voice finally. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I let my emotions run away with me. Howe made a perfect two-skid landing, but at a rate of speed never before seen in this port! He had it all planned to a split-second. He stopped with a burst of the retarding rockets only ten feet from the hangar and his cached fuel supply, which he must have spied. What a pilot that boy is!”

  Royce Howe sank back in his chair, breathing again. He pressed a hand to the back of his head, wincing a little at the painful picture that had seared momentarily across his brain. That accident of his own two years ago—blinding lights before his eyes, crashing thunder in his ears, sharp pain stabbing into his battered brain—It had been awful. He shook the recollection out of his mind.

  The men behind Royce Howe resumed their tobacco chewing, which they had suspended when a crash seemed imminent. Some of them voiced their admiration for the young space flyer’s nerve. Royce Howe glowed.

  “They’re hustling fuel into the ship as fast as they can, Perry Howe helping,” resumed the Martian reporter. “He looks fresh as a daisy. However, his face and hands are pretty dark looking, and probably all his skin under his clothes. The cosmic rays have started their burning. We have his cream ready for him. The director of the port suggested that Howe let them install a new shield, but Howe refuses to waste those precious hours it would take. That might mean the margin of the record.

  “Here’s the official time. Mercury to Mars run, one hundred and twenty-five million mile s—one hundred and twenty-one minutes! He is now an hour and five minutes ahead of Stevenson’s time at this point.

  “The loading is done, and there goes Howe into his ship. He waves. The lock bangs shut, the ship backs, whirls like a top, shoots down the runway. It rises. The Jules Verne Express is off for Ceres and the great open stretches beyond!”

  CHAPTER III

  Reunion on Pluto

  COMMANDER PERL arose and yawned.

  “Well, it’s the end of the day—or what goes for day here on New Siberia. Off to bed, men. Coming, Howe?” The latter looked up at him almost scornfully.

  “Me sleep? I won’t be able to sleep until he gets into the big stretches.” He popped an ammonia tablet into his mouth and turned back to the radio.

  “Dig radamite for a couple of hours,” suggested Alcher sarcastically. “Then see if you wouldn’t sleep!”

  The men filed into the bunk room, grumbling among themselves.

  Commander Perl returned after his inspection tour of the heating and air apparatus of the dome, on which their lives depended.

  “Can you sit in the dark, Howe?” he asked. “Our battery current is rationed just like food and air.”

  “Of course,” acceded the other promptly.

  Royce Howe sat in the dark, listening to the IBS’s variety program. He barely heard the music, advertisements, and radio skits. With half-closed eyes he imagined himself out in the void, in the Jules Verne Express with his brother, defying the stars. But a chill gripped his heart at the thought, and the haunted look in his eyes grew deeper.

  If he were out there—he shuddered. He couldn’t be, not after the accident. The best he could do was to whisper words of encouragement to the lad out there, racing against the measured pulse of the Universe. His mouth was a little bitter.

  Two hours later, his vigil was rewarded.

  “Howe, Jules Verne Express. Had a chance to open up a bit. Reached velocity of eighteen thousand miles per second before deceleration, with five and a half G’s limit. Ceres invisible as yet. Hope I’ve plotted right. Have the rayburn cream all over my skin—h
elps a lot. Feel fine. Everything shipshape. Hope you’re listening, Roy. Sit tight on Pluto till I get there! Signing off.”

  “Sit tight!” echoed Royce Howe. “I’m sitting on pins and needles for you, kid. Wish I could talk to you.”

  Ceres’ report, from its weak station, was shot through with the catcalls of space static.

  “Perry Howe flew over at five hundred-two. His time, Mars to Ceres, two hundred forty-eight million miles on tangent course—four hours and three minutes!”

  “Three hours ahead of Stevenson’s time since leaving Earth!” said Royce Howe to himself contentedly. “Perry, old kid, you’re going to bust that record all to the devil!”

  It was “morning,” and the men were having their unsavory breakfast of vita-biscuits when the next report came in. The IBS had been unable to pick up Perry Howe at any time during the Jupiter run, due to the exigencies of sunspot activity. Royce Howe had been as taut as a stretched wire during those long hours. Without even the thin thread of radio communication to follow the ship’s course, he imagined it lost in a dozen different ways.

  “Ganymede reporting!” came from the radio finally. “Howe has landed and is taking on fuel!”

  These prosaic words were like a soothing balm. Royce Howe relaxed, going as limp as a rag.

  “Ceres to Ganymede, Jovian System, five hundred and fifty million miles,” went on the radio-voice. “Time—eight hours and forty minutes. This lad Howe is certainly pushing his ship along. He’s now almost ten hours ahead of Stevenson’s time. He must he scorching a hole right through space. But can he keep up the pace without burning out his engine? Our mechanics looked it over. The power-exhaust tubes are pitted rather badly. They may not hold up, unless he keeps his engine heat down. Howe laughed at the report. There he goes now—like a streak of superligbtning!”

  “Sounds serious—about those tubes,” said Commander Perl. “Any danger they might crack off?”

  Royce Howe spoke confidently. “They’re special alloy. They would hold up to Orion and back.” But there was a slight note of worry in his voice.

  THE cycle of life went on under the dome, but time passed like a dream to Royce Howe. He ate when Perl forced him to, and continued to take tablets to stave off sleep.

  The IBS picked up Howe’s faint signal when the night period had come again to the dome.

  “Perry Howe. Opening up now. Plenty of room out here. Last triangulation showed my speed at twenty thousand. I’ll reach twenty-five I think. Engine slightly over normal heat, but nothing serious. Made for punishment. My skin itches from cosmic-ray burn, but the cream liberally applied relieves it. Signing off.” Saturn reported the next day, as the outpost men came in for their rest period.

  “Titan, Saturnian System. Jules Verne Express arrived before we expected, but there is no delay in refueling. Time, Jupiter to Saturn, twelve hundred million miles—eighteen and one-half hours!”

  “Fifteen hours ahead of the record!” breathed Royce Howe happily. “Perry is going to come in under the wire in less than ten days, which would be a real record!”

  The voice from Saturn went on. “Mechanics adjusting the feeder valves, for Howe says his engine hasn’t been helped by prolonged overheating. Power-exhaust tubes are pitted badly.

  Howe advised to stop for replacements, but has declined.”

  “That’s the stuff, Perry!” said Royce Howe earnestly. “You can’t stop for replacements now. It would take hours and hours. Up and at it, kid—they’ll hold!”

  “You’re a great one for cheering a guy on,” said Jed Alcher sourly. “Wonder if you would take a chance?” He went on heartlessly. “Aren’t you the guy who lost his nerve?”

  “Shut up!” roared Commander Perl, moving in front of Royce Howe, who had jerked up.

  Howe relaxed, but his face was pained. “I’d take the same chance, if it weren’t for the accident,” he said quietly. “With us, the record’s the the thing.”

  The announcer was saying, candidly:

  “Perry Howe himself doesn’t look so good. He’s almost black from ray-burn and his face looks strained. The terrific pace he’s kept up so far is telling on him. But there he goes back into his ship, with a game grin. He’s off!”

  “Now come the three big stretches,” sighed Royce Howe. “Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. If he keeps up the pace he has, he’ll make it in ten days total time, just as we hoped!”

  “If he keeps it up,” came Alcher’s loud, blunt voice from the back of the room, “he’ll come limping in here with burned-off tubes, or he won’t even come limping—”

  “Or the cosmic rays’ll get him,” said another voice.

  Commander Perl hustled his frank-tongued crew toward their space-suits, cursing them roundly.

  Royce Howe looked after them with burning eyes. “You don’t know us Howes’ !” he yelled. “We can take it!”

  “Yeah? Come and dig radamite some time—”

  IT was that evening Royce Howe experimentally tuned his brother’s wave-length, though there was little chance of picking him up across the gulf between them. But by some freak of spatial conditions, a message came through direct.

  “Perry Howe. Reached top speed of twenty-six thousand miles per second this time, at fuel limit. Coasting now for Uranus. Engine standing up. Saturn was a beautiful sight, with its rings and moons. Ray-bum a little painful now, but not worse than I expected. Bit tired. Had to take three ammonia tablets to keep awake last time. May grab a few hours’ sleep soon, if triangulation shows I’m on a straight course. Otherwise, I’ll have to keep playing with the offside rockets. Got a bit of bad aim leaving Titan. Signing off.”

  Ten minutes later, the IBS broke off in the middle of a program to pipe through Perry Howe again.

  “Perry Howe. Reached top speed of twenty-six thousand miles per second this time, at fuel limit. Coasting now for Uranus. Engine standing up. Saturn was a beautiful sight—” Word by word Howe’s report was repeated.

  “Say,” gasped Commander Perl in amazement. “That’s the same message we heard before! How’s that?”.

  Royce Howe laughed. “The bee-line distance between the ship and us must be about—let’s see—a hundred and ten million miles less than the combined distance from the ship to Earth and Earth to Pluto. He’s well around on our side of the sun now, in his spiral course. He’s drawing nearer every minute”—he failed to stifle a yawn—“mile by mile.”

  “It’ll still take him six days to get here,” said Commander Perl practically. “In the meantime, you’d better get some sleep or he’ll find you laid out when he arrives.”

  Royce Howe almost staggered to his bunk.

  The IBS came through faithfully for the next report.

  “Oberon, Uranian System, reporting. The Jules Verne Express just landed and is being refueled. Time, Saturn to Uranus, twenty-five hundred million miles—thirty-six hours. Howe says his engine will hold out. But the question is, will he hold out? He looks pretty haggard.”

  Royce Howe began pacing the room.

  “He’s driving himself and the engine to the limit,” he muttered. “Wish I could tell him to take it a little easy. He’s nineteen hours ahead of Stevenson’s time now. He could afford to ease up. But the young fool won’t, of course. He’s after that ten-day record.” He sighed. “Well, I can’t blame him. I’d do the same myself—if I could.” Commander Perl looked at him queerly, but said nothing.

  No report could be picked up from Perry Howe all during the next giant hop. Royce Howe tried his own tuning and the IBS a dozen times an hour, but picked up only the annoying crackle of space static. Again disturbing fears wracked him.

  BUT finally, two sleeping periods later—

  “Moon of Neptune reporting. Perry Howe arrived safely, and he is now refueling. Time, Uranus to Neptune, three thousand, two hundred million miles—forty-six hours. Engine and man both look battered. Howe staggered out of his ship, and staggered in. His skin is blistered in places. He’s making a game try of it. It�
�s doubtful if he can go on—but he is! Yes, sir, there goes his ship, taking off as beautifully as though he were fresh at the start of this grueling race against time. But he may turn back yet. It’s doubtful that he can—”

  Royce Howe snapped off the radio. “Doubtful, hell!” he growled. “My brother will come through, ship and all.” His eyes shone. “He’ll be here on Pluto in two days!”

  Royce Howe kept the radio open on his brother’s wave-length, now that his ship was closer than the relay distance from Earth. A message came through hours later, in a voice cracked from strain rather than static.

  “Perry Howe, Jules Verne Express. Got her up to twenty-seven thousand this trip, playing my luck with the engine. Coasting now, for Pluto. Aim good. Can’t sleep—the ray-burn keeps me awake better than ammonia tablets. Try it some time, folks! Be seeing you soon, Roy. Hold Pluto down for me! Signing off.”

  A day later his voice sounded again, hollowly.

  “Perry Howe to Royce Howe, Pluto. Went over the engine and tightened things up while coasting. Patched power tubes with refractory cement. Think they’ll hold up. But maybe—maybe I won’t! I hate to say it, Roy, but I’m near licked. This ray-burn has Shocked me lower than I thought it would. So in case I can’t make the home stretch, Roy, don’t be too disappointed. At least it’ll be an eight-planet record run. Signing off.”

  “He’s on His last legs,” said Perl softly. “You can tell that by his voice.”

  “He must go on!” hissed Royce Howe. “The record’s the thing!”

  “Yeah?” piped up Jed Alcher loudly in his blunt tones. He glared at Howe with a cynical twist to his lips. “Talk is cheap. Your brother’s a man, the way he drove against odds. Would you take a chance driving a ship that might blow up, even without the ray-burn?”