Time Exposures

by Wilson Tucker

  The house, like the old freighter squatting on the field not far away, had belonged to the three of them—to Singleton, to Jimmy Cross and to himself, a partnership. But now the partnership was ripped asunder with Singleton in his grave and Cross in jail on suspicion of murder. The house and the ship would be his, all his, if Cross failed to escape a prison sentence. Webb didn’t want the house.

  He picked up the radiophone. “Webb here.” The voice at the far end was recognized and he added, “Hello, Squirrel, what do you want with me?”

  The voice told him in half a dozen rapid sentences and Webb grew excited. “The hell they did? After all these years!” He listened to further information and then broke in once more. “Never mind that stuff—load it on. I’ll take it, Squirrel, I’ll take every long ton you can cram in! Pile it on . . . What?” A pause. “Money?”

  Webb turned and squinted through the doorway. “Hell, yes, I can put up first money. Just you pack in that cargo—pinch it. I want all I can lift. And then get a plotting for me and a place on the booster. Maybe we can make it by midnight. What? Yeah, I’m coming out there now. Hang up and start working, Squirrel.” Webb dropped the phone and spun on his heel, making for the doorway. The woman was waiting where he had left her and was pretending to be interested in the many small holes in the turf. Webb grinned at the holes and again thought of Singleton in his grave.

  He pushed through the door said, “Out, eh?’

  She quickened. “You will accept my charter, Mr. Webb?”

  “You want to go to the far moons?”

  “I do. How much will it cost?” Webb evaded that and asked instead, “Do you have papers?”

  “Papers?”

  “Flight clearances,” he said impatiently. “An I.D. card, health ticket, and so on. The guys at the field will have to see them or you don’t go topside. How about a passport?”

  “I'm a North American citizen. I was born in Loveland, Ohio.”

  “Then you don’t need a passport. The field office will issue a tourist card, but you have to buy a roundtrip ticket. You can’t stay out there.”

  “How much will it cost?” she asked again.

  Webb fell silent, giving the impression of weighing the matter in his mind but she knew the impression to be a false one. She watched as he examined her clothing and guessed at its price, watching him coolly estimate the sum of money she was supposed to represent. He was also studying the lines of her body beneath the clothing but she was prepared for that.

  Irvin Webb was a tramp; was little different from a hundred other tramp spacemen she had seen. He was not unique. He wore his white hair cropped close in a burr cut, his skin was darkly browned and his ears were burnt black by careless—and overlong—exposure to radiation behind inadequate shielding. The tiny cancer scars she had seen on the photograph attached to the dossier now stood out prominently, even cruelly on his neck and face, contributing to his inelegance. Webb’s eyes were black, and he was actually ugly—not repulsive, merely ugly. She recognized a certain brutish strength, but she knew his age as forty-three, and they both knew he was long overdue. There were no really old men working the skies.

  He said at last, “Three thousand.”

  “Three—” She caught her breath and tried not to lose her temper again. The sum was staggering, despite the earlier warning from her supervisor. “I didn’t expect it to be so much.”

  “You’re chartering a bucket, sister, not sharing it with a dozen other people.”

  “But after all, three thousand!”

  “Sister, the far moons are expensive. If they’d let you buy a one-way ticket I could knock down on the price, but they won’t and I won’t. I have to buy fuel, supplies, and a hot brick to fire the fuel. I have to buy tapes for a plotting and then pay for the plotting. I have to pay the booster to get me off the ground. In cash. My credit isn’t worth a damn around here anymore.” He spread his hands. “What’s left over is my profit. I split that with my partner.”

  Kate was of the opinion that a considerable sum would be left over for profit, but she did not voice the opinion. “A partner?” I thought it was your ship?’

  “It’s in my name because I’m the senior partner, but it’s only half mine.” He glanced at the gouged turf. “I did own a third, but the number three man died.”

  “Will your partner accompany us?”

  “He will not. He’s in jail.”

  “For heaven’s sake! Why?” Webb grinned crookedly. “Because the number three man died, rather suddenly.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. Now, there’s one more piece to this deal and you have to agree to it in advance. You said you didn’t care where you went so long as it was out. All right, I’ll take you out. But I’m choosing the destination and I’m reserving the right to pick up and deliver cargo to that destination. You agree to that.”

  Kate said wistfully, “I had hoped to see Nereid. I’ve read so much about it and I’ve seen pictures of the glass caves. The interior must be a fascinating place.”

  “Neptune is on the other side of the sun,” Webb told her flatly, “and Nereid went along with it. Only the big jobs are going out there this season.” He grunted, “The interior of Nereid is just a hole in the ground and I’ve seen better holes. What about it?”

  “Will you also provide my return passage?”

  “I have to post bond for your return passage. That’s regulations. If you come back with me, I collect the bond but if some other pilot brings you back he gets it.”

  “Three thousand?” she asked again.

  “You can get a moon hop for a lot less.”

  “No,” she said in apparent defeat, “I will pay it.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself, Irvin Webb.”

  “I am. Are you going to pay by check?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll take it now. I’m going to the field.”

  She stared at him stung by the implied insult. “Don’t you trust anyone?”

  “Yes. Me.”

  Webb stood before her with his feet thrust apart trying to peer through the deliberate opacity of her clothing harshly subjecting her to an undisguised insolence of tongue and manner. Kate thought she understood the reason for that. He had decided that she was an oddball with more money than intelligence; he supposed that she was running away from something, seeking some new but really non-existent Eden among the outer satellites. Very well. Let him continue to believe that, let him continue to think her a fool. He had no consideration for her personal feelings and with one brutal sentence he had robbed her of her dignity; with another he very nearly wiped out the funds in the Omaha bank. He had pretended not to want her charter and yet he was greedy for her money.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Webb raked her apparel with a critical glance. “You could trim down on the clothing—the less you wear the better. That bucket heats up.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Heat, sister, heat and discomfort. I haven’t room for refrigerating gear and I wouldn’t waste the money if there was room. Strip that stuff off or you’ll regret it.” He saw the sudden wary expression and laughed at the woman. “Oh, hell, cover it up if you want to hide it, but keep it thin—the lightweight stuff. Foil coveralls and a pair of magnetic shoes are all you need.”

  “What do you wear?” Kate asked faintly.

  “Shorts.” He exposed his arms and the burnt skin on his legs. “That crazy Singleton used to ride naked. The bucket gets hot.”

  “Singleton?”

  “The dead one.”

  “Did he burn to death because of—what you said.”

  “He did not. He killed himself by stupidity. Hell, you won’t burn much, not in just one trip. Something else: keep the luggage down to one suitcase; I can’t afford weight. And that’s about it. Get your papers checked, get some doctor to pass you for flight. I’ll handle the rest of it when I take you through the f
ield office.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Be prepared to spread some money around.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You haven’t got clearance papers. You’re going to have to buy some.”

  “Oh, yes, I understand.”

  “I thought you would. All right, get moving—you’ve got a lot to do. If we’re lucky, we jump topside at midnight. The name of my ship is the Xanthus. Be there two or three hours ahead of time.”

  “What a beautiful name, and a strange one. What does it mean?”

  “My partner found it in a book,” Webb explained. “Xanthus is a buried city or something like that. We use it because it’s the only X in the registry. Easy to find and easy to remember.”

  “I approve of your partner’s choice. It is a very lovely name.” She hesitated and then asked, “The deceased partner? Mr. Singleton?”

  “No—the one in jail. Singleton never read a book in his life; he used up all his intelligence committing suicide.”

  “Do you read much?”

  “I like to read checks.”

  “Of course.” The woman opened her purse and removed the checkbook. “I believe you said three thousand?”

  “You know what I said.”

  Kate wrote out the check and handed it to Webb. He read it twice, smiled, and folded it away in a pocket. “Kate Bristol. I wondered if you had a name.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself.”

  “Miss Bristol?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right; be there about Dine tonight. Check in at the purser’s cage and put in a call for me. We’ll clear away the red tape and get you on board.” Webb strode away from the woman. Pausing on the doorstep, he glanced over his shoulder and was surprised to find her still there. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded dourly. “Get those papers squared away.”

  She snapped shut the purse and then played with the catch. “Mr. Webb, you said the. . . the convenience lacked a door. Would it be possible to place a door on it? After all, we will be together for several weeks—surely you can spare that much weight.”

  He laughed rudely, enjoying her flushed face. “Hell, yes, if you want one.”

  “Thank you.” Kate left him then, walking with the slow measured tread cultivated by tall women to avoid awkwardness. The stately beat of the sharp heels moved around the house and died away in the late afternoon. Webb pulled the check from his pocket to read it once more. Statuesque woman, statuesque money. (And she’d damn well peel off those stifling clothes after a while and he’d get a look at the statuesque body.) The sum and the expectation afforded him a pleasing, buoyant sensation.

  Webb waved the check toward the many holes dug into the turf behind the house. “Look, kid! And you don’t get a penny of it. Your bad luck, boy—your stupid bad luck. Remember to watch the air pressure next time, if there is a next time.” The check was again tucked away but Webb tarried, looking at the dozens of little graves.

  Night was coming on, Singleton. Darkness. But then it had been dark down there for several hours, hadn’t it? Dismally dark down there since the undertaker fastened the coffin lid and the gravedigger had shoveled dirt into the hole. You should have remembered to watch the pressure. Watch that air pressure, if you’re flying buckets in hell now—and don’t trust anyone else’s handiwork. The first mistake is the last. You’re grounded, Singleton.

  Kate Bristol said, “So this is the bucket.”

  “This is the bucket,” Webb acknowledged.

  “It doesn’t seem so small.”

  “You’re not inside yet.”

  “Xanthus is a pretty name,” she replied, “but some of the paint is peeling away.”

  Webb stared briefly at the camouflage on her face and then picked up the suitcase to climb away from her. After a moment of indecision the passenger abandoned her inspection of the ship’s exterior and followed him up the ladder to the airlock, swinging with an easy grace. Webb noted that and remembered the blows on his mouth. He passed through the lock, followed a cramped passageway for a distance and then climbed another ladder. She stayed at his heels. The second climb terminated on a tiny landing. Webb shoved open the hatch beyond the landing and they were in the cabin.

  “Surprise,” he said sourly.

  The cabin was nearly the shape of a truncated cone and about twelve feet wide at the base, its broadest dimension; from the hatchway it stretched forward some eighteen feet to end on a gently curving bulkhead. Above, it was twice the height of a man at the inner wall but again the ceiling sloped to meet the deck at starboard. Two narrow bunks hanging one above the other, and three lockers standing in normal fashion occupied the port wall near at hand. Beyond the lockers a minute galley was fitted into a wall recess, with storage water protruding from the wall directly below it. Someone had pasted an oversize starmap on the forward bulkhead.

  The remainder of the inhospitable cabin was given over to the apparatus necessary for operating the ship. The gear was tightly packed into every cranny of the cabin—with some of it hanging overhead—as to suggest that die room had never known a layout design, that everything was simply thrown in and bolted down when the vessel was otherwise completed. Kate studied the cramped cabin and finally dropped her gaze to the aisle, a relatively unimpeded walking space down the center. She judged it to be six feet wide and perhaps fifteen feet in length, providing one dodged around a squat chunk of machinery occupying the exact center of the cabin. Six by fifteen feet: home for the next few weeks.

  “What’s that thing in the middle of the floor?”

  “That thing in the middle of the deck is the auto pilot. The plotting room charts our course on tape and I feed the tape into the pilot. If nobody has made a mistake it gets us there after a while.”

  “Everything is so small, so cramped.”

  “It’s big enough for me,” he said significantly.

  Kate asked, “Are we leaving at midnight?”

  “No, they’re still loading cargo. The tower is saving me a hole on the six o’clock booster. Six in the morning.” Webb offered a broad wink and rapped his knuckles on a newly-hung sheet of fiberglass. “Look, I put a door on the head.”

  “Thank you. And which is my bunk, please?”

  “Topside.”

  She examined it with misgivings, acutely aware of where that placed the man. “I trust these Van Allen bags are spaceworthy. I don’t want to burn.”

  “They’ll do,” Webb said. “We go through the belts in a helluva hurry.”

  “What is your cargo, if I may ask?”

  “Hardware—automated stuff, all kinds of robot monkeys.” He pounded the bulkhead with heady exhilaration. “I’m taking on an automaton down there big enough to run a radio telescope. It will drive a radio telescope; there is enough hardware to keep the thing running forever, I guess. Priority hardware, every scrap of it. Those damned bureaucrats stalled for eight or ten years and then made up their minds yesterday.” He clasped his palms together in an avaricious gesture. “They’re paying for the priority now—paying through the nose. Bureaucrats like it that way, sudden and expensive. I’ll take their money.”

  Kate knew a pang of apprehension. “Where are we going?”

  “The Tombaugh,” he chortled triumphantly, “all the way out to the Tombaugh, and it’s costing those bureaucrats a sweet lot of money!”

  She fell back, sharply dismayed.

  There was no need to ask for further information on that destination. She knew. The Tombaugh Station was civilization’s single outpost on Pluto, the smallest and furthermost speck of human habitation in the coldest reaches of the solar system. The Tombaugh was an observatory, the only one beyond Callisto, and it was the nearest neighbor to X. She remembered reading that a huge radio telescope was part of the Tombaugh’s equipment, together with an astrograph, a twenty-four inch reflector, and a Schmidt camera for a program of comet observation. Only a handful of men lived there to maintain the watch.

  Pluto was a cruel,
inhospitable world; its four thousand mile diameter contained nothing other than a low, dense atmosphere of icy hydrogen and helium, closely hugging frozen methane seas which in turn were imbedded on a rocky core; a world largely unexplored and unmapped; raw, barren, mountainous and all but useless to man. Pluto was inutile and nearly untenable, so remote in space that the sun was but a brilliant, spectacular star. The most recent report she’d read said that at Pluto’s perihelion, just past, surface illumination was equal to only three hundred times that of moonlight. The forbidding temperature of almost four hundred degrees below zero discouraged all activity except one: the operation of the observatory.

  The Tombaugh was an excellent observatory for its lonely vigil, being perched on a mountainous crag well above the smothering atmosphere of Pluto.

  It watched X, the tenth planet of the solar system.

  X was the true Trans-Neptune, the planet Lowell had been seeking when he found Pluto. It was only ten years old by popular reckoning and swung in a vast, leisurely orbit more than one thousand million miles beyond Pluto. The skeptics professed to see no reason for ever visiting it. X had an inappreciable albedo and an anticipated large size combined with a low density; it possessed a frigid and lethal atmosphere in keeping with the outer planets, and at least four satellites. Its outermost moon, circling the primary at more than three million miles, had been suggested as the next stepping stone to the stars.

  Ten years ago a startled Brazilian radar operator aboard a patrol ship had found X and almost at once, to study it, the Tombaugh Station was erected on Pluto’s jutting crags—the most advantageous window imaginable short of an actual landing on that outermost moon. X was the center of scientific discussion and of public fancy. The hottest question concerning it was that one debated in numerous inter-governmental conventions: should the Tombaugh be dismantled, now that it’s immediate usefulness was coming to an end?

  For Pluto was rapidly pulling away from X, dropping the new planet behind in remote darkness.

  For a period of about forty years Pluto was, in effect, the eighth planet from the sun, because its peculiar path brought it inside the orbit of Neptune, and by exerting the utmost effort, small freighters such as Webb’s bucket could reach the eccentric wanderer. But now, in the summer months of 2009, Pluto was swiftly nearing the end of its visit; within a short time it would again cross Neptune’s orbit for its long retreat outward.