Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Luck helped him again. He had planned to ground the great planet, knowing no better. Had he been able do so they would have lived just long enough to open the airlock.

  But he was short of mass, after the titanic task of pulling them out of the headlong hyperbolic plunge around an arc past the star and warping them into a closed orbit about the star, then into a subordinate orbit around the giant planet. He pored over the ancient books, substituted endlessly in the equations the ancients had set down as the laws for moving bodies, figured and refigured, and tested even the calm patience of Chloe. The other wife, the unnamed one, kept out of his way after losing a tooth, quite suddenly.

  But he got no answer that did not require him to sacrifice some, at least, of the precious, irreplaceable ancient books for fuel. Yes, even though they stripped themselves naked and chucked in their knives, the mass of the books would still be needed.

  He would have preferred to dispense with one of his wives. He decided to ground on one of the moons.

  Luck again. Coincidence of such a colossal proportion that one need not be expected to believe it, for the moon of that planet was suitable for human terrestrial life. Never mind — skip over it, rapidly; the combination of circumstances is of the same order needed to produce such a planet in the first place. Our own planet, under our own sun is of the “There ain’t no such animal" variety. It is a ridiculous improbability.

  Hugh’s luck was a ridiculous improbability.

  Good design handled the next phase. Although he learned to maneuver the little Ship out in space where there is elbow room, landing is another and a ticklish matter. He would have crashed any spacecraft designed before the designing of the Vanguard. But the designers of the Vanguard had known that the Ship’s auxiliary craft would be piloted and grounded by at least the second generation of explorers; green pilots must make those landings unassisted. They planned for it.

  Hugh got the vessel down into the stratosphere and straightened it triumphantly into a course that would with certainty kill them all.

  The autopilots took over.

  Hugh stormed and swore, producing some words which diverted Alan’s attention and admiration from the view out of the port. But nothing he could do would cause the craft to respond. It settled in its own way and leveled off at a thousand feet, an altitude which it maintained regardless of changing contour.

  “Hugh, the stars are gone!"

  “I know it."

  “But Jordan! Hugh — what happened to them?"

  Hugh glared at Alan. “I — don’t—know—and—I — don’t — care! You get aft with the women and stop asking silly questions."

  Alan departed reluctantly with a backward look at the surface of the planet and the bright sky; It interested him, but he did not marvel much at it — his ability to marvel had been overstrained.

  It was some hours before Hugh discovered that a hitherto ignored group of control lights set in motion a chain of events whereby the autopilot would ground the Ship. Since he found this out experimentally he did not exactly choose the place of landing. But the unwinking stereo-eyes of the autopilot fed its data to the 'brain’; the submolar mechanism selected and rejected; the Ship grounded gently on a rolling high prairie near a clump of vegetation.

  Ertz came forward. “What’s happened, Hugh?"

  Hugh waved at the view port. “We’re there." He was too tired to make much of it, too tired and too emotionally exhausted. His weeks of fighting a fight he understood but poorly, hunger, and lately thirst — years of feeding on a consuming ambition, these left him with little ability to enjoy his goal when it arrived.

  But they had landed, they had finished Jordan’s Trip. He was not unhappy, at peace rather, and very tired. Ertz stared out. “Jordan!" he muttered. Then, “Let’s go out."

  “All right."

  Alan came forward, as they were opening the airlock, and the women pressed after him. “Are we there, Captain?"

  “Shut up," said Hugh.

  The women crowded up to the deserted view port; Alan explained to them, importantly and incorrectly, the scene outside. Ertz got the last door open.

  They sniffed at the air. “It’s cold," said Ertz. In fact the temperature was perhaps five degrees less than the steady monotony of the Ship’s temperature, but Ertz was experiencing weather for the first time.

  “Nonsense," said Hugh, faintly annoyed that any fault should be found with his planet. “It’s just your imagination."

  “Maybe," Ertz conceded. He paused uneasily. “Going out?" he added.

  “Of course." Mastering his own reluctance, Hugh pushed him aside and dropped five feet to the ground “Come on — it’s fine."

  Ertz joined him, and stood close to him. Both of them remained close to the Ship. “It’s big, isn’t it?" Ertz said in a hushed voice.

  “Well, we knew it would be," Hugh snapped, annoyed with himself for having the same lost feeling.

  “Hi!" Alan peered cautiously out of the door. “Can I come down? Is it alright?"

  “Come ahead."

  Alan eased himself gingerly over the edge and joined them. He looked around and whistled. “Gosh!"

  Their first sortie took them all of fifty feet from the Ship.

  They huddled close together for silent comfort, and watched their feet to keep from stumbling on this strange uneven deck. They made it without incident until Alan looked up from the ground and found himself for the first time in his life with nothing close to him. He was hit by vertigo and acute agoraphobia; he moaned, closed his eyes and fell.

  “What in the Ship?" demanded Ertz, looking around. Then it hit him.

  Hugh fought against it. It pulled him to his knees, but be fought it, steadying himself with one hand on the ground. However, he had the advantage of having stared out through the view port for endless time — neither Alan nor Ertz were cowards.

  “Alan!" his wife shrilled from the open door. “Alan! Come back here!" Alan opened one eye, managed to get it focused on the Ship, and started inching back on his belly.

  “Man!" commanded Hugh. “Stop that! Situp."

  Alan did so, with the air of a man pushed too far. “Open your eyes!" Alan obeyed cautiously, reclosed them hastily.

  “Just sit still and you’ll be all right," Hugh added. “I’m all right already." To prove it he stood up. He was still dizzy, but he made it. Ertz sat up.

  The sun had crossed a sizable piece of the sky, enough time had passed for a well-fed man to become hungry — and they were not well fed. Even the women were outside — that had been accomplished by the simple expedient of going back in and pushing them out. They had not ventured away from the side of the Ship, but sat huddled against it. But their menfolk had even learned to walk singly, even in open spaces. Alan thought nothing of strutting a full fifty yards away from the shadow of the Ship, and did so more than once, in full sight of the women.

  It was on one such journey that a small animal native to the planet let his curiosity exceed his caution. Alan’s knife knocked him over and left him kicking. Alan scurried to the spot, grabbed his fat prize by one leg, and bore it proudly back to Hugh. “Look, Hugh, look! Good eating!"

  Hugh looked with approval. His first strange fright of the place had passed and had been replaced with a deep warm feeling, a feeling that he had come at last to his long home. This seemed a good omen.

  “Yes," he agreed. “Good eating. From now on, Alan, always Good Eating."

  By His Bootstraps

  Astounding Science Fiction, October 1941 as by Anson MacDonald

  Bob Wilson did not see the circle grow.

  Nor, for that matter, did he see the stranger who stepped out of the circle and stood staring at the back of Wilson’s neck — stared, and breathed heavily, as if laboring under strong and unusual emotion.

  Wilson had no reason to suspect that anyone else was in his room; he had every reason to expect the contrary. He had locked himself in his room for the purpose of completing his thesis in one sustained
drive. He had to — tomorrow was the last day for submission, yesterday the thesis had been no more than a title: “An Investigation Into Certain Mathematical Aspects of a Rigor of Metaphysics."

  Fifty-two cigarettes, four pots of coffee and thirteen hours of continuous work had added seven thousand words to the title. As to the validity of his thesis he was far too groggy to give a damn. Get it done, was his only thought, get it done, turn it in, take three stiff drinks and sleep for a week.

  He glanced up and let his eyes rest on his wardrobe door, behind which he had cached a gin bottle, nearly full. No, he admonished himself, one more drink and you’ll never finish it, Bob, old son.

  The stranger behind him said nothing.

  Wilson resumed typing. “— nor is it valid to assume that a conceivable proposition is necessarily a possible proposition, even when it is possible to formulate mathematics which describes the proposition with exactness. A case in point is the concept 'Time Travel’. Time travel may be imagined and its necessities may be formulated under any and all theories of time, formulae which resolve the paradoxes of each theory. Nevertheless, we know certain things about the empirical nature of time which preclude the possibility of the conceivable proposition. Duration is an attribute of consciousness and not of the plenum. It has no Ding an Sich. Therefore —"

  A key of the typewriter stuck, three more jammed up on top of it. Wilson swore dully and reached forward to straighten out the cantankerous machinery. “Don’t bother with it," he heard a voice say. “It’s a lot of utter hogwash anyhow."

  Wilson sat up with a jerk, then turned his head slowly around. He fervently hoped that there was someone behind him. Otherwise —

  He perceived the stranger with relief. “Thank God," he said to himself.

  “For a moment I thought I had come unstuck." His relief turned to extreme annoyance. “the devil are you doing in my room?" he demanded. He shoved back his chair, got up and strode over to the one door. It was still locked, and bolted on the inside.

  The windows were no help; they were adjacent to his desk and three stories above a busy street. “How did you get in?" he added.

  “Through that," answered the stranger, hooking a thumb toward the circle. Wilson noticed it for the first time, blinked his eyes and looked again. There it hung between them and the wall, a great disk of nothing, of the color one sees when the eyes are shut tight.

  Wilson shook his head vigorously. The circle remained. “Gosh," he thought, “I was right the first time. I wonder when I slipped my trolley?" He advanced toward the disk, put out a hand to touch it.

  “Don’t!" snapped the stranger.

  “Why not?" said Wilson edgily. Nevertheless he paused.

  “I’ll explain. But let’s have a drink first." He walked directly to the wardrobe, opened it, reached in and took out the bottle of gin without looking.

  “Hey!" yelled Wilson. “What are you doing there? That’s my liquor."

  “Your liquor —" The stranger paused for a moment. “Sorry. You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you?"

  “I suppose not," Bob Wilson conceded in a surly tone. “Pour me one while you’re about it."

  “Okay," agreed the stranger, “then I’ll explain."

  “It had better be good," Wilson said ominously. Nevertheless he drank his drink and looked the stranger over.

  He saw a chap about the same size as himself and much the same age — perhaps a little older, though a three-clay growth of beard may have accounted for that impression. The stranger had a black eye and a freshly cut and badly swollen upper lip. Wilson decided he did not like the chaps’ face. Still, there was something familiar about the face; he felt that he should have recognized it, that he had seen it many times before under different circumstances.

  “Who are you?" he asked suddenly.

  “Me?" said his guest. “Don’t you recognize me?"

  “I’m not sure," admitted Wilson. “Have I ever seen you before?"

  “Well — not exactly," the other temporized. “Skip it — you wouldn’t know about it."

  “What’s your name?"

  “My name? Uh … just call me Joe."

  Wilson set down his glass. “Okay, Joe Whatever-your-name-is, trot out that explanation and make it snappy."

  “I’ll do that," agreed Joe. “That dingus I came through" — he pointed to the circle — “that’s a Time Gate."

  “A what?"

  “A Time Gate. Time flows along side by side on each side of the Gate, but some thousands of years apart — just how many thousands I don’t know. But for the next couple of hours that Gate is open. You can walk into the future just by stepping through that circle." The stranger paused.

  Bob drummed on the desk. “Go ahead. I’m listening. It’s a nice story."

  “You don’t believe me, do you? I’ll show you." Joe got up, went again to the wardrobe and obtained Bob’s hat, his prized and only hat, which he had mistreated into its present battered grandeur through six years of undergraduate and graduate life. Joe chucked it toward the impalpable disk.

  It struck the surface, went on through with no apparent resistance, disappeared from sight.

  Wilson got up, walked carefully around the circle and examined the bare floor. “A neat trick," he conceded. “Now I’ll thank you to return to me my hat."

  The stranger shook his head. “You can get it for yourself when you pass through"

  “Huh?"

  “That’s right. Listen —" Briefly the stranger repeated his explanation about the Time Gate. Wilson, he insisted, had an opportunity that comes once in a millennium — if he would only hurry up and climb through that circle. Furthermore, though Joe could not explain in detail at the moment, it was very important that Wilson go through.

  Bob Wilson helped himself to a second drink, and then a third. He was beginning to feel both good and argumentative. “Why?" he said flatly.

  Joe looked exasperated. “Dammit, if you’d just step through once, explanations wouldn’t be necessary. However —" According to Joe, there was an old guy on the other side who needed Wilson’s help. With Wilson’s help the three of them would run the country. The exact nature of the help Joe could not or would not specify. Instead he bore down on the unique possibilities for high adventure. “You don’t want to slave your life away teaching numskulls in some freshwater college," he insisted. “This is your chance. Grab it!"

  Bob Wilson admitted to himself that a Ph.D. and an appointment as an instructor was not his idea of existence. Still, it beat working for a living. His eye fell on the gin bottle, its level now deplorably lowered. That explained it. He got up unsteadily.

  “No, my dear fellow," he stated, “I’m not going to climb on your merry-go-round. You know why?"

  “Why?"

  “Because I’m drunk, that’s why. You’re not there at all. That ain’t there." He gestured widely at the circle. “There ain’t anybody here but me, and I’m drunk. Been working too hard," he added apologetically. “I’m goin’ to bed."

  “You’re not drunk."

  “I am drunk. Peter Piper pepped a pick of pippered peckles." He moved toward his bed.

  Joe grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that," he said.

  “Let him alone!"

  They both swung around. Facing them, standing directly in front of the circle was a third man. Bob looked at the newcomer, looked back at Joe, blinked his eyes and tried to focus them. The two looked a good bit alike, he thought, enough alike to be brothers. Or maybe he was seeing double. Bad stuff, gin. Should 'ave switched to rum a long time ago. Good stuff, rum. You could drink it, or take a bath in it. No, that was gin — he meant Joe.

  How silly! Joe was the one with the black eye. He wondered why he had ever been confused.

  Then who was this other lug? Couldn’t a couple of friends have a quiet drink together without people butting in?

  “Who are you?" he said with quiet dignity.

  The newcomer turned his head, then looked at Joe. “He kn
ows me," he said meaningly.

  Joe looked him over slowly. “Yes," he said, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?"

  “No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do — you’ll concede that — and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn’t go through the Gate."

  “I don’t concede anything of the sort —"

  The telephone rang.

  “Answer it!" snapped the newcomer.

  Bob was about to protest the peremptory tone, but decided he wouldn’t. He lacked the phlegmatic temperament necessary to ignore a ringing telephone. “Hello?"

  “Hello," he was answered. “Is that Bob Wilson?"

  “Yes. Who is this?"

  “Never mind. I just wanted to be sure you were there. I thought you would be. You’re right in the groove, kid, right in the groove."

  Wilson heard a chuckle, then the click of the disconnection. “Hello," he said. “Hello!" He jiggled the bar a couple of times, then hung up.

  “What was it?" asked Joe.

  “Nothing. Some nut with a misplaced sense of humor." The telephone bell rang again. Wilson added, “There he is again," and picked up the receiver. “Listen, you butterfly-brained ape! I’m a busy man, and this is not a public telephone."

  “Why, Bob!" came a hurt feminine voice.

  “Huh? Oh, it’s you, Genevieve. Look — I’m sorry. I apologize —"

  “Well, I should think you would!"

  “You don’t understand, honey. A guy has been pestering me over the phone and I thought it was him. You know I wouldn’t talk that way to you, babe."

  “Well, I should think not. Particularly after all you said to me this afternoon, and all we meant to each other"

  “Huh? This afternoon? Did you say this afternoon?"

  “Of course. But what I called up about was this: you left your hat in my apartment. I noticed it a few minutes after you had gone and just thought I’d call and tell you where it is. Anyhow," she added coyly, “it gave me an excuse to hear your voice again."