Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “I guess so." He glanced over his shoulder to where the steel bulk of the bathysphere lay, uncrated, checked and equipped, ready to be swung outboard by the boat crane. “Got the gasket-sealing compound?"

  “Sure. The Iron Maiden is all right. The gunner and I will seal you in. Here’s your mask."

  Eisenberg accepted the inhaling mask, started to strap it on, checked himself. Graves noticed the look on his face. “What’s the trouble, son?"

  “Doc …"

  “Yes?"

  “I say — you’ll look out for Cleo and Pat, won’t you?"

  “Why, sure. But they won’t need anything in the length of time you’ll be gone."

  “Um-m-m, no, I suppose not. But you’ll look out for 'em?"

  “Sure."

  “O.K." Eisenberg slipped the inhaler over his face, waved his hand to the gunner waiting by the gas bottles. The gunner eased open the cutoff valves, the gas lines hissed, and Eisenberg began to pedal like a six-day racer.

  With thirty minutes to kill, Blake invited Graves to go forward with him for a smoke and a stroll on the fo’c’s’le. They had completed about twenty turns when Blake paused by the wildcat, took his cigar from his mouth and remarked, “Do you know, I believe he has a good chance of completing the trip."

  “So? I’m glad to hear that."

  “Yes, I do, really. The success of the trial with the dead load convinced me. And whether the smoke gear works or not, if that globe comes back down the Wahini Pillar, I’ll find it."

  “I know you will. It was a good idea of yours, to paint it yellow."

  “Help us to spot it, all right. I don’t think he’ll learn anything, however. He won’t see a thing through those ports but blue water, from the time he enters the column to the time we pick him up."

  “Perhaps so."

  “What else could he see?"

  “I don’t know. Whatever it is that made those Pillars, perhaps."

  Blake dumped the ashes from his cigar carefully over the rail before replying. “Doctor, I don’t understand you. To my mind, those Pillars are a natural, even though strange, phenomenon."

  “And to me it’s equally obvious that they are not 'natural.’ They exhibit intelligent interference with the ordinary processes of nature as clearly as if they had a sign saying so hung on them."

  “I don’t see how you can say that. Obviously, they are not man-made."

  “No."

  “Then who did make them — if they were made?"

  “I don’t know."

  Blake started to speak, shrugged, and held his tongue. They resumed their stroll. Graves turned aside to chuck his cigarette overboard, glancing outboard as he did so.

  He stopped, stared, then called out: “Captain Blake!"

  “Eh?" The captain turned and looked where Graves pointed. “Great God! Fireballs!"

  “That’s what I thought."

  “They’re some distance away," Blake observed, more to himself than to Graves. He turned decisively. “Bridge!" he shouted. “Bridge! Bridge ahoy!"

  “Bridge, aye aye!"

  “Mr. Weems — pass the word: 'All hands, below decks.’ Dog down all ports. Close all hatches. And close up the bridge itself! Sound the general alarm."

  “Aye aye, sir!"

  “Move!" Turning to Graves, he added, “Come inside." Graves followed him; the captain stopped to dog down the door by which they entered himself. Blake pounded up the inner ladders to the bridge, Graves in his train. The ship was filled with whine of the bos’n pipe, the raucous voice of the loudspeaker, the clomp of hurrying feet, and the monotonous, menacing cling-cling-cling! of the general alarm.

  The watch on the bridge were still struggling with the last of the heavy glass shutters of the bridge when the captain burst into their midst. “I’ll take it, Mr. Weems," he snapped.

  In one continuous motion he moved from one side of the bridge to the other, letting his eye sweep the port side aft, the fo’c’s’le, the starboard side aft, and finally rest on the fireballs — distinctly nearer and heading straight for the ship. He cursed. “Your friend did not get the news," he said to Graves.

  He grasped the crank which could open or close the after starboard shutter of the bridge.

  Graves looked past his shoulder, saw what he meant — the afterdeck was empty, save for one lonely figure pedaling away on the stationary bicycle. The LaGrange fireballs were closing in.

  The shutter stuck, jammed tight, would not open. Blake stopped trying, swung quickly to the loudspeaker control panel, and cut in the whole board without bothering to select the proper circuit. “Eisenberg! Get below!"

  Eisenberg must have heard his name called, for be turned his head and looked over his shoulder — Graves saw distinctly — just as the fireball reached him. It passed on, and the saddle of the exerciser was empty.

  The exerciser was undamaged, they found, when they were able to examine it. The rubber hose to the inhaler mask had been cut smoothly. There was no blood, no marks. Bill Eisenberg was simply gone.

  'Tm going up."

  “You are in no physical shape to do so, doctor."

  “You are in no way responsible, Captain Blake."

  “I know that. You may go if you like — after we have searched for your friend’s body."

  “Search be damned! I’m going up to look for him."

  “Huh? Eh? How’s that?"

  “If you are right, he’s dead, and there is no point in searching for his body. If I’m right, there is just an outside chance of finding him — up there!" He pointed toward the cloud cap of the Pillars.

  Blake looked him over slowly, then turned to the master diver. “Mr. Hargreave, find an inhaler mask for Dr. Graves."

  They gave him thirty minutes of conditioning against the caisson disease while Blake looked on with expressionless Silence. The ship’s company, bluejackets and officers alike, stood back and kept quiet; they walked on eggs when the Old Man had that look.

  Exercise completed, the diver crew dressed Graves rapidly and strapped him into the bathysphere with dispatch, in order not to expose him too long to the nitrogen in the air. Just before the escape port was dogged down Graves spoke up.

  “Captain Blake."

  “Yes, doctor?"

  “Bill’s goldfish — will you look out for them?"

  “Certainly, doctor."

  “Thanks."

  “Not at all. Are you ready?"

  “Ready."

  Blake stepped forward, stuck an arm through the port of the sphere and shook hands with Graves. “Good luck." He withdrew his arm. “Seal it up."

  They lowered it over the side; two motor launches nosed it half a mile in the direction of the Kanaka Pillar where the current was strong enough to carry it along. There they left it and bucked the current back to the ship, were hoisted in.

  Blake followed it with his glasses from the bridge. It drifted slowly at first, then with increased speed as it approached the base of the column. It whipped into rapid motion the last few hundred yards; Blake saw a flash of yellow just above the water line, then nothing more.

  Eight hours — no plume of smoke. Nine hours, ten hours, nothing. After twenty-four hours of steady patrol in the vicinity of the Wahini Pillar, Blake radioed the Bureau.

  Four days of vigilance — Blake knew that the bathysphere’s passenger must be dead; whether by suffocation, drowning, implosion, or other means was not important. He so reported and received orders to proceed on duty assigned. The ship’s company was called to quarters; Captain Blake read the service for the dead aloud in a harsh voice, dropped over the side some rather wilted hibiscus blooms — all that his steward could produce at the time — and went to the bridge to set his course for Pearl Harbor.

  On the way to the bridge he stopped for a moment at his cabin and called to his steward: “You’ll find some goldfish in the stateroom occupied by Mr. Eisenberg. Find an appropriate container and place them in my cabin."

  “Yes, suh, Cap’n."


  When Bill Eisenberg came to his senses he was in a Place. Sorry, but no other description is suitable; it lacked features. Oh, not entirely, of course — it was not dark where he was, nor was it in a state of vacuum, nor was it cold, nor was it too small for comfort. But it did lack features to such a remarkable extent that he had difficulty in estimating the size of the place. Consider stereo vision, by which we estimate the size of things directly, does not work beyond twenty feet or so. At greater distances we depend on previous knowledge of the true size of familiar objects, usually making our estimates subconsciously — a man so high is about that far away, and vice versa.

  But the Place contained no familiar objects. The ceiling was a considerable distance over his head, too far to touch by jumping. The floor curved up to join the ceiling and thus prevented further lateral progress of more than a dozen paces or so. He would become aware of the obstacle by losing his balance. (He had no reference lines by which to judge the vertical; furthermore, his sense of innate balance was affected by the mistreatment his inner ears had undergone through years of diving. It was easier to sit than to walk, nor was there any reason to walk, after the first futile attempt at exploration.)

  When he first woke up he stretched and opened his eyes, looked around. The lack of detail confused him. It was as if he were on the inside of a giant eggshell, illuminated from without by a soft, mellow, slightly amber light. The formless vagueness bothered him; he closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again — no better.

  He was beginning to remember his last experience before losing consciousness — the fireball swooping down, his frenzied, useless attempt to duck, the “Hold your hats, boys!" thought that flashed through his mind in the long-drawn-out split second before contact. His orderly mind began to look for explanations. Knocked cold, he thought, and my optic nerve paralyzed. Wonder if I’m blind for good.

  Anyhow, they ought not to leave him alone like this in his present helpless condition. “Doc!" he shouted. “Doc Graves!"

  No answer, no echo — he became aware that there was no sound, save for his own voice, none of the random little sounds that fill completely the normal “dead" silence. This place was as silent as the inside of a sack of flour. Were his ears shot, too?

  No, he had heard his own voice. At that moment he realized that he was looking at his own hands. Why, there was nothing wrong with his eyes — he could see them plainly!

  And the rest of himself, too. He was naked.

  It might have been several hours later, it might have been moments, when he reached the conclusion that he was dead. It was the only hypothesis which seemed to cover the facts. A dogmatic agnostic by faith, he had expected no survival after death; he had expected to go out like a light, with a sudden termination of consciousness. However, he had been subjected to a charge of static electricity more than sufficient to kill a man; when he regained awareness, he found himself without all the usual experience which makes up living.

  Therefore — he was dead. Q.E.D.

  To be sure, he seemed to have a body, but he was acquainted with the subjective-objective paradox. He still had memory, the strongest pattern in one’s memory is body awareness. This was not his body, but his detailed sensation memory of it. So he reasoned. Probably, he thought, my dream-body will slough away as my memory of the object-body fades.

  There was nothing to do, nothing to experience, nothing to distract his mind. He fell asleep at last, thinking that, if this were death, it was damned dull!

  He awoke refreshed, but quite hungry and extremely thirsty. The matter of dead, or not-dead, no longer concerned him; he was interested in neither theology nor metaphysics.

  He was hungry.

  Furthermore, he experienced on awakening a phenomenon which destroyed most of the basis fur his intellectual belief in his own death — it had never reached the stage of emotional conviction. Present there with him in the Place he found material objects other than himself, objects which could be seen and touched.

  And eaten.

  Which last was not immediately evident, for they did not look like food. There were two sorts. The first was an amorphous lump of nothing in particular, resembling a grayish cheese in appearance, slightly greasy to the touch, and not appetizing. The second sort was a group of objects of uniform and delightful appearance. They were spheres, a couple of dozen; each one seemed to Bill Eisenberg to be a duplicate of a crystal ball he had once purchased — true Brazilian rock crystal the perfect beauty of which he had not been able to resist; he had bought it and smuggled it home to gloat over in private.

  The little spheres were like that in appearance. He touched one. It was smooth as crystal and had the same chaste coolness, but it was soft as jelly. It quivered like jelly, causing the lights within it to dance delightfully, before resuming its perfect roundness.

  Pleasant as they were, they did not look like food, whereas the cheesy, soapy lump might be. He broke off a small piece, sniffed it, and tasted it tentatively. It was sour, nauseating, unpleasant. He spat it out, made a wry face, and wished heartily that he could brush his teeth. If that was food, he would have to be much hungrier.

  He turned his attention back to the delightful little spheres of crystallike jelly. He balanced them in his palms, savoring their soft, smooth touch. In the heart of each he saw his own reflection, imagined in miniature, made elfin and graceful. He became aware almost for the first time of the serene beauty of the human figure, almost any human figure, when viewed as a composition and not as a mass of colloidal detail.

  But thirst became more pressing than narcissist admiration. It occurred to him that the smooth, cool spheres, if held in the mouth, might promote salivation, as pebbles will. He tried it; the sphere he selected struck against his lower teeth as he placed it in his mouth, and his lips and chin were suddenly wet, while drops trickled down his chest. The spheres were water, nothing but water, no cellophane skin, no container of any sort. Water had been delivered to him, neatly packaged, by some esoteric trick of surface tension.

  He tried another, handling it more carefully to insure that it was not pricked by his teeth until he had it in his mouth. It worked; his mouth was filled with cool, pure water — too quickly; he choked. But he had caught on to the trick; he drank four of the spheres.

  His thirst satisfied, he became interested in the strange trick whereby water became its own container. The spheres were tough; he could not squeeze them into breaking down, nor did smashing them hard against the floor disturb their precarious balance. They bounced like golf balls and came up for more. He managed to pinch the surface of one between thumb and fingernail. It broke down at once, and the water trickled between his fingers — water alone, no skin nor foreign substance. It seemed that a cut alone could disturb the balance of tensions; even wetting had no effect, for he could hold one carefully in his mouth, remove it, and dry it off on his own skin.

  He decided that, since his supply was limited, and no more water was in prospect, it would be wise to conserve what he had and experiment no further.

  The relief of thirst increased the demands of hunger. He turned his attention again to the other substance and found that he could force himself to chew and swallow. It might not be food, it might even be poison, but it filled his stomach and stayed the pangs. He even felt well fed, once he had cleared out the taste with another sphere of water.

  After eating he rearranged his thoughts. He was not dead, or, if he were, the difference between living and being dead was imperceptible, verbal. OK, he was alive. But he was shut up alone. Somebody knew where he was and was aware of him, for he had been supplied with food and drink — mysteriously but cleverly. Ergo — he was a prisoner, a word which implies a warden.

  Whose prisoner? He had been struck by a LaGrange fireball and had awakened in his cell. It looked, he was forced to admit, as if Doc Graves had been right; the fireballs were intelligently controlled. Furthermore, the person or persons behind them had novel ideas as to how to care for prisoners as
well as strange ways of capturing them.

  Eisenberg was a brave man, as brave as the ordinary run of the race from which he sprang — a race as foolhardy as Pekingese dogs. He had the high degree of courage so common in the human race, a race capable of conceiving death, yet able to face its probability daily, on the highway, on the obstetrics table, on the battlefield, in the air, in the subway and to face lightheartedly the certainty of death in the end.

  Eisenberg was apprehensive, but not, panic-stricken. His situation was decidedly interesting; he was no longer bored.

  If he were a prisoner, it seemed likely that his captor would come to investigate him presently, perhaps to question him, perhaps to attempt to use him in some fashion. The fact that, he had been saved and not killed implied some sort of plans for his future. Very well, he would concentrate on meeting whatever exigency might come with a calm and resourceful mind. In the meantime, there was nothing he could do toward freeing himself; he had satisfied himself of that. This was a prison which would baffle Houdini-smooth continuous walls, no way to get a purchase.

  He had thought once that he had a clue to escape; the cells had sanitary arrangements of some sort, for that which his body rejected went elsewhere. But he got no further with that lead; the cage was selfcleaning — and that was that. He could not tell how it was done. It baffled him.

  Presently he slept again.

  When he awoke, one element only was changed — the food and water had been replenished. The “day" passed without incident, save for his own busy fruitless thoughts.

  And the next “day." And the next.

  He determined to stay awake long enough to find out how food and water were placed in his cell. He made a colossal effort to do so, using drastic measures to stimulate his body into consciousness. He bit his lips, he bit his tongue. He nipped the lobes of his ears viciously with his nails. He concentrated on difficult mental feats.

  Presently he dozed off; when he awoke, the food and water had been replenished.

  The waking periods were followed by sleep, renewed hunger and thirst, the satisfying of same, and more sleep. It was after the sixth or seventh sleep that he decided that some sort of a calendar was necessary to his mental health. He had no means of measuring time except by his sleeps; he arbitrarily designated them as days. He had no means of keeping records, save his own body. He made that do. A thumbnail shred, torn off, made a rough tattooing needle. Continued scratching of the same area on his thigh produced a red welt which persisted for a day or two, and could be renewed.