by Anthology
"You're helpless, really. You can't fly this ship without me. Therefore my life is safe. I merely refuse to launch it."
"Would you like a dead wife?"
Orin whitened perceptibly.
"She may be a wife to you, but to me she's just a doll who helped lie a man into the chair."
"You wouldn't do it! You haven't got the nerve to shoot down a man or a woman in cold blood."
Kirk looked steadily into Orin's eyes. "You don't believe that do you, bud?"
Orin held the gaze for a long time. Then he dropped his eyes. "No. I don't believe it."
"Then get to work."
"One last offer. Won't you reconsider. Join us?"
"No!"
"Very well."
And Orin, a fixed, taut look on his face, reached forth his hand and touched a button on the panel board. It was a very special button.
A button for use only when all hope was gone.
The exploding space-time ship lighted the countryside to blinding brilliance.
* * * * *
A.P. Jan 21st--Shortly after midnight today, Paul Cordell, convicted killer in the famous "woman from Mars" case, was put to death in the electric chair at the state penitentiary.
* * *
Contents
IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T ...
By John Brudy
To Amos Jordan, Secretary for Cislunar Navigation, no situation was unsolvable. There were rules for everything, weren't there.... Except maybe this thing ...
"What's the matter, anyway?" Amos Jordan snapped at his assistant. "Is everyone in the Senate losing their mind?"
"No more than usual," said Clements, the undersecretary. "It's just a matter of sentiment."
"Sentiment?" Jordan poured himself a glass of lemonade. "What's sentiment got to do with it? It's just a standard procedural problem."
"Well, not exactly," began Clements soothingly. "After all, now, '58 Beta was the first long-lived satellite ever launched, and the first successful shot of the old Vanguard series. People are proud if it. It's a sort of monument to our early efforts in astronautics."
* * * * *
Jordan sipped experimentally, adding a little sugar.
"But, Clem, the sky's full of the things," he complained. "There must be a hundred fifty of them in orbit right now. They're a menace to navigation. If this one's due to fall out, I say good riddance."
Clements spread his hands helplessly.
"I agree, chief. But, believe me, a lot of people have made up their minds about this thing. Some want to let it burn up. Some want to retrieve it and stash it in a museum. Either way it's a decision we're not going to reach in this office."
Jordan tossed down the rest of his lemonade.
"I'd like to know why not," he snapped, almost bristling.
"Well, frankly this thing is moving pretty fast." Clements fished a facsimile sheet out of his jacket pocket. "Everybody's getting into the act." He handed the sheet across the desk. "Read this; it'll bring you up to date."
Jordan stared at the sheet.
"Senate Committee Probes Beta," ran the lead, followed by,
"The Senate Advisory Committee for Astronautics began hearing testimony this morning in an effort to determine the fate of satellite '58 Beta. Mr. Claude Wamboldt, leader of the CCSB (Citizens' Committee to Save Beta), testified that the cost of retrieving Beta from orbit would be trivial compared to its value as an object of precious historical significance. He suggested the Smithsonian Institution as an appropriate site for the exhibit. At the same time the incumbent Senator from Mr. Wamboldt's district filed a bill in the Senate which would add a complete wing to the Smithsonian to house this satellite and other similar historic objects. In later testimony Mr. Orville Larkin, leader of the unnamed committee representing those in opposition to the CCSB stated that his group felt that to snatch Beta from orbit at this moment of its greatest glory would be contrary to natural law and that he and his supporters would never concede to any plan to save it."
Jordan raised his head and stared over the fax sheet at Clements. "Am I going out of my mind, or did this really happen?"
"It sure did ... and is," said Clements. "Later on, I am told, Wamboldt threw a chair at Larkin, and the committee recessed after declaring both men in contempt."
Jordan shook his head.
"Why didn't somebody tell me about this?"
"I sent you a ten page memo about it last week," objected Clements, somewhat aggrieved. "Gave you the whole story with extrapolations."
"Memo! You know I never read memos! I ought to fire you ... I would if I could ... you ... you 'appointee.'"
Clements shook his head warningly. "Better not, chief. You'll need me for the briefing."
"Briefing? What briefing?"
"The briefing. You're scheduled to testify before the committee tomorrow afternoon at three."
* * * * *
Senator Darius: Mr. Jordan, will you please state whether or not there is a satellite body known as '58 Beta?
Mr. Jordan: Yes, sir, there is.
Senator D: Will you describe its present orbit?
Mr. J: I'd be glad to, Senator. It now has a perigee slightly below 110 miles and an apogee of about 400 miles. The last perigee occurred 400 miles last of the Seychelles Islands about 35 minutes ago. Roughly its present position is about 250 miles above Manus Island.
Senator D: When do you expect it to enter the atmosphere for the final plunge to its death?
Mr. J: (bridling) Well, Senator, we in the Secretariat don't usually refer to such an occurrence in exactly those terms. It's really just a problem in celestial mechanics to us, and ...
Senator D: (glaring) Your administrative assistant testified a few moments ago, sir, that '58 Beta has had a life of 185 years. Will you kindly explain to the committee how anything which has had a life can end in anything but death?
Mr. J: I ... uh ... I believe I appreciate your point of view, Senator. '58 Beta experiences a very steep re-entry at each perigee. According to our computers it will disintegrate on the 82nd or 83rd revolution following that of 2:48 Greenwich crossing this afternoon.
Senator D: Tell us, Mr. Jordan ... how many revolutions about the Mother Planet has '58 Beta made since its launching?
Mr. J: (hastily working his slide rule) Upwards of eight hundred thousand, I should say. I can provide you with an exact figure if you wish.
Senator D: That won't be necessary, Mr. Jordan. Eight hundred thousand, give or take a few paltry thousand, is close enough. Eight hundred thousand endless, lonely revolutions about an unthinking, uncaring, ungrateful world is quite enough. Quite enough, Mr. Jordan. Now sir; (squinting over his glasses) what do you think is the proper action to be taken in the matter of retrieving this historic satellite from its orbit so that it may be preserved as a living memorial to the gallant efforts of those early pioneers ... those brave and intrepid men of Cape Canaveral ... to stand forevermore as a beacon and a challenge to our school children, to our students, our aspirants for candidacy to the Space Academy and to our citizens for all time to come?
Mr. J: Nothing, Senator.
Senator D: (aghast) Am I to understand, Mr. Jordan, that you are suggesting that this symbol, this quintessence of an historic and magnificent era in mankind's history ... this unique and precious object ... should be allowed to destroy itself and be lost forever?
Mr. J: (squirming) Senator, there are dozens of those things up there. Every year one or two burns up. They have no usefulness. They're a menace to navigation. I ...
Senator D: (interrupting loudly) Mr. Jordan, what was the date of your appointment to your present position?
Mr. J: April 11, 2138.
Senator D: Do you consider yourself fully qualified to hold this august position?
Mr. J: (tight lipped) Senator, I am a graduate of the Administrative Academy, the Logistics Staff School, and I have 31 years seniority in my department. Furthermore ...
Senator D: (banging his gavel) Mr.
Jordan, please! Try to remember where you are! We had enough trouble yesterday with witnesses before this committee. There will be no more of it. And Mr. Jordan, while it may be true that your technical qualifications for serving in your present position may be adequate, it is clear to me and, I am sure, apparent to other members of this committee that your feeling for history and the relation of this problem to the destiny of the human race leave much to be desired. And, Mr. Jordan, may I emphasize ... these are the things that count in the long, long haul!
* * * * *
Jordan sat limply at his desk, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. "It's unbelievable," he muttered dully. "Where did this man Darius come from?"
"It doesn't matter much," Clements answered unsympathetically. "It's where he is now that counts."
Jordan shook his head.
"There has to be a way out. A clean, quick way out."
After a moment's thought Clements said, "Isn't there a regulation about orbital debris?"
Jordan nodded dully. "Someplace. Number 710.1, I think. Hasn't been invoked in years. Once they stopped using chemical fuels, we stopped having wrecks."
"Still," Clements went on more eagerly, "Beta's really a piece of debris, isn't it? It's not working or transmitting or whatever it was supposed to do, is it?"
"No." Jordan shrugged impatiently. "But, good grief, this thing isn't debris. Debris is ... is big chunks of things; broken up space stations, or ... or nuclear engines and things like that."
"Hell, no, chief," yelled Clements, jumping to his feet. "This is debris, pure and simple. That's your answer!"
Jordan's eyes slowly brightened.
"Clem, maybe you're right. Regulation 710.1 says that any orbital debris constituting a demonstrable menace to navigation may be destroyed at the discretion of this office." He brushed his hands together with finality. "That should do it."
Suddenly Clements' enthusiasm degenerated to a faint smile.
"I've just got to wondering, chief. Do we dare go right ahead with this?"
Amos Jordan's eyes took on a piercing glitter of command.
"This is our job, Clements. We should have done it long ago. Get Statistical and have them find out how much boogie time is consumed in plugging that silly thing into every takeoff problem. Multiply that by all the launch stations. Convert it into man-hours per year and make that into a dollar figure. That always scares the wits out a Congressman. They'll knuckle under...."
He paused and cocked an ear toward the door. A faint hubbub was now percolating through from the receptionist's lobby. It grew louder. Suddenly the door opened, letting in a roaring babble, as Geraldine ... the usually poker-faced secretary ... leaped through and slammed it shut again. Her eyes, behind their thick lenses, were round and a little wild.
"It's General Criswell and Admiral Flack," she panted. "They insist on seeing you." She gasped for breath and added, as though she could not quite believe her own words, "And ... and ... oh, Mr. Jordan; they're quarreling!"
Jordan said, "Quarreling? Two staff men quarreling?" He looked uncertainly at Clements. "I thought there was a regulation against that?"
Clements gave a palms up shrug.
"Well, there is," snapped Jordan. "Has something to do with interservice unity or something ... been on the books for years. Send them in, Gerry."
Tentatively she opened the door and almost had time to gesture before being bowled over by the visitors.
* * * * *
Admiral Flack had the advantage of volume, and Jordan got his message first.
"Jordan," he roared in true bullhorn style, "I want to make one thing clear! '58 Beta was Navy through and through! Start to finish! She's got salt water on her, and she's going to be pulled out of orbit and that's that!"
"Navy through and through, hell!" sneered General Criswell. "A fine botch you made of it, too! How many times did you try before you slung that thing up there? How many goofs were there afterward? The Dodgers are in last place, and they've got five pitchers who could have done it without warming up."
"Watch your mouth, Criswell," advised Admiral Flack, tightlipped. "There's considerable tonnage of Air Force hardware under water, too. Maybe the Russians beat us, and maybe von Braun got lucky, but ours is still there, Mac! Just remember that!"
"You people have fetishes," stormed the General. "You even keep Admirals' hats and hang them on pegs. Who wants your hat, you pack rat? Where would we ever keep all the junk you people want to save?" He shuddered. "Good God! Hats!"
"That's ... just ... about ... all ... I'm ... going ... to ... take," Admiral Flack said, spelling out the entire sentence. He stared furiously at the General. "Don't think we don't know that once '58 Beta is down it'll be your precious damned '61 Epsilon that's in the oldest orbit. I'll bet you fly boys will break your silly backs trying to recover that one when its time comes."
Jordan pounded his desk. "Gentlemen, shut up!"
* * * * *
Appalled by this exhibition of low level civilian effrontery, they both did so without really meaning to.
"Gentlemen," Jordan announced firmly in the almost uncanny silence, "the entire problem is solved as of now. '58 Beta constitutes a demonstrable menace to navigation. Under the authority vested in this office I will issue instructions to have it picked up by a salvage ship tomorrow. Once it's brought down you may claim it if you like and do with it what you please."
Admiral Flack shot a look of pure triumph at General Criswell. The General, however, was not paying attention. He was looking, almost with an expression of pity, at Amos Jordan.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Jordan," he said slowly, "that you don't fully realize the implications of such an act at this time. It may be within your jurisdiction to salvage and all that, but I believe that the decision whether to salvage now rests with the legislature. I would hesitate to act without securing high ... very high concurrence in this matter."
Flack erupted.
"Criswell, you're an idiot! A chicken hearted idiot! On top of that you haven't any business telling Jordan ... ah, Mr. Jordan what he can and can't do."
Criswell glared icily at Flack.
"A mere suggestion," he gritted and stalked out.
Admiral Flack paused and bestowed a warm smile upon Amos Jordan before hurrying out the door after the General. As the door closed Jordan heard the contest break out afresh in the lobby.
* * * * *
That was only the beginning. The general population, eager for a silly season diversion, chose sides with religious fervor. Congress went into emergency session. Newspapers drew their lines and fought ferociously. Student riots began on the second day and sympathy strikes on the third.
On the fourth Jordan got the big news break first, for a change. With growing caution he had been holding the situation unaided by the simple expedient of refusing to issue a salvage permit without which '58 Beta could not be touched. Clements brought the news at midnight, interrupting a tempestuous press conference.
He managed to get Jordan out of the milling lobby and into the office. "We've got trouble, chief," he began. "Ascension reports Beta out of orbit."
Jordan stared incredulously.
"Perturbed that badly already? Maybe something's wrong with their computers."
"Not perturbed, chief. Gone. It's just not there any more. It's been picked up ... no doubt about it."
Jordan's face purpled.
"I want a complete ground tracking report on that pebble for the last three revolutions. Fast!"
"I doubt if we can get it," said Clements dubiously. "Woomera only checks it occasionally to train radar operators. Perigee was south of Singapore on the last two passes, but so low I doubt if they got any clear sightings. It would be a waste of time."
Jordan wrung his hands. "You have something better?"
Clements sat for a minute with a faraway look in his eyes.
"Do we know anyone who can make Navy Operations toe the mark?"
"Of course. Why?"
Clements tapped his finger-tips together.
"Wouldn't it be interesting to filter the mission reports of all Navy ships that have been outside the atmosphere in, oh, say the last thirty-six hours?"
Jordan's eyes lit up like twin afterburners.
"They'll have it hidden like the British crown jewels, but...." He grabbed the phone. "Gerry? Have General Criswell paged and ask him to come to my office if possible." He chuckled triumphantly. "Criswell's on the Joint Security Service Board ... what an exercise for that gumshoe outfit!"
* * * * *
It took three hours for General Criswell's ferrets to obtain facsimiles of the reports needed. A sweating staff (borrowed from the cryptographic section to preserve secrecy) finally broke them down to three probables: a Lunar courier which had aborted and returned to base for no clean cut reason, an alleged training exercise in three body orbits with the instructors' seats inexplicably filled with nothing lower than the rank of Lieut. Commander and a sour smelling sortie out of Guantanamo labeled Operation Artifact.
* * * * *
Jordan remained sold on the latter for half an hour until fuel consumption and flight time log figures failed to correlate with an orbital flight, and the bottom fell out of the case. As it turned out it was the courier after all. Both the pilot and his commander refused to talk until presented with the alternative of court-martial proceedings.
Senator Darius: Now, Admiral, I'm going to put the question to you this way, just to see if I can get a straight answer. Did you or did you not issue orders to Lunar Courier G771 specifying in general substance that it was to retrieve satellite '58 Beta?
Admiral Flack: (hurt but proud) The Navy, sir, has a long record of gallantry, a tradition of derring do dating back to John Paul Jones ... a tradition we are all proud of and which we continue and will always continue....
Senator D: (with acid patience) Again, if I may put the question, Admiral. Did you or did you not issue the order?
Admiral F: (defiantly) '58 Beta is Navy property, sir! I am glad and proud to say that I issued the order to retrieve her.