“I see. And the ‘how’ and ‘what’ is your secret, eh?”
“Partly. I can give you a little information, though. Suppose there were only one planet in all space, and you were standing on its surface. Could you tell if the planet were spinning or not? And, if so, how fast? Sure you could; you could measure the so-called centrifugal force. The same thing goes for a proton or electron or neutron or even a neutrino. But, if it is spinning, what is the spin relative to? To the particle itself? That’s obvious nonsense. Therefore, what is commonly called ‘inertia’ is as much a property of so-called ‘empty space’ as it is a property of matter. My device simply utilizes spatial inertia by polarizing it against the matter inertia of the ship, that’s all.”
“Hm-m-m,” said Elshawe. As far as his own knowledge of science went, that statement made no sense whatever. But the man’s manner was persuasive. Talking to him, Elshawe began to have the feeling that Porter not only knew what he was talking about, but could actually do what he said he was going to do.
“What’s that?” Porter asked sharply, looking up into the sky.
Elshawe followed his gaze. “That” was a Cadillac aircar coming over a ridge in the distance, its fans making an ever-louder throaty hum as it approached. It settled down to an altitude of three feet as it neared, and floated toward them on its cushion of air. On its side, Elshawe could see the words, UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT, and beneath that, in smaller letters, Civil Aeronautics Authority.
“Now what?” Porter muttered softly. “I haven’t notified anyone of my intentions yet—not officially.”
“Sometimes those boys don’t wait for official notification,” Elshawe said.
Porter glanced at him, his eyes narrowed. “You didn’t say anything, did you?”
“Look, Mr. Porter, I don’t play that way,” Elshawe said tightly. “As far as I’m concerned, this is your show; I’m just here to get the story. You did us a favor by giving us advance notice; why should we louse up your show for you?”
“Sorry,” Porter said brusquely. “Well, let’s make a good show of it.”
The CAA aircar slowed to a halt, its fans died, and it settled to its wheels.
Two neatly dressed, middle-aged men climbed out. Both were carrying briefcases. Porter walked briskly toward them, a warm smile on his face; Elshawe tagged along behind. The CAA men returned Porter’s smile with smiles that could only be called polite and businesslike.
Porter performed the introductions, and the two men identified themselves as Mr. Granby and Mr. Feldstein, of the Civil Aeronautics Authority.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Porter asked.
Granby, who was somewhat shorter, fatter, and balder than his partner, opened his briefcase. “We’re just here on a routine check, Mr. Porter. If you can give us a little information…?” He let the half-question hang in the air as he took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.
“Anything I can do to help,” Porter said.
Granby, looking at the papers, said: “In 1979, I believe you purchased a Grumman Supernova jet powered aircraft from Trans-American Airlines? Is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Porter agreed.
Granby handed one of the papers to Porter. “That is a copy of the registration certificate. Is the registration number the same as it is on your copy?”
“I believe so,” Porter said, looking at the number. “Yes, I’m sure it is.”
Granby nodded briskly. “According to our records, the machine was sold as scrap. That is to say, it was not in an airworthy condition. It was, in fact, sold without the engines. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“May I ask if you still own the machine in question?”
Porter gave the man a look that accused Granby of being stupid or blind or both. He pointed to the hulking fuselage of the giant aircraft. “There it is.”
Granby and Feldstein both turned to look at it as though they had never noticed it before. “Ah, yes,” Granby said, turning back. “Well, that’s about all there is to it.” He looked at his partner. “It’s obvious that there’s no violation here, eh, Feldstein?”
“Quite,” said Feldstein in a staccato voice.
“Violation?” Porter asked. “What violation?”
“Well, nothing, really,” Granby said, deprecatingly. “Just routine, as I said. People have been known to buy aircraft as scrap and then repair them and re-outfit them.”
“Is that illegal?” Porter asked.
“No, no,” said Granby hastily. “Of course not. But any ship so re-outfitted and repaired must pass CAA inspection before it can leave the ground, you understand. So we keep an eye on such transactions to make sure that the law isn’t violated.”
“After three years?” Porter asked blandly.
“Well…ah…well…you know how it is,” Granby said nervously. “These things take time. Sometimes…due to…clerical error, we overlook a case now and then.” He glanced at his partner, then quickly looked back at Porter.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Porter,” Feldstein said in a flat, cold voice, “in view of your record, we felt that the investigation at this time was advisable. You bought a scrap missile and used it illegally. You can hardly blame us for looking into this matter.”
“No,” said Porter. He had transferred his level gaze to the taller of the two men, since it had suddenly become evident that Feldstein, not Granby, was the stronger of the two.
“However,” Feldstein went on, “I’m glad to see that we have no cause for alarm. You’re obviously not fitting that up as an aircraft. By the way—just out of curiosity—what are you doing with it?” He turned around to look at the big fuselage again.
Porter sighed. “I had intended to hold off on this for a few days, but I might as well let the cat out now. I intend to take off in that ship this week end.”
Granby’s eyes opened wide, and Feldstein spun around as though someone had jabbed him with a needle. “What?”
Porter simply repeated what he had said. “I had intended to make application to the Space Force for permission to test it,” he added.
Feldstein looked at him blankly for a moment.
Then: “The Space Force? Mr. Porter, civilian aircraft come under the jurisdiction of the CAA.”
“How’s he going to fly it?” Granby asked. “No engines, no wings, no control surfaces. It’s silly.”
“Rocket motors in the rear, of course,” said Feldstein. “He’s converted the thing into a rocket.”
“But the tail is closed,” Granby objected. “There’s no rocket orifice.”
“Dummy cover, I imagine,” Feldstein said. “Right, Mr. Porter?”
“Wrong,” said Porter angrily. “The motive power is supplied by a mechanism of my own devising! It has nothing to do with rockets! It’s as superior to rocket power as the electric motor is to the steam engine!”
Feldstein and Granby glanced at each other, and an almost identical expression of superior smugness grew over their features. Feldstein looked back at Porter and said, “Mr. Porter, I assure you that it doesn’t matter what you’re using to lift that thing. You could be using dynamite for all I care. The law says that it can’t leave the ground unless it’s airworthy. Without wings or control surfaces, it is obviously not airworthy. If it is not a rocket device, then it comes under the jurisdiction of the Civil Aeronautics Authority, and if you try to take off without our permission, you’ll go to jail.
“If it is a rocket device, then it will be up to the Space Force to inspect it before take-off to make sure it is not dangerous.
“I might remind you, Mr. Porter, that you are on parole. You still have three years to serve on your last conviction. I wouldn’t play around with rockets any more if I were you.”
Porter blew up. “Listen, you! I’m not going to be pushed around by you or anyone else! I know better than you do what Alcatraz is like, and I’m not going back there if I can help it. This country is still Constitutionally a democracy, no
t a bureaucracy, and I’m going to see to it that I get to exercise my rights!
“I’ve invented something that’s as radically new as…as…as the Law of Gravity was in the Seventeenth Century! And I’m going to get recognition for it, understand me?” He gestured furiously toward the fuselage of the old Supernova. “That ship is not only airworthy, but space-worthy! And it’s a thousand times safer and a thousand times better than any rocket will ever be!
“For your information, Mister Smug-Face, I’ve already flown her!”
Porter stopped, took a deep breath, compressed his lips, and then said, in a lower, somewhat calmer tone, “Know what she’ll do? That baby will hang in the air just like your aircar, there—and without benefit of those outmoded, power-wasting blower fans, too.
“Now, understand me, Mr. Feldstein: I’m not going to break any laws unless I have to. You and all your bureaucrat friends will have a chance to give me an O.K. on this test. But I warn you, brother—I’m going to take that ship up!”
Feldstein’s jaw muscles had tightened at Porter’s tone when he began, but he had relaxed by the time the millionaire had finished, and was even managing to look smugly tolerant. Elshawe had thumbed the button on his minirecorder when the conversation had begun, and he was chuckling mentally at the thought of what was going down on the thin, magnetite-impregnated, plastic thread that was hissing past the recording head.
Feldstein said: “Mr. Porter, we came here to remind you of the law, nothing more. If you intend to abide by the law, fine and dandy. If not, you’ll go back to prison.
“That ship is not airworthy, and—”
“How do you know it isn’t?” Porter roared.
“By inspection, Mr. Porter; by inspection.” Feldstein looked exasperated. “We have certain standards to go by, and an aircraft without wings or control surfaces simply doesn’t come up to those standards, that’s all. Even a rocket has to have stabilizing fins.” He paused and zipped open his briefcase.
“In view of your attitude,” he said, pulling out a paper, “I’m afraid I shall have to take official steps. This is to notify you that the aircraft in question has been inspected and found to be not airworthy. Since—”
“Wait a minute!” Porter snapped. “Who are you to say so? How would you know?”
“I happen to be an officer of the CAA,” said Feldstein, obviously trying to control his temper. “I also happen to be a graduate aeronautical engineer. If you wish, I will give the…the…aircraft a thorough inspection, inside and out, and—”
“Oh, no!” said Porter. His voice and his manner had suddenly become very gentle. “I don’t think that would do much good, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’d condemn the ship, no matter what you found inside. You couldn’t O.K. a ship without airfoils, could you?”
“Of course not,” said Feldstein, “that’s obvious, in the face of—”
“All right, then give me the notification and forget the rest of the inspection.” Porter held out his hand.
Feldstein hesitated. “Well, now, without a complete inspection—”
Again Porter interrupted. “You’re not going to get a complete inspection, Buster,” he said with a wolfish grin. “Either serve that paper or get off my back.”
Feldstein slammed the paper into Porter’s hand. “That’s your official notification! If necessary, Mr. Porter, we will be back with a Federal marshal! Good day, Mr. Porter. Let’s go, Granby.”
The two of them marched back to their aircar and climbed inside. The car lifted with a roar of blowers and headed back over the mountains toward Albuquerque.
But long before they were out of sight over the ridge, Malcom Porter had turned on his heel and started back toward the cluster of buildings. He was swearing vilely in a rumbling monotone, and had apparently forgotten all about Elshawe.
The reporter followed in silence for a dozen paces, then he asked: “What’s your next step, Mr. Porter?”
Porter came to an abrupt stop, turned, and looked at Elshawe. “I’m going to phone General Fitzsimmons in Washington! I’m—” He stopped, scowling. “No, I guess I’d better phone my lawyer first. I’ll find out what they can do and what they can’t.” Then he turned again and strode rapidly toward the nearest of the buildings.
Seventy-two hours later, Terry Elshawe was in Silver City, talking to his boss over a long-distance line.
“…And that’s the way it lines up, Ole. The CAA won’t clear his ship for take-off, and the Space Force won’t either. And if he tries it without the O.K. of both of them, he’ll be right back in Alcatraz.”
“He hasn’t violated his parole yet, though?” Winstein’s voice came distantly.
“No.” Elshawe cursed the fact that he couldn’t get a vision connection with New York. “But, the way he’s acting, he’s likely to. He’s furious.”
“Why wouldn’t he let the Space Force officers look over his ship?” Winstein asked. “I still don’t see how that would have hurt him if he’s really got something.”
“It’s on the recording I sent you,” Elshawe said.
“I haven’t played it yet,” Winstein said. “Brief me.”
“He wouldn’t let the Space Force men look at his engine or whatever it is because he doesn’t trust them,” Elshawe said. “He claims to have this new drive, but he doesn’t want anyone to go nosing around it. The Space Force colonel…what’s his name?…Manetti, that’s it. Manetti asked Porter why, if he had a new invention, he hadn’t patented it. Porter said that he wasn’t going to patent it because that would make it available to every Tom, Dick, and Harry—his very words—who wanted to build it. Porter insists that, since it’s impossible to patent the discovery of a new natural law, he isn’t going to give away his genius for nothing. He said that Enrico Fermi was the prime example of what happened when the Government got hold of something like that when the individual couldn’t argue.”
“Fermi?” Winstein asked puzzledly. “Wasn’t he a physicist or something, back in the Forties?”
“Right. He’s the boy who figured out how to make the atomic bomb practical. But the United States Government latched onto it, and it took him years to get any compensation. He never did get the money that he was entitled to.
“Porter says he wants to make sure that the same thing doesn’t happen to him. He wants to prove that he’s got something and then let the Government pay him what it’s worth and give him the recognition he deserves. He says he has discovered a new natural law and devised a machine that utilizes that law. He isn’t going to let go of his invention until he gets credit for everything.”
There was a long silence from the other end. After a minute, Elshawe said: “Ole? You there?”
“Oh. Yeah…sure. Just thinking. Terry, what do you think of this whole thing? Does Porter have something?”
“Damned if I know. If I were in New York, I’d say he was a complete nut, but when I talk to him, I’m halfway convinced that he knows what he’s talking about.”
There was another long pause. This time, Elshawe waited. Finally, Oler Winstein said: “You think Porter’s likely to do something drastic?”
“Looks like it. The CAA has already forbidden him to lift that ship. The Space Force flatly told him that he couldn’t take off without permission, and they said he wouldn’t get permission unless he let them look over his gizmo…whatever it is.”
“And he refused?”
“Well, he did let Colonel Manetti look it over, but the colonel said that, whatever the drive principle was, it wouldn’t operate a ship. He said the engines didn’t make any sense. What it boils down to is that the CAA thinks Porter has rockets in the ship, and the Space Force does, too. So they’ve both forbidden him to take off.”
“Are there any rocket motors in the ship?” Winstein asked.
“Not as far as I can see,” Elshawe said. “He’s got two big atomic-powered DC generators aboard—says they have to be DC to avoid electromag
netic effects. But the drive engines don’t make any more sense to me than they do to Colonel Manetti.”
Another pause. Then: “O.K., Terry; you stick with it. If Porter tries to buck the Government, we’ve got a hell of a story if his gadget works the way he says it does. If it doesn’t—which is more likely—then we can still get a story when they haul him back to the Bastille.”
“Check-check. I’ll call you if anything happens.”
He hung up and stepped out of the phone booth into the lobby of the Murray Hotel. Across the lobby, a glowing sign said cocktail lounge in lower-case script.
He decided that a tall cool one wouldn’t hurt him any on a day like this and ambled over, fumbling in his pockets for pipe, tobacco pouch, and other paraphernalia as he went. He pushed open the door, spotted a stool at the bar of the dimly-lit room, went over to it and sat down.
He ordered his drink and had no sooner finished than the man to his left said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Elshawe.”
The reporter turned his head toward his neighbor. “Oh, hello, Mr. Skinner. I didn’t know you’d come to town.”
“I came in somewhat earlier. Couple, three hours ago.” His voice had the careful, measured steadiness of a man who has had a little too much to drink and is determined not to show it. That surprised Elshawe a little; Skinner had struck him as a middle-aged accountant or maybe a high school teacher—the mild kind of man who doesn’t drink at all, much less take a few too many.
“I’m going to hire a ’copter and fly back,” Elshawe said. “You’re welcome if you want to come along.”
Skinner shook his head solemnly. “No. Thank you. I’m going back to Los Angeles this afternoon. I’m just killing time, waiting for the local plane to El Paso.”
“Oh? Well, I hope you have a good trip.” Elshawe had been under the impression that Skinner had come to New Mexico solely to see the test of Porter’s ship. He had wondered before how the man fitted into the picture, and now he was wondering why Skinner was leaving. He decided he might as well try to find out. “I guess you’re disappointed because the test has been called off,” he said casually.
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 43