E.E. 'Doc' Smith SF Gateway Omnibus: The Skylark of Space, Skylark Three, Skylark of Valeron, Skylark DuQuesne

by E. E. 'Doc' Smith

  There was one possibility – only one. The machine in DuQuesne’s room next to his own, the machine he himself had, every once in a while, helped rebuild.

  It was not a cyclotron, not a betatron. In fact, it had as yet no official name. Unofficially, it was the ‘whatsitron,’ or the ‘maybetron,’ or the ‘itaintsotron’ or any one of many less descriptive and more profane titles which he, DuQuesne, and the other researchers used among themselves. It did not take up much room. It did not weigh ten thousand tons. It did not require a million kilowatts of power. Nevertheless it was – theoretically– capable of affecting super-fine structure.

  But in the next room? Seaton doubted it.

  However, there was nothing else, and it had been running the night before – its glare was unique and unmistakable. Knowing that DuQuesne would turn his machine on very shortly, Seaton sat in suspense, staring at the wire. Suddenly the subdued reflection of the familiar glare appeared on the wall outside his door – and simultaneously the treated wire turned brown.

  Heaving a profound sigh of relief, Seaton again touched the bit of metal with the wires from the Redeker cell. It disappeared simultaneously with a high whining sound.

  Seaton started for the door, to call his neighbors in for another demonstration, but in mid-stride changed his mind. He wouldn’t tell anybody anything until he knew something about the thing himself. He had to find out what it was, what it did, how and why it did it, and how – or if – it could be controlled. That meant time, apparatus and, above all, money. Money meant Crane; and Mart would be interested, anyway.

  Seaton made out a leave slip for the rest of the day, and was soon piloting his motorcycle out Connecticut Avenue and into Crane’s private drive. Swinging under the imposing porte-cochère he jammed on his brakes and stopped in a shower of gravel, a perilous two inches from granite. He dashed up the steps and held his finger firmly against the bell button. The door was opened hastily by Crane’s Japanese servant, whose face lit up on seeing the visitor.

  ‘Hello, Shiro. Is the honorable son of Heaven up yet?’ ‘Yes, sir, but he is at present in his bath.’

  ‘Tell him to snap it up, please. Tell him I’ve got a thing on the fire that’ll break him right off at the ankles.’

  Bowing the guest to a chair in the library, Shiro hurried away. Returning shortly, he placed before Seaton the Post, the Herald, and a jar of Seaton’s favorite brand of tobacco, and said, with his unfailing bow, ‘Mr Crane will appear in less than one moment, sir.’

  Seaton filled and lit his briar and paced up and down the room, smoking furiously. In a short time Crane came in.

  ‘Good morning, Dick.’ The men shook hands cordially. ‘Your message was slightly garbled in transmission. Something about a fire and ankles is all that came through. What fire? And whose ankles were – or are about to be – broken?’

  Seaton repeated.

  ‘Ah, yes, I thought it must have been something like that. While I have breakfast, will you have lunch?’

  ‘Thanks, Mart, guess I will. I was too excited to eat much of anything this morning.’ A table appeared and the two men sat down at it. ‘I’ll just spring it on you cold, I guess. Just what would you think of working with me on a widget to liberate and control the entire constituent energy of metallic copper? Not in little dribbles and drabbles, like fission or fusion, but one hundred point zero zero zero zero per cent conversion? No radiation, no residue, no by-products – which means no shielding or protection would be necessary – just pure and total conversion of matter to controllable energy?’

  Crane, who had a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth, stopped it in mid-air, and stared at Seaton eye to eye. This, in Crane the Imperturbable, betrayed more excitement than Seaton had ever seen him show. He finished lifting the cup, sipped, and replaced the cup studiously, meticulously, in the exact center of its saucer.

  ‘That would undoubtedly constitute the greatest technological advance the world has ever seen,’ he said, finally. ‘But, if you will excuse the question, how much of that is fact, and how much fancy? That is, what portion have you actually done, and what portion is more or less justified projection into the future?’

  ‘About one to ninety-nine – maybe less,’ Seaton admitted. ‘I’ve hardly started. I don’t blame you for gagging on it a bit – everybody down at the lab thinks I’m nuttier than a fruitcake. Here’s what actually happened,’ and he described the accident in full detail. ‘And here’s the theory I’ve worked out, so far, to cover it.’ He went on to explain.

  ‘That’s the works,’ Seaton concluded, tensely, ‘as clearly as I can put it. What do you think of it?’

  ‘An extraordinary story, Dick … really extraordinary. I understand why the men at the Laboratory thought as they did, especially after your demonstration failed. I would like to see it work, myself, before discussing further actions or procedures.’

  ‘Fine! That suits me down to the ground – get into your clothes and I’ll take you down to the lab on my bike. If I don’t show you enough to make your eyes stick out a foot I’ll eat that motorsickle, clear down to the tires!’

  As soon as they arrived at the Laboratory, Seaton assured himself that the ‘whatsitron’ was still running, and arranged his demonstration. Crane remained silent, but watched closely every movement Seaton made.

  ‘I take a piece of ordinary copper wire, so,’ Seaton began. ‘I dip it into this beaker of solution, thus. Note the marked change in its appearance. I place the wire upon this bench – so – with the treated end pointed out of the window …’

  ‘No. Toward the wall. I want to see the hole made.’

  ‘Very well – with the treated end pointing toward that brick wall. This is an ordinary eight-watt Redeker cell. When I touch these lead-wires to the treated wire, watch closely. The speed is supersonic, but you’ll hear it, whether you see what happens or not. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’ Crane riveted his gaze upon the wire.

  Seaton touched the wire with the Redeker leads, and it promptly and enthusiastically disappeared. Turning to Crane, who was staring alternately at the new hole in the wall and at the spot where the wire had been, he cried exultantly, ‘Well, Doubting Thomas, how do you like them potatoes? Did that wire travel, or did it not? Was there some kick to it, or was there not?’

  Crane walked to the wall and examined the hole minutely. He explored it with his forefinger; then, bending over, looked through it.

  ‘Hm-m-m … well …’ he said, straightening up. ‘That hole is as real as the bricks of the wall … and you certainly did not make it by sleight-of-hand … if you can control that power … put it into a hull … harness it to the wheels of industry … You are offering me a partnership?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t even afford to quit the Service, to say nothing of setting up what we’ll have to have for this job. Besides, working this out is going to be a lot more than a one-man job. It’ll take all the brains both of us have got, and probably a nickel’s worth beside, to lick it.’

  ‘Check. I accept – and thanks a lot for letting me in.’ The two shook hands vigorously. Crane said, ‘The first thing to do, and it must be done with all possible speed, is to get unassailably clear title to that solution, which is, of course, government property. How do you propose going about that?’

  ‘It’s government property – technically– yes; but it was worthless after I had recovered the values and ordinarily it would have been poured down the sink. I saved it just to satisfy my own curiosity as to what was in it. I’ll just stick it in a paper bag and walk out with it, and if anybody asks any questions later, it simply went down the drain, as it was supposed to:

  ‘Not good enough. We must have clear title, signed, sealed, and delivered. Can it be done?’

  ‘I think so … pretty sure of it. There’ll be an auction in about an hour – they have one every Friday – and I can get this bottle of waste condemned easy enough. I can’t imagine anybody bidding on it but us. I’ll fly at it.’

&nb
sp; ‘One other thing first. Will there be any difficulty about your resignation?’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Seaton grinned mirthlessly. ‘They all think I’m screwy – they’ll be glad to get rid of me so easy.’

  ‘All right. Go ahead – the solution first.’

  ‘Check,’ Seaton said; and very shortly the bottle, sealed by the chief clerk and labeled Item QX47R769BC: one bottle containing waste solution, was on its way to the auction room.

  Nor was there any more difficulty about his resignation from the Rare Metals Laboratory. Gossip spreads rapidly.

  When the auctioneer reached the one-bottle lot, he looked at it in disgust. Why auction one bottle, when he had been selling barrels of them? But it had an official number; auctioned it must be.

  ‘One bottle full of waste,’ he droned, tonelessly. ‘Any bidders? If not, I’ll throw it—’

  Seaton jumped forward and opened his mouth to yell, but was quelled by a sharp dig in the ribs.

  ‘Five cents.’ He heard Crane’s calm voice.

  ‘Five cents bid. Any more? Going – going –’

  Seaton gulped to steady his voice. ‘Ten cents.’

  ‘Ten cents. Any more? Going – going– gone,’ and Item QX47R769BC became the officially-recorded personal property of Richard B. Seaton.

  Just as the transfer was completed Scott caught sight of Seaton.

  ‘Hello, Nobody Holme!’ he called gaily. ‘Was that the famous solution of zero? Wish we’d known it – we’d’ve had fun bidding you up.’

  ‘Not too much, Ferdy.’ Seaton was calm enough, now that the precious solution was definitely his own. ‘This is a cash sale, you know, so it wouldn’t have cost us much, anyway.’

  ‘That’s true, too,’ Scott admitted, nonchalantly enough. ‘This poor government clerk is broke, as usual. But who’s the “we”?’

  ‘Mr Scott, meet my friend M. Reynolds Crane,’ and, as Scott’s eyes opened in astonishment, he added, ‘He doesn’t think I’m ready for St. Elizabeth’s yet.’

  ‘It’s the bunk, Mr Crane,’ Scott said, twirling his right forefinger near his right ear. ‘Dick used to be a good old wagon, but he done broke down.’

  ‘That’s what you think!’ Seaton took a half step forward, but checked himself even before Crane touched his elbow. ‘Wait a few weeks, Scotty, and see.’

  The two took a cab back to Crane’s house – the bottle being far too valuable to risk on any motorcycle – where Crane poured out a little of the solution into a small vial, which he placed in his safe. He then put the large bottle, carefully packed, into his massive underground vault, remarking, ‘We’ll take no chances at all with that.’

  ‘Right,’ Seaton agreed. ‘Well, let’s get busy. The first thing to do is to hunt up a small laboratory that’s for rent.’

  ‘Wrong. The organization of our company comes first – suppose I should die before we solve the problem? I suggest something like this. Neither of us want to handle the company as such, so it will be a stock company, capitalized at one million dollars, with ten thousand shares of stock. McQueen, who is handling my affairs at the bank, can be president; Winters, his attorney, and Robinson, his C.P.A., secretary and treasurer; you and I will be superintendent and general manager. To make up seven directors, we could elect Mr Vaneman and Shiro. As for the capital, I will put in half a million; you will put in your idea and your solution, at a preliminary, tentative valuation of half a million—’

  ‘But, Mart—’

  ‘Hold on, Dick. Let me finish. They are worth much more than that, of course, and will be revalued later, but that will do for a start …’

  ‘Hold on yourself for a minute. Why tie up all that cash when a few thousand bucks is all we’ll need?’

  ‘A few thousand? Think a minute, Dick. How much testing equipment will you need? How about salaries and wages? How much of a spaceship can you build for a million dollars? And power plants run from a hundred million up. Convinced?’

  ‘Well, maybe … except, right at first, I thought …’

  ‘You will see that this is a very small start, the way it is. Now to call the meeting.’

  He called McQueen, the president of the great trust company in whose care the bulk of his fortune was. Seaton, listening to the brief conversation, realized as never before what power was wielded by his friend.

  In a surprisingly short time the men were assembled in Crane’s library. Crane called the meeting to order; outlined the nature and scope of the proposed corporation; and The Seaton-Crane Company, Engineers, began to come into being.

  After the visitors had gone, Seaton asked, ‘Do you know what kind of a rental agent to call to get hold of a laboratory?’

  ‘For a while at least, the best place for you to work is right here.’

  ‘Here! You don’t want stuff like that loose around here, do you?’

  ‘Yes. The reasons are: first, privacy; second, convenience. We have much of the material and equipment you will need already on hand, out in the hangar and the shops, and plenty of room to install anything new you may need. Third, no curiosity. The Cranes have been inventors, tinkerers, and mechanics so long, that no planning board has ever been able to zone our shops out; and our nearest neighbors – and none are very near, as you know, since I own over forty acres here – are so used to peculiar happenings that they no longer pay any attention to anything that goes on here.’

  ‘Fine! If that’s the way you want it, it suits me down to the ground. Let’s get busy!’

  V

  Dr Marc C. DuQuesne was a tall, powerful man, built very much like Richard Seaton. His thick, slightly wavy hair was intensely black. His eyes, only a trifle lighter in shade, were surmounted by thick black eyebrows, which grew together above his aquiline, finely-chiseled nose. His face, although not pale, appeared so because of the heavy black beard always showing through, even after the closest possible shave. In his early thirties, he was widely known as one of the best men in his field.

  Scott came into his laboratory immediately after the auction, finding him leaning over the console of the whatsitron, his forbidding but handsome face strangely illuminated by the greenish-yellowish-blue glare of the machine.

  ‘Hello, Blackie,’ Scott said. ‘What d’you think of Seaton? Think he’s quite right in the head?’

  ‘Speaking off-hand,’ DuQuesne replied, without looking up, ‘I’d say he’s been putting in too many hours working and not enough sleeping. I don’t think he’s insane – I’d swear in court that he’s the sanest crazy man I ever heard of.’

  ‘I think he’s a plain nut, myself – that was a lulu he pulled yesterday. He seems to believe it himself, though. He got them to put that junk solution into the auction this noon and he and M. Reynolds Crane bid it in for ten cents.’

  ‘M. Reynolds Crane?’ DuQuesne managed to conceal his start of surprise. ‘Where does he come in on this?’

  ‘Oh, he and Seaton have been buddy-buddy for a long time, you know. Probably humoring him. After they got the solution they called a cab and somebody said the address they gave the hackie was Crane’s, the other side of Chevy Chase, but … oh, that’s my call – so long.’

  As Scott left, DuQuesne strode over to his desk, a new expression, half of chagrin, half of admiration, on his face. He picked up his telephone and dialed a number.

  ‘Brookings? DuQuesne speaking. I’ve got to see you as fast as I can get there. Can’t talk on the phone … Yes, I’ll be right out.’

  He left the Laboratory building and was soon in the private office of the head of the Washington, or ‘diplomatic,’ branch of the immense World Steel Corporation.

  ‘How do you do, Dr DuQuesne,’ Brookings said, as he seated his visitor. ‘You seem excited.’

  ‘Not excited, but in a hurry. The biggest thing in history is just breaking and we’ve got to work fast if we want to land it. But before I start – have you any sneaking doubts that I know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Why, no, doctor, not the sli
ghtest. You are widely known; you have helped us in various de— in various matters.’

  ‘Say it, Brookings, “Deals” is right. This is going to be the biggest ever. It should be easy – one simple killing and an equally simple burglary – and won’t mean wholesale murder, like that tungsten job.’

  ‘Oh, no, doctor, not murder. Accidents.’

  ‘I call things by their right names. I’m not squeamish. But what I’m here about is that Seaton, of our division, has discovered, more or less accidentally, total conversion atomic energy.’

  ‘And that means?’

  ‘To break it down to where you can understand it, it means a billion kilowatts per plant at a total amortized cost of approximately one one-hundredth of a mil per KW hour.’

  ‘Huh?’ A look of scornful disbelief settled on Brookings’ face.

  ‘Sneer if you like. Your ignorance doesn’t change the facts and doesn’t hurt my feelings a bit. Call Chambers in and ask him what would happen if a man should liberate the total energy of a hundred pounds of copper in, say, ten microseconds.’

  ‘Pardon me, doctor. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’ll call him in.’

  Brookings called, and a man in white appeared. In response to the question he thought for a moment, then smiled.

  ‘At a rough guess, it would blow the whole world into vapor and might blow it clear out of its orbit. However, you needn’t worry about anything like that happening, Mr Brookings. It won’t. It can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because only two nuclear reactions yield energy – fission and fusion. Very heavy elements fission; very light elements fuse; intermediate ones, such as copper, do neither. Any possible operation on the copper atom, such as splitting, must necessarily absorb vastly more energy than it produces. Is that all?’