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

by E. E. 'Doc' Smith

  She continued more slowly, almost speaking to herself, her heart sinking with her voice, ‘He’s following us and he won’t stop even if he knows he can’t get away.’

  ‘There’s no denying the fact that our situation is critical; but as long as I’m alive I can think. I’m going to dope out some way of getting that copper.’

  ‘I hope you do.’ Dorothy kept her voice from breaking only by a tremendous effort. ‘I see Peggy’s fainted. I wish I could. I’m worn out.’

  She drew herself down upon one of the seats and stared at the ceiling, fighting an almost overpowering impulse to scream.

  Thus time wore on – Perkins dead; Margaret unconscious; Dorothy lying in her seat, her thoughts a formless prayer, buoyed only by her faith in God and in her lover; DuQuesne self-possessed, smoking innumerable cigarettes, his keen mind at grips with its most desperate problem, grimly fighting until the very last instant of life – while the powerless spaceship fell with an appalling velocity, and faster and yet faster, toward that cold and desolate monster of the heavens.

  XIII

  Seaton and Crane drove the Skylark at high acceleration in the direction indicated by the unwavering compass, each man taking a twelve-hour trick at the board. The Skylark justified the faith of her builders, and the two inventors, with an exultant certainty of success, flew out beyond man’s wildest imaginings. Had it not been for the haunting fear for Dorothy’s safety, the journey would have been one of pure triumph, and even that anxiety did not preclude a profound joy in the enterprise.

  ‘If that misguided ape thinks he can pull a stunt like that and get away with it he’s got another thing coming,’ Seaton declared, after making a reading on the other ship after a few days of flight. ‘He went off half-cocked for sure this time, and we’ve got him right where the hair is short. Only about a hundred light-years now. Better we reverse pretty quick, you think?’

  ‘It’s hard to say – very hard. By our dead reckoning he seems to have started back; but dead reckoning is notoriously poor reckoning and we have no reference points.’

  ‘Well, dead reckoning’s the only thing we’ve got, and anyway you can’t be a precisionist out here. A light-year plus or minus won’t make any difference.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ and Crane read off the settings which, had his data been exact, would put the Skylark in exactly the same spot with, and having exactly the same velocity as, the other spaceship at the point of meeting.

  The big ship spun, with a sickening lurch, through a half-circle as the bar was reversed. They knew that they were travelling in a direction that seemed ‘down,’ even though they still seemed to be going ‘up.’

  ‘Mart! C’mere.’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘We’re getting a deflection. Too big for a star – unless it’s another S-Doradus – and I can’t see a thing – theoretically, of course, it could be anywhere to starboard. I want a check, fast, on true course and velocity. Is there any way to measure a gravity field you’re falling freely in without knowing any distances? Any kind of an approximation would help.’

  Crane observed, computed, and reported that the Skylark was being very strongly attracted by some object almost straight ahead.

  ‘We’d better break out the big night-glasses and take a good look – as you said, this optical system could have more power. But how far away are they?’

  ‘A few minutes over ten hours.’

  ‘Ouch! Not good … veree ungood, in fact. By pouring it on, we could make it three or four hours … but … even so … you …

  ‘Even so. Me. We’re in this together, Dick; all the way. Just pour it on.’

  As the time of meeting drew near they took readings every minute. Seaton juggled the power until they were very close to the other vessel and riding with it, then killed his engine. Both men hurried to the bottom port with their night-glasses and stared into star-studded blackness.

  ‘Of course,’ Seaton argued as he stared, ‘it is theoretically possible that a body can exist large enough to exert this much force and not show a disk, but I don’t believe it. Give me four or five minutes of visual angle and I’ll buy it, but—’

  ‘There!’ Crane broke in. ‘At least half a degree of visual angle. Eleven o’clock, fairly high. Not bright, but dark. Almost invisible.’

  ‘Got it. And that little black spot, just inside the edge at half past four – DuQuesne’s job?’

  ‘I think so. Nothing else in sight.’

  ‘Let’s grab it and get out of here while we’re all in one piece!’

  In seconds they reduced the distance until they could plainly see the other vessel: a small black circle against the somewhat lighter black of the dead star. Crane turned on the searchlight. Seaton focused their heaviest attractor and gave it everything it would take. Crane loaded a belt of solid ammunition and began to fire peculiarly-spaced bursts.

  After an interminable silence DuQuesne drew himself out of his seat. He took a long drag at his cigarette, deposited the butt carefully in an ashtray, and put on his space-suit; leaving the faceplates open.

  ‘I’m going after that copper, Miss Vaneman. I don’t know exactly how much of it I’ll be able to recover, but I hope …’

  Light flooded in through a port. DuQuesne was thrown flat as the ship was jerked out of free fall. They heard an insistent metallic tapping, which DuQuesne recognized instantly.

  ‘A machine gun!’ he blurted in amazement. ‘What in … wait a minute, that’s Morse! A – R – E – are … Y-O-U – you … A-L-I-V-E – alive …’

  ‘It’s Dick!’ Dorothy screamed. ‘He’s found us – I knew he would! You couldn’t beat Dick and Martin in a thousand years!’

  The two girls locked their arms around each other in a hysterical outburst of relief; Margaret’s incoherent words and Dorothy’s praises of her lover mingled with their racking sobs.

  DuQuesne had climbed to the upper port; had unshielded it. ‘S-O-S’ he signaled with his flashlight.

  The searchlight died. ‘W-E K-N-O-W. P-A-R-T-Y O-K-?’ It was a light this time, not bullets.

  ‘O-K.’ DuQuesne knew what ‘Party’ meant – Perkins did not count.

  ‘S-U-I-T-S-?’

  ‘Y-E-S.’

  ‘W-I-L-L T-O-U-C-H T-O L-O-C-K B-R-A-C-E S-E-L-V-E-S.’

  ‘O-K.’

  DuQuesne reported briefly to the two girls. All three put on space-suits and crowded into the tiny airlock. The lock was pumped down. There was a terrific jar as the two ships of space were brought together and held together. Outer valves opened; residual air screamed into the interstellar void. Moisture condensed upon glass, rendering sight useless.

  ‘Blast!’ Seaton’s voice came tinnily over the helmet radios. ‘I can’t see a foot. Can you, DuQuesne?’

  ‘No, and these joints don’t move more than a couple of inches.’

  ‘These suits need a lot more work. We’ll have to go by feel. Pass ’em along.’

  DuQuesne grabbed the girl nearest him and shoved her toward the spot where Seaton would have to be. Seaton seized her, straightened her up, and did his heroic best to compress that suit until he could at least feel his sweetheart’s form.

  He was very much astonished to feel motions of resistance and to hear a strange voice cry out, ‘Don’t! It’s me! Dottie’s next!’

  She was, and she put as much fervor into the reunion as he did. As a lovers’ embrace it was unsatisfactory; but it was an eager, if distant, contact.

  DuQuesne dived through the opening; Crane groped for the controls that closed the lock. Pressure and temperature came back up to normal. The clumsy suits were taken off. Seaton and Dorothy went into each other’s arms.

  And this time it was a real lovers’ embrace.

  ‘We’d better start doing something,’ came DuQuesne’s incisive voice. ‘Every minute counts.’

  ‘One thing first,’ Crane said. ‘Dick, what shall we do with this murderer?’

  Seaton, who had temporarily forgotten all about D
uQuesne, whirled around.

  ‘Chuck him back into his own tub and let him go to the devil!’ he said, savagely.

  ‘Oh, no, Dick!’ Dorothy protested, seizing his arm. ‘He treated us very well, and saved my life once. Besides, you can’t become a cold-blooded murderer just because he is. You know you can’t.’

  ‘Maybe not … O.K., I won’t kill him – unless he gives me about half an excuse … maybe.’

  ‘Out of the question, Dick,’ Crane decided. ‘Perhaps he can earn his way?’

  ‘Could be.’ Seaton thought for a moment, his face still grim and hard. ‘He’s smart as Satan and strong as a bull … and if there’s any possible one thing he is not, it’s a liar.’

  He faced DuQuesne squarely, gray eyes boring into eyes of midnight black. ‘Will you give us your word to act as one of the party?’

  ‘Yes.’ DuQuesne stared back unflinchingly. His expression of cold unconcern had not changed throughout the conversation: it did not change now. ‘With the understanding that I reserve the right to leave you at any time – “escape” is a melodramatic word, but fits the facts closely enough – provided I can do so without affecting unfavorably your ship, your project then in work, or your persons collectively or individually.’

  ‘You’re the lawyer, Mart. Does that cover it?’

  ‘Admirably,’ Crane said. ‘Fully yet concisely. Also, the fact of the reservation indicates that he means it.’

  ‘You’re in, then,’ Seaton said to DuQuesne, but he did not offer to shake hands. ‘You’ve got the dope. What’ll we have to put on to get away?’

  ‘You can’t pull straight away – and live – but …

  ‘Sure we can. Our power-plant can be doubled in emergencies.’

  ‘I said “and live”.’ Seaton, remembering what one full power was like, kept still.

  ‘The best you can do is a hyperbolic orbit, and my guess is that it’ll take full power to make that. Ten pounds more copper might have given me a graze, but we’re a lot closer now. You’ve got more and larger tools that I had, Crane. Do you want to recompute it now, or give it a good, heavy shot and then figure it?’

  ‘A shot, I think. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Set your engine to roll for a hyperbolic and give it full drive for … say an hour.’

  ‘Full power,’ Crane said, thoughtfully. ‘I can’t take that much. But if –’

  ‘I can’t, either,’ Dorothy said, foreboding in her eyes. ‘Nor Margaret.’

  ‘– full power is necessary,’ Crane continued as though the girl had not spoken, ‘full power it shall be. Is it really of the essence, DuQuesne?’

  ‘Definitely. More than full would be better. And it’s getting worse every minute.’

  ‘How much power can you take?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘More than full. Not much more, but a little.’

  ‘If you can, I can.’ Seaton was not boasting, merely stating a fact. ‘So here’s what let’s do. Double the engines up. DuQuesne and I will notch the power up until one of us has to quit. Run an hour on that, and then read the news. Check?’

  ‘Check,’ said Crane and DuQuesne simultaneously, and the three men set furiously to work. Crane went to the engines, DuQuesne to the observatory. Seaton rigged helmets to air- and oxygen-tanks through valves on his board.

  Seaton placed Margaret upon a seat, fitted a helmet over her head, strapped her in, and turned to Dorothy.

  Instantly they were in each other’s arms. He felt her labored breathing and the hard beating of her heart; saw the fear of the unknown in the violet depths of her eyes; but she looked at him steadily as she said: ‘Dick, sweetheart, if this is goodbye …

  ‘It isn’t, Dottie – yet– but I know …’

  Crane and DuQuesne had finished their tasks, so Seaton hastily finished his job on Dorothy. Crane put himself to bed; Seaton and DuQuesne put on their helmets and took their places at the twin boards.

  In quick succession twenty notches of power went on. The Skylark leaped away from the other ship, which continued its mad fall – a helpless hulk, manned by a corpse, falling to destruction upon the bleak surface of a dead star.

  Notch by notch, slower now, the power went up. Seaton turned the mixing valve, a little with each notch, until the oxygen concentration was as high as they had dared to risk.

  As each of the two men was determined that he would make the last advance, the duel continued longer than either would have believed possible. Seaton made what he was sure was his final effort and waited – only to feel, after a minute, the surge of the vessel that told him that DuQuesne was still able to move.

  He could not move any part of his body, which was oppressed by a sickening weight. His utmost efforts to breathe forced only a little oxygen into his lungs. He wondered how long he could retain consciousness under such stress. Nevertheless, he put out everything he had and got one more notch. Then he stared at the clock-face above his head, knowing that he was all done and wondering whether DuQuesne could put on one more notch.

  Minute after minute went by and the acceleration remained constant. Seaton, knowing that he was now in sole charge of the situation, fought off unconsciousness while the sweep-hand of the clock went around and around.

  After an eternity of time sixty minutes had passed and Seaton tried to cut down his power, only to find that the long strain had so weakened him that he could not reverse the ratchet. He was barely able to give the lever the backward jerk which broke contact completely. Safety straps creaked as, half the power shut off, the suddenly released springs tried to hurl five bodies upward.

  DuQuesne revived and shut down his engine. ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din,’ he said, as he began to make observations.

  ‘Because you were so badly bunged up, is all – one more notch would’ve pulled my cork,’ and Seaton went over to liberate Dorothy and the stranger.

  Crane and DuQuesne finished their computations.

  ‘Did we gain enough?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘More than enough. One engine will take us past it.’

  Then, as Crane still frowned in thought, DuQuesne went on:

  ‘Don’t you check me, Crane?’

  ‘Yes and no. Past it, yes, but not safely past. One thing neither of us thought of, apparently – Roche’s Limit.’

  ‘That wouldn’t apply to this ship,’ Seaton said, positively. ‘High-tensile alloy steel wouldn’t crumble.’

  ‘It might,’ DuQuesne said. ‘Close enough, it would … What mass would you assume, Crane – the theoretical maximum?’

  ‘I would. That star may not be that, quite, but it isn’t far from it.’ Both men bent over their computers.

  ‘I make it thirty-nine point seven notches of power, doubled,’ DuQuesne said, when he had finished. ‘Check?’

  ‘Closely enough – point six five,’ Crane replied.

  ‘Forty notches … Ummm … DuQuesne paused. ‘I went out at thirty-two … That means an automatic advance. It’ll take time, but it’s the only …’

  ‘We’ve got it already – all we have to do is set it. But that’ll take an ungodly lot of copper and what’ll we do to live through it? Plus-pressure on the oxygen? Or what?’

  After a short but intense consultation the men took all the steps they could to enable the whole party to live through what was coming. Whether they could do enough no one knew. Where they might lie at the end of this wild dash for safety; how they were to retrace their way with their depleted supply of copper, what other dangers of dead star, sun, or planet lay in their path, were terrifying questions that had to be ignored.

  DuQuesne was the only member of the party who actually felt any calmness, the quiet of the others expressing their courage in facing fear.

  The men took their places. Seaton started the motor which would automatically advance both power levers exactly forty notches and then stop.

  Margaret Spencer was the first to lose consciousness. Soon afterward, Dorothy stifled an impulse to scream as she felt h
erself going under. A half-minute later and Crane went out, calmly analyzing his sensations to the last. Shortly thereafter DuQuesne also lapsed into unconsciousness, making no effort to avoid it, as he knew that it would make no difference in the end.

  Seaton, though he knew it was useless, fought to keep his senses as long as possible, counting the impulses as the levers were advanced.

  Thirty-two. He felt the same as when he had advanced his lever for the last time.

  Thirty-three. A giant hand shut off his breath, although he was fighting to the utmost for air. An intolerable weight rested upon his eyeballs, forcing them back into his head. The universe whirled about him in dizzy circles; orange and black and green stars flashed before his bursting eyes.

  Thirty-four. The stars became more brilliant and of more wildly variegated colors, and a giant pen dipped in fire wrote equations and symbols upon his quivering brain.

  Thirty-five. The stars and the fiery pen exploded in pyrotechnic coruscation of searing, blinding light and he plunged into a black abyss.

  Faster and faster the Skylark hurtled downward in her not-quite-hyperbolic path. Faster and faster, as minute by minute went by, she came closer and closer to that huge dead star. Eighteen hours from the start of that fantastic drop she swung around it in the tightest, hardest conceivable arc. Beyond Roche’s Limit, it is true, but so very little beyond it that Martin Crane’s hair would have stood on end if he had known.

  Then, on the back leg of that incomprehensibly gigantic swing, the forty notches of doubled power began really to take hold. At thirty-six hours her path was no longer even approximately hyperbolic. Instead of slowing down, relative to the dead star that held her in an ever-weakening grip, she was speeding up at a tremendous rate.

  At two days, that grip was very weak.

  At three days the monster she had left was having no measurable effect.

  Hurtled upward, onward, outward by the inconceivable power of the unleashed copper demons in her center, the Skylark tore through the reaches of interstellar space with an unthinkable, almost incalculable velocity, beside which the velocity of light was as that of a snail to that of a rifle bullet.