by John Wyndham
‘Oh, you don’t understand. Without him there’ll be nothing for me to make the best of.’
‘There will be the child, Mary. You must get right away from all this. Come down here and stay quietly with me till that’s over.’
‘How can I “stay quietly” anywhere while this is going on? You must come up and see him. Perhaps if we both talked to him. Will you come?’
Mrs. Curtance paused before she answered. ‘All right, I will come.’
She put down the receiver and sighed. The most that she could hope for was that Mary should be convinced of the futility of kicking against fate.
At six o’clock the announcer read two S.O.S. messages and the weather report, and added: ‘No doubt everyone has read the newspaper reports of Mr. Curtance’s proposed bid for the Keuntz Prize. We have been able to persuade Mr. Curtance himself to come to the studio to tell you what he hopes to do. Mr. Dale Curtance.’
Dale’s pleasant features faded in on millions of television screens, smiling in a friendly fashion at his unseen audience. ‘It is kind of the B.B.C. to invite me here this evening,’ he began, ‘and I am grateful to them for giving me the opportunity to correct certain misunderstandings which seem to be current regarding my intentions. Firstly, let me say that it is quite true that I mean to attempt to reach another planet and to return to Earth. And it is also true, for a number of reasons which I will not go into now, that the planet I have chosen for this attempt is Mars. But it is quite untrue that I intend to make this flight alone. Actually there will be five of us aboard my ship when she takes off.
‘I should like to dispel, too; the prevalent idea that I am engaged in deliberate suicide. I assure you we are not. All five of us could easily find much cheaper and less arduous ways of killing ourselves.
‘There are, of course, risks. In fact, there are three distinct kinds of risk: the known ones which we can and shall prepare against: the known ones which we must trust to luck to avoid: and the entirely unknown. But we are convinced that we have more than a sporting chance against them all if we were not, we should not be making the attempt.
‘Thanks to the courage and pertinacity of those who from the time of Piccard’s ascent into the stratosphere in 1931 have pushed forward the examination of space, we shall not be shooting ourselves into the completely unknown. Thanks also to them, the design of my ship will be an improvement on any which has gone before, and unlike those of the early pioneers she is designed to contend with many of the known conditions of space as well as in the hope of surviving the unknown. Each expedition to leave Earth stands a better chance of success than its predecessor which is another way of saying that it risks less. Therefore, I say that if we are successful in this venture, if we gain for Britain the honour of being the first nation to achieve trans-spatial communication, it must never be forgotten that better men than we gave their lives to make it possible.
‘If one can single out one man from an army of heroes and say, “This is the greatest of them all,” I should point my finger at Richard Drivers. Compared with the risks that brave genius took, we take none. The story of that amazing man’s persistence in the face of a jeering world when three of his friends had already crashed to their deaths upon the Moon, and the tale of his lonely flight around it are among the deathless epics of the race. Whatever may be done by us or by others after us, his achievement stands alone. And it will be he who made the rest possible.
‘So, you see, we are not pioneers. We are only followers in a great tradition, hoping to tread the way of knowledge a little farther than the last man. If it is granted to us to be successful, we shall be satisfied to have been not entirely unworthy of our forerunners and of our country.’
The red light flickered and the televising mechanism slowed as the studio was cut off from the world. An important looking gentleman entered. He greeted Dale and shook hands.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Very good of you to come at such short notice.’
Dale grinned and shook his head. ‘No, my thanks are due to you.’ The other looked puzzled. ‘You’ve not seen this evening’s Banner?’ Dale went on. ‘They’re trying to stop me. That means the Hail will be at it tomorrow. I was glad to get my word in first.’
‘Trying to stop you?’
‘Yes. Don’t know why. Some stunt of theirs, I suppose. Nobody’s going to stop me, but they might be a bit of nuisance if they got a big following.’
‘H’m. It’s a wonder people don’t get sick of Dithernear’s stunts, but they don’t seem to. Well, I’m glad you came and I hope you are as optimistic as you sounded.’
‘I am nearly,’ Dale admitted, as they parted.
Chapter 4. And Reactions
Into the Curtance sheds where the great rocket rested in its thicket of scaffolding only the faintest ripples of popular excitement penetrated. Though Dale gave interviews freely enough to avid pressmen, he was adamant in his refusal to permit interruption in the routine of his shops, and the reception of those few journalists who attempted to enter by subterfuge was ungentle. An augmented corps of watchmen with the assistance of police dogs guarded doors behind which work went on with the same unhurried efficiency as in the days before the secret was out. The most obvious and concrete result of world wide interest was a new shed hastily run up to accommodate Dale’s swollen secretariat.
The inquest upon the intruder was reported in full detail and followed with close attention, but it failed to provide any sensational revelations, and the body remained unidentified. The chief witness gave his evidence clearly, received the congratulations of the coroner upon his narrow escape and left the court with an increased reputation for courage.
Two days later the Chicago Emblem announced that the dead man had been an American citizen named Forder. It indignantly demanded a closer inquiry into the circumstances, hinting that Dale might show up less well. The leader on the subject finished by truculently demanding the passage of a special bill through Congress to prevent the Keuntz Prize from going abroad.
‘That’s the point,’ Fuller said as he showed the article to Dale. ‘That’s the Keuntz works behind this, I’ll bet. They’re afraid of you lifting the prize.’
Dale nodded. ‘Looks like it. Still, it’s good news in one way. It suggests that they aren’t building a rocket to try for it themselves.’
‘I don’t know.’ Fuller was less sanguine. ‘I know our reports say so, but you never can tell how much double and triple crossing is going on with these agents. It might equally well mean that they are having a shot at it and think that any rivals will be put off if there is no chance of their getting the prize.’
‘Well, our men haven’t let us down yet. You can be sure that if they were building a space rocket anywhere we’d have heard of it somehow just as they or somebody else seem to have heard of ours.’
‘Perhaps. I should say it was they, since the man you shot was an American. Anyway, they’re out to get that prize and the interest it’s accumulated. Apart from the money, it’d put them back at the top of the rocket plane industry. Their reputation’s been slumping badly the last year or two, you know for anyone else to get it would mean the end of them.’
The following day the Daily Hail threw overboard its noisy but uninfectious policy of Save Britain’s Speed King From Himself and joined with the Excess in a vituperative duet against the Emblem. A scathing reply from the latter involving George III and the American debt was side tracked by the Potsdamer Tageblatt which pointed out on behalf of the Fatherland chat Keuntz, a German before he was an American, had with true
German generosity offered his prize to the whole world. Keuntz, replied the Emblem, with some heat, was also a Jew who had been forced to flee from the kindly Fatherland in the days of the first Fuehrer. America, the land of the free, had given him sanctuary, therefore, etc., etc. And the battle went on.
Outside the main brawl the Views Record was announcing that ‘Mars Must be Internationalised’. Swannen Haffer in the Daily Socialist wa
s asking, ‘Will the Martian Workers be Exploited?’ The Daily Artisan was predicting the discovery of a flourishing system of Martian Soviets. Gerald Birdy wrote articles on ‘Planning a New World’ and the need for a Planetician in the Cabinet. Woman’s Love in publishing an article on ‘Wives of Pioneers’ with special, if inaccurate, references to Mary Curtance (who, though journalistically unfortunate in lacking children of her own, was indiscriminately devoted to those of other people), narrowly missed making the one scoop of its life. The Illustrated London Views published a sectional drawing of a typical rocketship and gave interesting data on the solar system. The Wexford Bee Keepers’ Gazette announced that it had its eye on Mr. Curtance, and warned him to stay where God had put him.
The shares of Commercial Explosives, Limited, rose for three days as if propelled by their own fuel, and then fell back to a little above normal. A heavy slump in the price of gold took everyone by surprise. The cause was traced to a rumour that spectroscopy showed the presence of gold in great quantities on Mars; the rumour was duly exploded, but gold failed to respond. This caused less surprise, the behaviour of gold being unaccountable at the best of times. The Stock Exchange betting stood at 500 to one against Dale reaching Mars, and 10,000 to one against the double journey. A rumour that the Russians had for years been building a bigger and better rocket, to be called the Tovaritch, refused to be crushed until the Soviet Government issued an official denial of such a rocket’s existence or even contemplation. Rumours of German, American and Japanese rival rockets were less hardy. The pastime of guessing the names of Dale’s companions attained the status of a national game.
Meanwhile the work on the Curtance rocket went steadily forward throughout the summer. Dale was too busy to feel anything save an anxiety that his ship should be finished to schedule by the middle of September, certainly too busy to feel lonely because his wife had gone to his mother’s home.
For Mary had given in. She had dropped her opposition and released him from his promise, but she had been unable to stand the sense of restlessness pervading the house. She had fled to the quiet Dorset countryside where only an occasional gyrocurt with its white sails whirling as it sauntered along amid summer clouds reminded her of the reign of machines.
Occasionally the child moved in her womb, hurting her. It would not be long now. Poor baby, what a world to come into. She hoped it would be a boy. This was a man’s world, women walked unhappily and fearfully among its gears and flywheels, making shift with dreams and snatching what little joy was spared them. The machines were the hateful dictators of men and women alike. Only men could be so dense as to think that they themselves were the rulers….
Chapter 5. Great Day
The few hardy souls who had elected to spend the night upon the open inhospitality of Salisbury Plain slept no later than dawn’ upon the morning of the twelfth of October, 1981 for it was with the first rays of sunlight that the influx which would last all day began.
The hysterical ballyhoo timed to reach its climax upon this day had been sustained with an unsurpassed degree of journalistic art. The birth of a son to Dale Curtance had given a fillip to interest at a convenient moment, and every newspaper reader in the country had become familiar with the, at present, somewhat dough like features of Victor Curtance. The announcement of the names of Dale’s companions for the flight had caught three unknown men and one rather more familiar figure into an undying fulguration of publicity. Every person who could reach a radio set had seen and heard a prince of the royal blood say: ‘I name this ship the Gloria Mundi. May God guide her and bring her safely back to us,’ and the film of the occasion had been shown at every cinema. The arduous feat of transporting the Gloria Mundi from the sheds of her birth at Kingston to a suitably desolate portion of Salisbury Plain for the take-off, had been followed in detail with critical attention. The discovery by an advance guard that a part of the route had been tampered with and the subsequent disinterment of a case of dynamite (with detonator and wires attached) had roused indignation and speculation to feverish heats. The assurance that Dale himself was continually guarded by two or more armed police detectives met with immense popular appreciation. The song, ‘Curty, the King of the Clouds’, written at the time of the first Equatorial Flight, had been revived and stood in frequency of performance second only to the National Anthem. For the last fortnight the Press had really let itself go, and in loyal response to its efforts the public was prepared to invade the Plain on a scale perturbing to the authorities.
The first active sign of preparation in the grey light of that historic Monday was the ascent of more than a dozen small captive balloons, painted a bright yellow, and ranged in a circle about the scene of operations. Within the perimeter they marked no craft save police patrols was to be permitted at any height whatever, and it was considered likely that the five mile circle would insure an ample margin of safety. Half a dozen police gyrocurts rose and set themselves to hover in positions strategic for the control of traffic both by land and air.’
The first great charaplane of the day came booming out of the west. It landed to deposit its passengers, and within five minutes had taken off again to fetch another load. Machines of every kind from the dainty flipabout to the massive gyrobus, all with the early morning sunlight glancing from brightly painted bodies beneath swirling white sails, started to float in from each quarter, and the task of directing them to their appointed parks began in earnest. Within half an hour of the first car’s arrival the congested road traffic had slowed to a tedious, bottom gear crawl.
The crowds began to pour from the plane parks and car parks, making for their enclosures and, the favoured few, for the stands. Hawkers in good voice offered silver trinkets in the form of miniature rockets, picture postcards of Dale, pictures of the rocketship itself and printed handkerchiefs as suitable mementoes of the occasion. A hundred camp kitchens began to cater for the hungry. Half a dozen loudspeakers burst into the inevitable ‘Curty, the King of the Clouds’. A number of persons were already failing to ‘Find the Lady’. And still it was only eight a.m.
Somewhere about nine thirty Police Gyrocurt Number 4 came hovering close to Number 5. Number 4’s pilot picked up a megaphone and shouted across:
‘Just look at ‘em down there. Bill. Like a bloomin’ ant ‘eap, ain’t it?’
Bill, in Number 5, nodded.
‘If they keep on comin’ in at this rate, we’ll lave to start parking them vertical,’ he bawled back.
That part of the Plain which lay below them had undergone a transformation. Outside the five mile circle of the beacon balloons acres of country were covered with parked cars and ‘planes. From them crowds of black dots were stippled inwards, growing denser as they converged. The barrier which held the public back out of harm’s way appeared already as a solid black ring two miles in diameter and of greater thickness on the western side where the several stands, broadcasting and observation towers and various other temporary structures were situated. Finally, in splendid isolation in the exact centre, could be seen the Gloria Mundi herself.
The portable sheds of those who had attended to the last tests and adjustments had been cleared away leaving only discoloured rectangles of grass to show where they had stood for the last fortnight. Gone also was the galvanised iron fence which had served to keep back the curious during that time, and the rocket, still shrouded in canvas, was left with a cordon of police as her only guard.
By midday the crowd was still swelling. The refreshment stalls were beginning to wonder whether the supply would hold out, and in accordance with economic laws were raising their prices. A self appointed prophet beneath a banner, consenting that ‘God’s Will be Done’, patiently warned a regrettably waggish audience of the sacrilegious aspect of the occasion. Up on the broadcast tower an announcer told the world, confidently: ‘It’s a beautiful day. Couldn’t be better for it. The crowds are still coming in as they have been all day, and although the take off is timed for half past four, the excitemen
t is already tremendous. I expect you can hear the noise they are making out there. There must be over half a million people here now. Don’t you think so, Mr. Jones?’
Mr. Jones was understood to suggest three quarters of a million as the minimum.
‘Perhaps you’re right. At any rate there are a lot of them, and it really is a beautiful day. Don’t you think so, Mr. Jones?’
Rumours flocked to the Press Stand and to the rooms beneath it like iron filings to a magnet.
‘Her tubes won’t stand it,’ said Travers of the Hail. ‘Man I know, metallurgist in Sheffield, told me for a fact that there is no alloy known which will stand up to such a temperature’
‘She can’t rise,’ Dennis of the Reflector was saying. ‘She’s too heavy. Man in Commercial Explosives showed me the figures. She’ll turn over and streak along the ground and I hope to God she doesn’t come my way.’
‘If she gets up,’ conceded Dawes of Veracity, ‘she’s not got a chance in hell of getting out of the gravity pull. Take my word for it, it’s going to be another Drivers business.’
Tenson of the Co-ordinator knew for a fact that the drive for the rapid construction had meant incomplete testing.
‘Sheer madness,’ was the Excess man’s view. ‘Rockets have got to be small. Might as well try to fly St. Paul’s as take up this great thing’
A small, insignificant member of the crowd plucked at Police Sergeant Yarder’s sleeve and pointed upwards.
‘Look, Officer, there’s a gyrocurt inside the beacons.’
Sergeant Yarder shaded his eyes and followed the line of the pointing finger.
‘That’ll be Mr. Curtance and the rest, sir. Got to let them through, or there wouldn’t be no show.’
Others had noticed the ‘plane’s arrival. A sound of cheering rose, faint at first, but growing in volume until it swept up in a great roar from tens of thousands of throats as more and more of the spectators realised that Dale was here at last. The ‘plane dropped slowly and landed. The door opened and Dale could be seen waving in reply. He stepped to the ground and his four chosen companions followed. A few moments later they were all hidden from the crowd by a converging rush of movie vans and Presscars. The gyrocurt took off again and the mob of vans and cars moved closer to the still shrouded rocket.