The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by F. L. Wallace

  Jadiver willingly used his hands and the tangle strands fell off.

  As the robot had predicted, Doumya Filone was not silent—at first.

  ACCIDENTAL FLIGHT

  Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, April 1952.

  Cameron frowned intently at the top of the desk. It was difficult to concentrate under the circumstances. “Your request was turned over to the Medicouncil,” he said. “After studying it, they reported back to the Solar Committee.”

  Docchi edged forward, his face literally lighting up.

  Dr. Cameron kept his eyes averted; the man was damnably disconcerting. “You know what the answer is. A flat no, for the present.”

  Docchi leaned back. “We should have expected that,” he said wearily.

  “It’s not entirely hopeless. Decisions like this can always be changed.”

  “Sure,” said Docchi. “We’ve got centuries.” His face was flushed—blazing would be a better description.

  Absently, Cameron lowered the lights in the room as much as he could. It was still uncomfortably bright. Docchi was a nuisance.

  “But why?” asked Docchi. “You know that we’re capable. Why did they refuse?”

  Cameron had tried to avoid that question. Now it had to be answered with blunt brutality. “Did you think you would be chosen? Or Nona, or Jordan, or Anti?”

  Docchi winced. “Maybe not. But we’ve told you that we’re willing to abide by what the experts say. Surely from a thousand of us they can select one qualified crew.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Cameron. He switched on the lights and resumed staring at the top of the desk. “Most of you are biocompensators. Ninety per cent, I believe. I concede that we ought to be able to get together a competent crew.” He sighed. “But you’re wasting your time discussing this with me. I’m not responsible for the decision. I can’t do anything about it.”

  Docchi stood up. His face was colorless and bright.

  Dr. Cameron looked at him directly for the first time. “I suggest you calm down. Be patient and wait; you may get your chance.”

  “You wait,” said Docchi. “We don’t intend to.”

  The door opened for him and closed behind him.

  Cameron concentrated on the desk. Actually he was trying to look through it. He wrote down the card sequence he expected to find. He opened a drawer and gazed at the contents, then grimaced in disappointment. No matter how many times he tried, he never got better than strictly average results. Maybe there was something to telepathy, but he hadn’t found it yet.

  He dismissed it from his mind. It was a private game, a method of avoiding involvement while Docchi was present. But Docchi was gone now, and he had better come up with some answers. The right ones.

  He switched on the telecom. “Get me Medicouncilor Thorton,” he told the robot operator. “Direct, if you can; indirect if you have to. I’ll wait.”

  With an approximate mean diameter of thirty miles, the asteroid was listed on the charts as Handicap Haven. The regular inhabitants were willing to admit the handicap part of the name, but they didn’t call it haven. There were other terms, none of them suggesting sanctuary.

  It was a hospital, of course, but even more like a convalescent home, the permanent kind. A healthy and vigorous humanity had built it for those few who were less fortunate. A splendid gesture, but, like many such gestures, the reality fell somewhat short of the original intentions.

  The robot operator interrupted his thoughts. “Medicouncilor Thorton will speak to you.”

  The face of an older man filled the screen. “On my way to the satellites of Jupiter. I’ll be in direct range for the next half hour.” At such distance, transmission and reception were practically instantaneous. “You wanted to speak to me about the Solar Committee reply?”

  “I do. I informed Docchi a few minutes ago.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He didn’t like it. As a matter of fact, he was mad all the way through.”

  “That speaks well for his mental resiliency.”

  “They all seem to have enough spirit, though, and nothing to use it on,” said Dr. Cameron. “I confess I didn’t look at him often, in spite of the fact that he was quite presentable. Handsome, even, in a startling way.”

  Thorton nodded. “Presentable. That means he had arms.”

  “He did. Is that important?”

  “I think it is. He expected a favorable reply and wanted to look his best. As nearly normal as possible.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I don’t see how,” said the medicouncilor uncertainly. “In any event, not immediately. It will take them some time to get over the shock of refusal. They can’t do anything, really. Individually they’re helpless. Collectively—there aren’t parts for a dozen sound bodies on the asteroid.”

  “I’ve looked over the records,” said Dr. Cameron. “Not one accidental has ever liked being on Handicap Haven, and that covers quite a few years. But there has never been so much open discontent as there is now.”

  “Someone is organizing them. Find out who and keep a close watch.”

  “I know who. Docchi, Nona, Anti, and Jordan. But it doesn’t do any good merely to watch them. I want your permission to break up that combination. Humanely, of course.”

  “How do you propose to do it?”

  “Docchi, for instance. With prosthetic arms he appears physically normal, except for that uncanny luminescence. That is repulsive to the average person. Medically there’s nothing we can do about it, but psychologically we might be able to make it into an asset. You’re aware that Gland Opera is the most popular program in the Solar System. Telepaths, teleports, pyrotics and so forth are the heroes. All fake, of course: makeup and trick camera shots. But Docchi can be made into a real live star. The death-ray man, say. When his face shines, men fall dead or paralyzed. He’d have a chance to return to normal society under conditions that would be mentally acceptable to him.”

  “Acceptable to him, perhaps, but not to society,” reflected the medicouncilor. “An ingenious idea, one which does credit to your humanitarian outlook. Only it won’t work. You have Docchi’s medical record, but you probably don’t know his complete history. He was an electrochemical engineer, specializing in cold lighting. He seemed on his way to a brilliant career when a particularly messy accident occurred. The details aren’t important. He was badly mangled and tossed into a tank of cold lighting fluid by automatic machinery. It was some time before he was discovered.

  “There was a spark of life left and we managed to save him. We had to amputate his arms and ribs practically to his spinal column. The problem of regeneration wasn’t as easy as it usually is. We were able to build up a new rib case; that’s as much as we could do. Under such conditions, prosthetic arms are merely ornaments. They can be fastened to him and they look all right, but he can’t use them. He has no back or shoulder muscles to anchor them to.

  “And add to that the adaptation his body made while he was in the tank. The basic cold lighting fluid, as you know, is semi-organic. It permeated every tissue in his body. By the time we got him, it was actually a necessary part of his metabolism. A corollary, I suppose, of the fundamental biocompensation theory.”

  The medicouncilor paused and shook his head. “I’m afraid your idea is out, Dr. Cameron. I don’t doubt that he would be successful on the program you mention. But there is more to life on the outside than success. Can you picture the dead silence when he walks into a room of normal people?”

  “I see,” said Cameron, though he didn’t, at least not eye to eye. The medicouncilor was convinced and there was nothing Cameron could do to alter that conviction. “The other one I had in mind was Nona,” he added.

  “I thought so.” Thorton glanced at the solar chronometer. “I haven’t much time, but I’d better explain. You’re new to the post and I don’t think you’ve learned yet to evaluate the patients and their problems properly. In a sense, Nona is more impossible than Docchi. He
was once a normal person. She never was. Her appearance is satisfactory; perhaps she’s quite pretty, though you must remember that you’re seeing her under circumstances that may make her seem more attractive than she really is.

  “She can’t talk or hear. She never will. She doesn’t have a larynx, and it wouldn’t help if we gave her one. She simply doesn’t have the nervous system necessary for speech or hearing. Her brain is definitely not structurally normal. As far as we’re concerned, that abnormality is not in the nature of a mutation. It’s more like an anomaly. Once cleft palates were frequent—prenatal nutritional deficiencies or traumas. Occasionally we still run into cases like that, but our surgical techniques are always adequate. Not with Nona, however.

  “She can’t be taught to read or write; we’ve tried it. We dug out the old Helen Keller techniques and brought them up to date with no results. Apparently her mind doesn’t work in a human fashion. We question whether very much of it works at all.”

  “That might be a starting point,” said Cameron. “If her brain—”

  “Gland Opera stuff,” interrupted Thorton. “Or Rhine Opera, if you’ll permit me to coin a term. We’ve thought of it, but it isn’t true. We’ve tested her for every telepathic quality that the Rhine people list. Again no results. She has no special mental capacities. Just to make sure of that, we’ve given her periodic checkups. One last year, in fact.”

  Cameron frowned in frustration. “Then it’s your opinion that she’s not able to survive in a normal society?”

  “That’s it,” answered the medicouncilor bluntly. “You’ll have to face the truth—you can’t get rid of any of them.”

  “With or without their cooperation, I’ll manage,” said Cameron.

  “I’m sure you will.” The medicouncilor’s manner didn’t ooze confidence. “Of course, if you need help we can send reinforcements.”

  The implication was clear enough. “I’ll keep them out of trouble,” Cameron promised.

  The picture and the voice were fading. “It’s up to you. If it turns out to be too difficult, get in touch with the Medicouncil.…”

  The robot operator broke in: “The ship is beyond direct telecom range. If you wish to continue the conversation, it will have to be relayed through the nearest main station. At present, that is Mars.”

  Aside from the time element, which was considerable, it wasn’t likely that he would get any better answers than he could supply for himself. Cameron shook his head. “We are through, thanks.”

  He got heavily to his feet. That wasn’t a psychological reaction at all. He really was heavier. He made a mental note. He would have to investigate.

  In a way they were pathetic—the patchwork humans, the half or quarter men and women, the fractional organisms masquerading as people—an illusion which died hard for them. Medicine and surgery were partly to blame. Techniques were too good, or not good enough, depending on the viewpoint.

  Too good in that the most horribly injured person, if he were still alive, could be kept alive! Not good enough because a percentage of the injured couldn’t be returned to society completely sound and whole. There weren’t many like that; but there were some, and all of them were on the asteroid.

  They didn’t like it. At least they didn’t like being confined to Handicap Haven. It wasn’t that they wanted to go back to the society of the normals, for they realized how conspicuous they’d be among the multitudes of beautiful, healthy people on the planets.

  What the accidentals did want was ridiculous. They desired, they hoped, they petitioned to be the first to make the long, hard journey to Alpha and Proxima Centauri in rockets. Trails of glory for those that went; a vicarious share in it for those who couldn’t.

  Nonsense. The broken people, those without a face they could call their own, those who wore their hearts not on their sleeves, but in a blood-pumping chamber, those either without limbs or organs—or too many. The categories seemed endless.

  The accidentals were qualified, true. In fact, of all the billions of solar citizens, they alone could make the journey and return. But there were other factors that ruled them out. The first point was never safe to discuss with them, especially if the second had to be explained. It would take a sadistic nature that Cameron didn’t possess.

  * * * *

  Docchi sat beside the pool. It was pleasant enough, a pastoral scene transplanted from Earth. A small tree stretched shade overhead. Waves lapped and made gurgling sounds against the sides. No plant life of any kind grew and no fish swam in the liquid. It looked like water, but it wasn’t. It was acid. In it floated something that monstrously resembled a woman.

  “They turned us down, Anti,” Docchi said bitterly.

  “Didn’t you expect it?” the creature in the pool asked.

  “I guess I didn’t.”

  “You don’t know the Medicouncil very well.”

  “Evidently I don’t.” He stared sullenly at the faintly blue fluid. “Why did they turn us down?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “All right, I know,” he said. “They’re pretty irrational.”

  “Of course, irrational. Let them be that way, as long as we don’t follow their example.”

  “I wish I knew what to do,” he said. “Cameron suggested we wait.”

  “Biocompensation,” murmured Anti, stirring restlessly. “They’ve always said that. Up to now it’s always worked.”

  “What else can we do?” asked Docchi. Angrily he kicked at an anemic tuft of grass. “Draw up another request?”

  “Memorandum number ten? Let’s not be naive about it. Things get lost so easily in the Medicouncil’s filing system.”

  “Or distorted,” grunted Docchi.

  “Maybe we should give the Medicouncil a rest. They’re tired of hearing us anyway.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Docchi, rising.

  “Better talk to Jordan about it.”

  “I intend to. I’ll need arms.”

  “Good. I’ll see you when you leave for far Centauri.”

  “Sooner than that, Anti. Much sooner.”

  Stars were beginning to wink. Twilight brought out shadows and tracery of the structure that supported the transparent dome overhead. Soon controlled slow rotation would bring darkness to this side of the asteroid.

  * * * *

  Cameron leaned back and looked speculatively at the gravital engineer, Vogel. The man could give him considerable assistance, if he would. There was no reason why he shouldn’t; but any man who had voluntarily remained on Handicap Haven as long as Vogel had was a doubtful quantity.

  “Usually we maintain about half Earth-normal gravity,” Cameron said. “Isn’t that correct?”

  Engineer Vogel nodded.

  “It isn’t important why those limits were set,” Cameron continued. “Perhaps it’s easier on the weakened bodies of the accidentals. There may be economic factors.”

  “No reason for those limits except the gravital units themselves,” Vogel said. “Theoretically it should be easy to get any gravity you want. Practically, though, we get between a quarter and almost full Earth gravity. Now take the fluctuations. The gravital computer is set at fifty per cent. Sometimes we get fifty per cent and sometimes seventy-five. Whatever it is, it just is and we have to be satisfied.”

  The big engineer shrugged. “I hear the units were designed especially for this asteroid,” he went on. “Some fancy medical reason. Easier on the accidentals to have less gravity change, you say. Me, I dunno. I’d guess the designers couldn’t help it and the reason was dug up later.”

  Cameron concealed his irritation. He wanted information, not a heart-to-heart confession. “All practical sciences try to justify whatever they can’t escape but would like to. Medicine, I’m sure, is no exception.” He paused thoughtfully. “Now, there are three separate gravital units on the asteroid. One runs for forty-five minutes while the other two are idle. Then it cuts off and another takes over. This is supposed to be synchronized. I d
on’t have to tell you that it isn’t. You felt your weight increase suddenly at the same time I did. What is wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong,” said the engineer. “That’s what you get with gravital.”

  “You mean they’re supposed to run that way? Overlapping so that for five minutes we have Earth or Earth-and-a-half gravity and then none?”

  “It’s not supposed to be that way,” said Vogel. “But nobody ever built a setup like this that worked any better.” He added defensively: “Of course, if you want, you can check with the company that makes these units.”

  “I’m not trying to challenge your knowledge, and I’m not anxious to make myself look silly. I have a sound reason for asking these questions. There is a possibility of sabotage.”

  The engineer’s grin was wider than the remark seemed to require.

  “All right,” said Cameron tiredly. “Suppose you tell me why sabotage is so unlikely.”

  “Well,” explained the gravital engineer, “it would have to be someone living here, and he wouldn’t like it if he suddenly got double or triple gravity or maybe none at all. But there’s another reason. Now take a gravital unit. Any gravital unit. Most people think of it as just that—a unit. It isn’t really that at all. It has three parts.

  “One part is a power source that can be anything as long as it’s big enough. Our power source is a nuclear pile, buried deep in the asteroid. You’d have to take Handicap Haven apart to get to it. Part two is the gravital coil, which actually produces the gravity and is simple and just about indestructible. Part three is the gravital control. It calculates the relationship between the amount of power flowing through the gravital coil and the strength of the created gravity field in any one microsecond. It uses the computed relationship to alter the power flowing through in the next microsecond to get the same gravity. No change of power, no gravity. I guess you could call the control unit a computer, as good a one as is made for any purpose.”

  The engineer rubbed his chin. “Fatigue,” he continued. “The gravital control is an intricate computer that’s subject to fatigue. That’s why it has to rest an hour and a half to do forty-five minutes of work. Naturally they don’t want anyone tinkering with it. It’s non-repairable. Crack the case open and it won’t work. But first you have to open it. Mind you, that can be done. But I wouldn’t want to try it without a high-powered lab setup.”