by James White
All Judgment Fled
by James White
Sixty million miles from Earth, embroiled in
all the perils of First Contact, astronauts
haven't much time for politicians. Back on
Earth, though, the actions of humanity's
hastily chosen representatives are the very
stuff of politics. The result is stress -- for the
astronauts, and for the men who are supposed
to dictate their actions from Earth. And stress
in these conditions makes a tricky situation
really dangerous. It can cause unnecessary
deaths, it can drive a man mad -- it can also
bring out the unexpected in a man's character.
When the alien ship took up a position in
space some sixty million miles from Earth, it
violated all the laws of motion. Clearly its
drive was something new and unimaginably
important. In any case, it was indisputably
alien, the first such phenomenon to come the
way of startled humanity. There was no time
to lose. Six astronauts were hastily assembled
and sent out as Earth's representatives, to be
the eyes, the ears, and the ambassadors of the
world. They were warned before they went
that they were to be as circumspect as possi-
ble, that all their actions would be reviewed on
Earth and would affect the perennially deli-
cate political situation there. But politics is
the art of the possible. Aliens do not conform
to the rules. They are by the nature of things
unpredictable. Sometimes they are simply
savage . . .
James White has a unique talent for con-
structing believable but utterly alien aliens,
and for wrapping human contact with them in
a cloak of wild adventure. Here he piles ten-
sion on tension, culminating in a splendidly
unexpected but satisfactory climax.
All Judgment Fled
by James White
WALKER AND COMPANY
New York
Copyright © 1969 by JAMES WHITE
Second Printing
This novel first appeared as a serial in If Magazine, © 1967 by
Galaxy Publishing Corporation.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or me-
chanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any infor-
mation storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the Publisher.
All the characters and events portrayed in this story are
fictitious.
Published in the United States of America in 1969 by the
Walker Publishing Company, Inc. by arrangement with
Ballantine Books, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada by The Ryerson Press,
Toronto
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 70-86388
Printed in the United States of America
chapter one
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have last their reason.
Shakespeare
It all began with a small scratch on a time exposure of some star clouds in Sagittarius and its presence was blamed on mishandling or faulty processing. But a second exposure of the same area showed a similar scratch which began where the first one had left off and traced a path which was unmistakably curved, indicating that it was altering its own trajectory and could not therefore be a natural celestial body. Immediately every instrument which could be brought to bear was directed at the Ship.
The largest optical instruments showed only a point of light, spectro-analysis indicated a highly reflective surface suggestive of metal and the great bowls of the radio telescopes gathered nothing at all. By this time the Ship had taken up an orbit some twelve million miles beyond the orbit of Mars, still without making any attempt to communicate, and the decision was taken to sacrifice the Jupiter probe in an attempt to gain more information about the intruder.
The complex and horribly expensive piece of hardware which was the Jupiter Probe -- the unmanned observatory for the examination of the Jovian system which was to have relayed its data to Earth for decades to come -- was at that time relatively close to the alien ship. It was thought that if the fuel reserve to be used for maneuvering inside the Jovian system was used for an immediate and major course correction, the probe could be made to pass within fifty thousand miles of the stranger.
As a result, there was relayed back to Earth a low definition picture of the vessel which orbited silently and, some thought, implacably, like some tremendous battleship cruising off the coast of a tiny, backward island. It made no signal nor did it reply in any recognizable fashion to those which were being made. For the probe's instruments showed the object to be metallic, shaped like a blunt torpedo with a pattern of bulges encircling its midsection, and just under half a mile long.
Inevitably there were those who wanted an even closer look, and two small, sophisticated dugout canoes were hastily modified and readied for launching.
"It seems to me," said Walters very seriously, "that we have not gone far enough into the philosophical implications of this thing. At present that ship is a Mystery, but once we make contact it will then become a Problem. There's a difference, you know."
"Not really," Berryman said in a matching tone. "A problem is simply a mystery which has been broken down into a number of handy pieces, some of which are usually related to problems already solved. And far be it from me to impugn the thought processes of a fellow officer, but your stand smacks of intellectual cowardice."
"Advocating a greater degree of caution and prior mental preparation is not cowardice," Walters returned, "and if we're to begin impugning minds, it's my opinion that too much confidence -- you can call it bravery if you like -- is in itself a form of instability which . . ."
"What sort of twisted mind is it that can insult a man by calling him brave?" said Berryman, laughing. "It seems to me everyone on this operation wants to be the psychologist except the psychologist. What do you say, Doctor?"
McCullough was silent for a moment. He was wondering what insensitive idiot it had been who had first likened the horrible sensation he was feeling in his stomach to butterflies. But he knew that the other two men were verbally whistling in the dark and in the circumstances he could do nothing less than make it a trio. He said, "I'm not a psychologist, and anyway my couch is full at the moment -- I'm in it . . ."
"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen," said Control suddenly. "I have to tell you that Colonel Morrison's ship had a three-minute hold at minus eighteen minutes, so your takeoff will not now be simultaneous. Is this understood? Your own countdown is proceeding and is at minus sixty seconds . . . now!"
"Command pilot here," said Berryman. "Understood. Tell the colonel last man to touch the alien ship is a . . ."
"Don't you think you are all working a little too hard at projecting the image of fearless, dedicated scientists exchanging airy persiflage within seconds of being hurled into the unknown? Your upper lips must be so stiff, I'm surprised you can still talk with them. Would you agree that you may be overcompensating for a temporary and quite understandable anxiety neurosis?
"Minus twenty seconds and counting . . . eighteen, seventeen, sixteen . . ."
"You're right, Walters," said Berryman. "Everybody wants to be a psychologist!"
"Twelve, eleven, ten . . ."
"I w
ant off," said Walters.
"At minus seven seconds are you kidding! Four, three, two, one . . ."
The acceleration built up until McCullough was sure his body could take no more, and still it increased. Even his eyes felt egg-shaped and his stomach seemed to be rammed tightly against his backbone. How anything as fragile as a butterfly could survive such treatment surprised him, but they were still fluttering away like mad -- until accelerating ceased and his vision cleared, that is, and he was able to look outside. Only then did they become still, paralyzed like himself with wonder.
Control and guidance during this most critical stage of the trip was the responsibility of brains both human and electronic on the ground. Their short period of weightlessness ended as the second stage ignited, its three G's feeling almost comfortable after the beating he had taken on the way up. With his head still turned toward the port, McCullough watched the splendor of the sunset line slide past below them to be replaced by the great, woolly darkness that was the cloud-covered Pacific.
Against this velvet blackness a tiny shooting star fell away from rather than toward Earth -- Morrison's ship. He knew it was the colonel's ship because its flare died precisely three minutes after their own second stage cut out.
If everything had gone as planned -- a very big if, despite the advances made since Apollo -- they were now on a collision course with the sixty-million-miles-distant Ship. A period of deceleration, already precalculated, would ensure that the collision would be a gentle one, if they managed to collide with it at all. For the alien vessel was a perfect example of a point in space. It had position but no magnitude, no detectable radiation, no gravitational field to help suck them in if their course happened to be just a little off.
The thought of missing the alien vessel completely or having to use so much fuel finding it that they might not be able to return home, was to worry McCullough occasionally. Usually he tried, as he was doing now, to think about something else.
He could no longer see Morrison's ship. Either it was too small to be picked out by the naked eye -- at least by McCullough's middle-aged, slightly astigmatic naked eye -- or it was hidden by the glare from the monsoon season cloud blanket covering Africa and the South Atlantic. But suddenly the colonel was very much with them.
"P-One calling P-Two. Come in, P-Two. How do you read?"
"P-Two here," said Berryman, and laughed. "Almost deafening, sir, and as clear as the notes of a silver trumpet blowing the Last P -- I mean Reveille . . ."
"Freudian slip," murmured Walters.
"Loud and clear is good enough, Berryman -- purple passages waste oxygen. Have you completed checking your pressurization and life-support systems?"
"Yes, sir. All are Go."
"Good. Take off your suits and all of you get some sleep as soon as possible. Use medication if necessary. At the present time I consider it psychologically desirable for a number of reasons, so go to sleep before your nasty little subconsciouses realize they've left home. That's an order, gentlemen. Good night."
A few minutes later, while the other two were helping him out of his suit, Walters said drily, "Even the colonel wants to be one," and Berryman added, "The trouble, Doctor, is that your psychologists' club is not sufficiently exclusive."
But the command pilot was wrong in one respect, at least. McCullough now belonged to the most exclusive club on Earth, membership of which was reserved for that very select group of individuals who at some time had left the aforementioned planet. And like all good clubs or monastic orders or crack regiments, there were certain rules of behavior to follow. For even in the present day, members could find themselves in serious trouble, very serious trouble.
When this happened they were supposed to follow precedents established by certain founder members who had been similarly unfortunate. They were expected to talk quietly and keep control of themselves until all hope was gone, then perhaps smash their radios so that their wives and friends would not be distressed by their shouting for the help which nobody could possibly give them when their air gave out or their vehicle began to melt around them on re-entry.
During the five and a half months it would take them to reach the Ship, they would eat, sleep, talk and sweat within a few inches of each other. McCullough wondered if their club's rules of behavior, or esprit de corps or whatever peculiar quality it was that made a group of individuals greater than the sum of its parts, would keep them from suiciding out of sheer loneliness or tearing each other to pieces from utter boredom or disintegrating into madness and death for reasons they could not as yet even imagine.
McCullough hoped it would. He was almost sure it would.
chapter two
The Prometheus Project was either the result of some very devious thinking or there had been introduced into it such a multiplicity of objectives that its planners did not know where they were. Even allowing for the hasty mounting of the operation -- the original purpose of the two ships was to have been the setting up of a manned lab and observatory on Deimos -- McCullough's instructions were a mishmash of insufficient data and ambiguous language.
He could follow their reasoning and even feel sympathy for their problem. The alien vessel beyond the orbit of Mars was an enigma. To solve it they had two small, fragile ships, a double payload which was hopelessly inadequate, and six men. If the solution was to be as complete as possible, the abilities of the six men must cover the widest possible spread of physical and social science and, since the Ship was obviously the product of a highly advanced culture, the knowledge possessed by the six men should be complete and extensive.
Picking the men -- six healthy, stable, intelligent men capable of surviving the longest journey in human history and asking the right questions at the end of it -- was not an easy task because they had to choose men capable of collecting the bacon and bringing it home safely. Despite the thousands of scientifically eminent people who demanded to go on the trip, it was the space medics who had, as usual, the final say.
Instead of six of the world's acknowledged scientific geniuses, there had been chosen four experienced astronauts and two under training who were not even known in scientific circles, and respected only by a few friends. All that could be said for them was that they had a fairly good chance of surviving the trip.
McCullough, according to Berryman, had a subconscious which was dizzy from watching people go around in centrifuges, while Hollis, the supercargo in Morrison's ship, was a physicist working on the development of nuclear power plants for space vessels. All four of the astronauts had in their individual fashions told Hollis and McCullough that they approved of the choice which had been made -- even though they may have been lying diplomatically -- and that the two scientific unknowns should not worry about the things certain green-complexioned ivory tower types were saying about them. When they returned home they would all be as famous as anyone could hope to be.
Berryman cleared his throat loudly, bringing McCullough's mind back to present time with a rush as he said, "I suggest we do as the man said, Doctor -- it's been thirty-one hours since we slept. Besides, it will still be there when you wake up."
"What will?" asked Walters.
"Nothing," said Berryman. "Millions of miles of nothing."
"I fell for that one," said Walters. He sighed and with great deliberation closed his eyes.
When they were quiet again waiting for the sedatives to work, McCullough's mind returned to the almost laughable problem of these people who insisted, quite wrongly, that they were his charges. He liked to think that his professional qualifications were necessary to the success of this trip, that he would spend his time making detailed observations and evaluating data gathered on extraterrestrial physiology, sociology, and even psychology although he was not himself a psychologist. But apart from five names, faces, tones of voice and military insignias, McCullough knew very little about his colleagues and self-elected patients.
Basically they were well adjusted introverts -- an astronaut had
no business being anything else -- and both Captain Berryman and Major Walters had shown great thoughtfulness and consideration in their dealings with him.
Where Colonel Morrison was concerned, he had less to go on. The colonel was polite but reserved and there had been very little prior social contact between them. The same applied to Major Drew. The third member of Morrison's crew was the physicist, Captain Hollis. His rank, like that of McCullough's, did not mean very much and had probably been given in order to simplify Army paperwork and make it easier for them to be ordered to do things. Hollis did not talk much and when he did it was in shy, low-voiced polysyllables. Apparently he got his kicks from playing chess and fixing his friends' TV sets.