The 47th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Chester S. Geier

  Partnerships at present were often casual and temporary, but on the other hand there yet remained those who sought something deeper and more lasting, and who for that reason held aloof from transitory unions. Iris Carlton was one of these. It increased her value in Murray’s eyes—as he knew it did in Latham’s.

  “What makes Latham think this isn’t the Enderby System?” Thorsen asked in his bass rumble. He was a pale-haired, burly man, with the ice-blue, far-seeking gaze of his Viking ancestors.

  “Something about the size and color of the sun out here,” Murray said. “Latham’s with Jules and Marsha now, checking its spectral type and all the rest of the really vital data.”

  Pat Hohmeyer said slowly, “If it turns out that this is the wrong system, then whose fault is it?”

  Murray’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He sipped at his lactol foamer to wash down a bite of sandwich.

  “I wish it weren’t necessary to talk about whose fault it is or isn’t,” Iris put in. “The important thing is to correct any mistake that has been made.”

  Murray was grateful for Iris’ attempt to intervene—she seemed to sense that the subject was a touchy one with him—but Thorsen’s frown showed an unwillingness to be sidetracked.

  “I think Pat’s question is a good one,” Thorsen said doggedly. “In some situations you have to know who made a mistake and how before you can correct it. This, is one of those situations. We’ve ended up at the wrong sun system. Before we can find the right one, we have to know exactly how we got here. Because hyper-ship jumps are made along a chain of reference points. Slip a couple of links in the chain and you’re lost. It’s possible to retrace your jumps and get back on the chain, but you have to know the precise factors that took you off to begin with. If you don’t, you wind up playing a game of blind man’s bluff. And the galaxy’s a mighty big place. You have to be damned lucky to hit a sector that’s been charted.”

  PAT HOHMEYER nodded and returned to the attack. “What does Latham think went wrong?” she questioned Murray.

  He said evenly, “Latham claims I made a mistake in astrogation. But a mistake on my part is just one of several other possibilities.”

  There was a momentary silence. It seemed to Murray that Thorsen and Pat were avoiding his eyes, and he had the disturbing conviction that they aready had settled on him as an object of blame.

  Thorsen said abruptly, “What I’d like to know is whether we can backtrack, if it comes to that. What do you think, Alan?”

  “You’re assuming an error in astrogation,” Murray returned. His apprehension, now that he found himself actually on the defensive, was turning into anger. “There are other possibilities to explain what happened, don’t forget that, Bern.”

  Thorsen coolly met the thrust of Murray’s eyes. “Let’s assume an error in astrogation, then. Can we backtrack?”

  Murray forced calmness into his thoughts, into his voice. “I have a record of my calculations, of course. In theory it should be possible to retrace our jumps to a correct reference point—that is, using your figure of speech, Bern, to get back on the chain again.”

  “Theory,” Thorsen grunted. “What about practice?”

  “In practice, since you have no official hyperdrive co-ordinates to calculate from, each error is cumulative. The farther back you have to retrace your jumps, the farther you end up from the chain.”

  “Don’t you have any idea of how far we’d have to backtrack?”

  Murray shook his head. “I would not only have to assume an error in astrogation—I’d have to admit it. I’m not going to do that, because I don’t think it’s the answer. I told you what Latham thinks, Bern, and where I’m concerned Latham is influenced by a certain amount of . . . well, prejudice. I never thought you’d let the same thing influence you.” Murray was deliberately shifting the attack.

  “It’s the idea of being lost,” Thorsen growled. “A survey expedition always faces a certain amount of danger, of course—things the charting gangs happened to overlook. But it’s about a thousand times worse to know there’s no way of getting back home.”

  Pat Hohmeyer shuddered. “It would be horrible to be lost . . . never to see civilization again.”

  “I should think you’d be used to roughing it by now, Pat,” Iris remarked.

  “Just how much do we ever rough it really?” the other girl demanded. “We always use the ship as a base, and that gadget”—she indicated the gleaming expanse of the automat—“keeps us fed on the wildest and wooliest planets. And those planets are habitable. What do you suppose would happen to us on a planet that’s not? We have only a certain amount of food, air and fuel.”

  THORSEN nodded. “We don’t know a thing about the planets of this sun, here, either. None might be habitable, and most likely we wouldn’t have enough supplies to find a planet in some sun system that is. Habitable planets are damned few.”

  Iris grimaced. “Let’s talk about something cheerful for a change. The others are watching us, and we seem positively to be spreading gloom.”

  But Thorsen and Pat, sharing each other’s emotions as they shared a long, loyal partnership, relapsed into worried silence. Murray found himself engaged in a low-voiced conversation with Iris, which though pleasant did not entirely relieve his tension. He kept watching for Latham’s appearance, and presently the commander came striding into the lounge, followed by Jules Bouchard and Marsha Roblett. Everyone grew silent.

  It seemed to Murray that the survey crew members immediately stiffened into anxious alertness, but that might have been merely a product of his own reaction. He felt suddenly that he and Latham were the only persons in the room, that what was about to happen concerned them alone.

  Latham stopped at the automat and drew a lactol foamer. Then he glanced about him, as if measuring the amount of curiosity in the room and deliberately prolonging it.

  There was that flaw in the man, Murray thought. Latham was a capable commander, but he was still young enough to indulge in dramatic gestures. He was a slim, sandy-haired man whose sharply chiseled features held consciousness of the importance of his position.

  “I’m afraid I have a rather unpleasant announcement to make,” Latham said abruptly. His eyes touched Murray and Iris and swung back to the others, as if he had needed the pause to brace himself for the grim task ahead. “As you all know, our destination was Planet IV of the Enderby System, and we were provided with hyperdrive coordinates which should have enabled us to reach that destination without difficulty. Unfortunately, however, we seem to have ended up near a completely unknown sun system. The Enderby star is listed as Class G in the official reports. The star here is very definitely Class F.” Latham sent an inquiring glance at Bouchard, evidently seeking the other’s corroboration.

  The astrophysicist responded with an earnest nod. “No doubt of it. There are numerous other confirmatory details, such as the size of the sun, the number of planets and satellites in the system, and the pattern of the constellations in this part of the galaxy—as determined by Marsha, here.”

  A hush followed that had the bleak quality of people whose worse fears have been realized. Latham sipped at his drink and looked sympathetic.

  Pat Hohmeyer, as usual disconcertingly to the point, asked, “What do you think is responsible for this situation, Commander?”

  “An error in astrogation, apparently.”

  The answer, Murray thought with an inward flinching, was made with rather too obvious promptness and relish. Again he felt the eyes of the others on him; and again anger kindled in him, this time at the spite which was motivating Latham to take unfair advantage of what had happened.

  He forced his emotions under control and said quietly, “I hope you aren’t overlooking the other possibilities, Commander.”

  LATHAM’S eyebrows rose. “I’ve considered them, but what do you suggest might be involved?”

  “A mistake in the official hyperdrive coordinates that were given to us, for one thing. The figures pass through se
veral departments after they leave the hands of the charting crews, and clerical errors have happened—too often.”

  Latham shook his head, but managed to give an impression of kindly patience. “That might have been true in the past. Today, however, precautions are taken which make the possibility extremely remote. From charting crews through headquarters, the figures are handled in a way that precludes mistakes.”

  “Yet you’ll have to admit that a margin for error still remains, Commander.”

  “I hope you aren’t going to quibble, Lieutenant Murray.” Latham’s tone had sharpened, and his patient pose was suddenly no longer in evidence. “You’re entitled to a chance to clear your record, of course—but not by splitting hairs.”

  “I just wanted to establish the fact that the possibility in question exist, slight as it is,” Murray pointed out. “But it isn’t the only possibility. There’s the positronic brain on which I worked out my calculations. The devices are sensitive, and jumps through hyperspace often have queer effects on them, shifting or actually erasing data in the memory cells. Thus you get wrong answers that check perfectly, through a process of rationalization similar to that in the human brain.”

  Latham smiled slightly, as though to indicate that his ground remained unshaken. “That’s true enough—but precautions have been taken even there. I understand that the positronic brain is monitored to register a warning after each jump if any change takes place in its memory cells.”

  Murray was in his own field now, equally certain of his ground. “Any detectible change, yes. But the monitoring still takes place on a mechanical level, and a change can be so slight that it doesn’t register, except cumulatively. Just as in human beings, where aberration is evident in a pattern of actions rather than in individual actions.”

  “You may be right in this instance,” Latham admitted reluctantly. “But I don’t, regard it as conclusive. The possibility would take quite some time to investigate, and even then I’d more or less have to take your word for the result.”

  “There’s still another possibility,” Murray went on, driving his final argument home. “This involves the intensity of the hyperdrive field. If the intensity varies ever so slightly from a certain critical strength, a destination will be missed. Just like a man told to take ten steps to a certain point. Each step has to be of a precise length. If they are slightly too long, or slightly too short, the man does not reach the exact point.”

  Latham looked startled for an instant, then as though to mask his reaction swung around to Hal Warner. “Anything in this, Hal?”

  The lanky hyperphysicist ran a hand through his bristling thatch in sudden agitation and nodded slowly. “It’s possible—in fact, it may be the answer. But, checking would involve taking the generators apart! The job would take weeks . . . headquarters time, I mean.”

  “Yet you’re willing to consider the idea seriously?” Latham was frowning.

  “More seriously than I’d like to admit,” Warner returned. “Actually, you see, the hyperdrive field strength is variable—just as a man may take short or long steps. So to avoid confusion the strength is placed on an arbitrary standard. But getting individual hyperdrive generators to operate according to this standard is the devil’s own job. There are often microscopic differences in adjustment, and over the enormous distances represented by each jump, these result in serious deviations from the norm. Point is, you don’t know the differences are there until the deviations stare you in the face. It takes actual operating conditions to show them up.”

  LATHAM’S frown had deepened. “If the possibility actually does exist, it means we won’t be able to use the hyperdrive until the generators have been checked. And that means a long period of delay and inactivity. Headquarters isn’t going to like that one single bit. Each survey crew has a definite schedule to maintain, and if so much as one falls behind it’s likely to throw the whole program into confusion.”

  Latham fastened angry eyes on Murray. “I admit, Lieutenant Murray, that the question you’ve raised requires investigation. But at the same time I’m not overlooking the possibility that you’re trying to provide yourself with an alibi. If it develops that such is the case, then you’re going to find yourself involved in something a great deal more serious than a blot on your record. For irresponsible behavior and false statements directly hampering the assigned duties of this expedition and indirectly endangering its members, you will be liable to dismissal from the service.”

  Latham paused to let that sink in. His expression subtly changed. “It would be in your own best interests to consider this matter carefully, Lieutenant. Why not admit you’ve made a mistake? By doing so you will protect yourself from more severe penalties.”

  Indignation rose in Murray as he saw the trap that had been set for him. Latham was trying to maneuver him into a public admission of guilt—no doubt staged largely for Iris’ benefit.

  He shook his head doggedly. “I can’t admit having made a mistake, because to the best of my knowledge I didn’t make one. I carefully checked my calculations every step of the way, and I’m convinced that something else entirely is responsible for what has happened.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” Latham returned coldly. “You leave me no alternative than to conduct an investigation which will mean inconvenience and loss of valuable time for all of us. And when the evidence finally is in, you may be sure that your lack of honesty and of consideration for your crewmates will be remembered.”

  Murray struggled to keep his mounting resentment under control. Latham deliberately was emphasizing his own belief in Murray’s guilt, aware of the extent to which his authority as commander would influence the others. That the others were influenced was evident in the stares of doubt and outright accusation Murray saw directed at him.

  The silence was broken by Warner’s voice. He spoke musingly, as if he had been lost in thought.

  “I think we could save quite a bit of time if it were possible to land the ship somewhere. That would make the work on the generators easier and quicker.”

  “But where could we land?” Latham protested. “We know nothing at all about this sun system.”

  “I believe the second planet might be a habitable one, Commander,” Marsha Roblett suddenly put in. She was a dark, intense girl whose infatuation for Latham was obvious to all except the man himself. “While examining this system through the electron telescope, I happened to notice that the second planet contains evidence of an atmosphere. There were distinct signs of clouds and vegetation.”

  “That’s it!” Warner said in excitement. “That’s just what we need.”

  Latham hesitated. “I don’t like the idea of landing on a completely unknown planet, but it would save time in making an investigation. And of course we could determine if any dangers are present and take precautions againt them.” He nodded with sudden decision. “Very well. We’ll look over this planet of yours, Marsha, and see how suitable it is. To stations, everyone!”

  The expedition members also doubled in brass as the ship’s crew. As they rose and began leaving the lounge, Murray turned to Iris for a hurried last few words.

  “I’m sorry about this unpleasantness, Iris. It’s a matter of principle and . . . and something else. I hate putting you and the others in the middle, but I’ve got to see this thing through.”

  SHE NODDED slowly. “I think I understand, Alan. Good luck.”

  Murray took his post beside Latham on the bridge, and on its contragrav auxiliary propulsion unit, the Pegasus moved smoothly out of its orbit and swung in a huge parabola toward the second planet of the unknown F type sun. The planet grew in size and detail, and shortly the hyper-cruiser was settling with featherlike ease through its atmospheric envelope.

  Latham, handling the controls, was icily silent. Murray concentrated on the magnified details shown on the scanning screen before him. The planet appeared to be a pleasant one. Its continents were small but numerous, a fascinating, everchanging patchwork of gree
n forests and fields, threaded together by hill ranges and rivers.

  No artificial constructions were visible anywhere, no cities or villages, no outward signs of intelligent life. As though encouraged by this fact, Latham brought the Pegasus close to the surface and switched on the autopilot.

  Murray watched the scanning screen. He knew that the others aboard the ship were busy with instruments of their own: testing the atmospheric content and pressure; testing for dangerous radiation and bacteria; recording temperature and gravity. Tasks as routine as they were important—more than one lovely, inviting world had in the past proved a death-trap.

  The reports, when all finally were in, were satisfactory. The planet was ninety-seven percent Earth-standard—optimum-habitable, according to Galactic Survey Crew terminology—and offered none of the obvious, routine dangers.

  “We’ll land at once, then,” Latham announced via the intercom.

  The site chosen was a large, oval valley on one of the more attractive continents, situated at a latitude which promised an even, temperate climate. The valley was cupped within sheer rock walls, with a small lake roughly in the center of its verdant floor that was like a drop of blue liquid in a giant’s bowl.

  Murray was among the first to leave the ship. As he climbed down from the airlock, he felt a cool breeze touch him with exploring fingers, as though aware of his strangeness. The air had a crisp, earthy smell. Breathing it in deeply, Murray stood in lush, knee-high grass, glancing around him.

  Tranquility breathed from the scene. The sky was a clear blue-green, lightly strewn with puffs of white cloud. The vivid hue of the grass found an echo in the vivid foliage of the tall, slender trees which seemed to send a rustling murmur of welcome through the fragrant air.