Microcosmic God

by Theodore Sturgeon

  “It has to do with this trip,” he said, waving the kid into the opposite seat, “and it’s about time you knew what this is all about. What we’re after is a mineral deposit of incalculable value. How it is, I don’t know, but somewhere in that mess of nonsense out there”—he indicated the Asteroid Belt—“is a freak. It’s a lump like the rest of the asteroids, but it differs from the rest of them. It must’ve been a wanderer, drifting heaven alone knows how far in space until it got caught in the Belt. It’s almost pure, through and through—an oxide of prosydium. That mean anything to you?”

  Hughie pushed a couple of freckles together over his nose. “Yeah. Rare Earth element. Used for … lessee … something to do with Nudnick Metal, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Do you know what Nudnick Metal is?”

  “No. Far as I know it’s a trade secret, known only to the workers in the Isopolis Laboratories.” The Isopolis Laboratories were half heaven and half prison. By government grant, the great Nudnick plant there turned out the expensive metal. It was manned by workers who would never again set foot outside the walls—men who did not have to, for everything they could possibly want was supplied to them. There was no secret about the way they lived, nor about anything in the fifty-square-mile enclosure except the process itself. “Nudnick Metal is a synthetic element, thousands of times denser than anything else known. That’s about all I remember,” Hughie finished lamely.

  Nudnick chuckled. “I’ll let you in on it. The metal is the ideal substance for coating spaceships, because it’s as near being impenetrable as anything in the Universe. This ship, for instance, is coated with a layer of the stuff less than one one-hundred-fifty-thousandths of an inch thick, and yet is protected against practically anything. We could run full tilt into an object the size of Earth, and though the impact would drill a molten hole thirty miles deep and most likely kill us a little bit, the hull wouldn’t even be scratched. Heh. Want to know what Nudnick Metal is? I’ll tell you. Copper. Just plain, ordinary, everyday Cu!”

  Hughie said, “Copper? But what makes it—How is it—”

  “Easy enough. You know, Hughie, it’s the simple things that are really effective. Try to remember that. Nudnick Metal is collapsed copper; collapsed in the way that the elements of the companions of Sirius and Procyon are collapsed. You know the analogy—pile wine-glasses into a barrel, and there’ll be a definite, small number of glasses that can be packed in. But crush them to fine powder, and then start packing. The barrel will hold thousands upon thousands more. The molecules of Nudnick Metal are crushed that way. You could build four hundred ships this size, from stem to stern of solid copper, and you’d use less copper than that which was used to coat this hull.

  “The process is only guessed at because copper is synthesized from the uranium we ship into Isopolis ostensibly for power. As you just said, it is known that we import prosydium. That’s the only clue anyone but I and the Isopolites have as to the nature of the process. But prosydium isn’t an ingredient. It’s more like a catalyst. Of all the elements, only prosydium can, by its atomic disintegration, absorb the unbelievable heat liberated by the collapse of the copper molecules. I won’t go into the details of it, but the energy thus absorbed and transmuted can be turned back to hasten the collapsing process. The tough thing about prosydium is that it’s as rare as a hairy egg, and so far no one’s been able to synthesize it in usable quanities. All of which makes Nudnick Metal a trifle on the expensive side. This lump of prosydium in the Belt will cut the manufacturing cost way down, and the man or concern or planet that gets hold of it can write his—its—own ticket. See?”

  “I will,” said Hughie slowly, “if you’ll say all that over again a few thousand times a day for the next couple of years.” The boy was enormously flattered by the scientist’s confiding in him. Though he himself was not qualified to use it, he knew that the information he had just received was worth countless millions in the right quarters. It frightened him a little. He wanted to keep the old man talking, and so reached for a question. “Why do we have to sneak out in a little ship like this? Why not take a flotilla of destroyers from Earth and take possession?”

  “Can’t do things that way, son. The Joint Patrol puts the kibosh on that. You can blame the jolly old idealism of the Interplanetary Peace Congress for that, and the Equal Armament Amendment. You see, Mars and Earth are forced by mutual agreement to maintain absolutely equal armament, to share all new developments and to police space with a Joint Patrol. A flotilla of Earth ships taking off without the knowledge or consent of the Patrol constitutes an act of war. War is a nasty business for a lot of people who weren’t in on starting it. We can’t do it that way. But if I turn over the location of my find to the Patrol, it becomes the property of the Joint Patrol, neatly tied up in red tape, and it doesn’t do anybody any good—particularly the Nudnick Laboratories. However—here’s where we come in.

  “If an independent expedition lands on, or takes in tow, any body in space that is not the satellite of a planet, said body becomes the sole property of that expedition. Therefore, I’ve got to keep this expedition as secret from Earth as from Mars, so that Earth—and Nudnick—can get the ultimate benefit. In two months my little treasure will be in opposition with Earth. If I have taken it in tow by then, I can announce my discovery by ultraradio. The signal reaches Earth before it reaches Mars; by the time the little red men can send out a pirate to erase me, I am surrounded by a Patrol Fleet, and quite safe. But if Mars gets wind of what I am up to, son, we are going to be intercepted, followed, and rubbed out for the glory and profit of the red planet. Get it?”

  “I get it. But what’s all this got to do with Bjornsen?”

  The old scientist scratched his nose. “I don’t know. Bjornsen’s a most peculiar egg, Hughie. He worked most of his life to get to be principal of the Institute, and it seems to me he didn’t do it just for the salary and prestige attached. More than once that egocentric martinet tried to pump me for information about what I was doing, about the Nudnick Metal process, about a hundred things of the sort. I’m sure he hasn’t got any real information, but he might possibly have a hunch. A good hunch is plenty to put a Martian ship on our tail and a lot of money in Bjornsen’s pocket. We’ll see.”

  And then there was the day when Hughie had made bold enough to ask Nudnick why he had picked him for the trip, when he had his choice of thousands upon thousands of other assistants. Nudnick unwrapped his white teeth in one of his indescribable grins.

  “Lots of reasons, son, among which are the fact that I delight in displeasing the contents of Bjornsen’s stuffed shirt, and the fact that I dislike being bored, and since I must needs make this trip myself, I might as well be amused while I am cooped up. Also, I have found that baby geniuses are inclined to be a little cocky about what they know, and the fact that they knew it at such a tender age. A trained assistant, on the other hand, is almost certain to be a specialist of sorts, and specialists have inflexible and dogmatic minds. Bjornsen said that one of your cardinal crimes was that you relaxed in fantasy. I, with all of my scientific savvy, can find it in me to admire a mind which can conceive of the possibility of a space-warp, or time travel. Don’t look at me that way—I’m not kidding you. I can’t possibly imagine such a thing—my mind is far too cluttered up with facts. I don’t know whether or not a Martian ship will pick up our trail on this trip. If one does, it will take fantastic thinking to duck him. I’m incapable of thinking that way, so it’s up to you.”

  Hughie, hearing the old man’s voice, watching his eyes as he spoke, recognized the sincerity there, and began to realize that he carried an unimaginable responsibility on his shoulders.

  On the fourth and fifth days out, there was little to do and Hughie amused both of them by reading aloud, at Nudnick’s insistence, from some of his store of books and magazines. At first Hughie was diffident; he could not believe that Nudnick, who had so outdone any fictional scientist, could be genuinely interested; but Nudnick pu
t it as an order, and Hughie began to read, with many a glance at the old man to see if he could find the first glimmerings of derision. He found difficulty in controlling his voice and his saliva until Nudnick slowed him down. Soon he was lost in the yarn. It was a good one.

  It concerned one Satan Strong, Scientist, Scourge of the Spaceways and Supporter of the Serialized Short-story. Satan was a bad egg whose criminality was surpassed only by his forte for Science on the Spot. Pursued particularly by the Earth sections of the Space Patrol, Satan Strong was always succeeding in the most dastardly deeds, which always turned out to be the preliminaries to greater evils which were always thwarted by the quick thinking of Captain Jaundess of the Patrol, following which, by “turning to the micro-ultra-philtmeter he rapidly tore out a dozen connections, spot-welded twenty-seven busbars, and converted the machine into an improved von Krockmeier hyperspace lever, which bent space like the blade of a rapier and hurtled him in a flash from hilt to point” and effected his escape until the next issue. Nudnick was entranced.

  “It’s pseudoscience,” he chuckled. “I might even say that it’s pseudological pseudoscience. But, it’s lovely!” He regarded his withered frame quizzically. “Pity I don’t have muscles and a widow’s peak,” he said. “I’ve got the science but I rather fear I lack glamour. Have you the next issue?”

  Hughie had.

  Then, on the sixth day, Hughie’s reading was interrupted by a shrill whine from the forward instrument panel. A light flashed under a screen; Nudnick walked over to it and flipped a switch. The screen glowed, showing the blackness of space and its crystal points of light. He turned a knob; the points of light swung slowly across the screen until the tiny black ring of the juncture of the crosshairs encircled a slightly luminous spot.

  “What is it?” Hughie asked, regretfully laying down his book.

  “Company,” said Nudnick tersely. “No telling who it is at this distance, unless they want to tell us about themselves by ultraradio. They’re on our course, and overtaking.”

  Hughie stared into the screen. “You had this stern detector running all the time, didn’t you? Gee—You don’t think it’s a pirate, do you?” There was something hopeful in Hughie’s tone. Nudnick laughed.

  “You want to see science in action, don’t you? Heh. I’m afraid I’m going to be a disappointment to you, youngster. We can’t travel any faster than we are going now, and that ship quite obviously can.” Hughie flushed. “Well, professor, if you think it’s all right—” Nudnick shook his head. “I don’t think it’s all right,” he said. “Now that we have established that fact, let’s get back to your story. To think that Captain Jaundess would be careless enough to let his betrothed get into the clutches of that evil fellow! What will he do to her?”

  “But, Professor Nudnick—”

  Nudnick took Hughie’s arm and steered him across the control room to his chair. “My dear, overanxious young crew, the ship that is pursuing us presents no problem until it overtakes us. That will be in forty-eight hours. In the meantime, Captain Jaundess’ girl friend is in far greater danger than we are. Pray proceed.”

  Most unwillingly, Hughie read on.

  Forty-eight hours later, the brisk crackle of an ultraradio ordered them to stand by to be boarded in the name of the Joint Patrol. The destroyer pulled alongside, and a lifeboat carried a slim, strong cable around the Stoutfella and, through the mooring eyes, back to the Patrol ship. The cable was used because magnetic grapples are useless on a Nudnick Metal hull. A winch drew the craft together, and a “wind tunnel” boarding stage groped against the outside of the Stoutfella’s air lock.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Hughie desperately.

  “We are going to say as little as possible,” said Nudnick meaningly, “and we are going to let them in, of course.” He actuated the airlock controls; the boarding stage was hermetically sealed to their hull as the outer and inner doors slid back.

  A purple-uniformed Martian yeoman stepped down into the room, followed by his equally ranking shipmate from Earth. The Martian swore and shut his nostril flaps on the sides of his stringy neck with an unpleasant click. “This air is saturated,” he squeaked. “You might have had the courtesy to dehydrate it.”

  “What?” grinned the Earth Patrolman. “And deprive me of the only breath of decent air I’ve had in nineteen days?” He drew a grateful breath, letting the moisture sink into his half-parched lungs.

  The air in Patrol ships was always, since there was no happy medium, too dry for Earthlings and too humid for Martians; for the Martians, living for countless generations on a water-starved planet, had developed a water-hoarding metabolism which had never evolved a use for a water surplus.

  “Who is in command?” piped the Martian. Nudnick gestured; the Martian immediately turned his back on Hughie. “We have orders from headquarters that this ship is to be searched and disarmed according to Section 398 of the Earth-Mars Code.”

  “Suspicion of piracy,” supplemented the Earthman.

  “Piracy?” shouted Hughie, his resentment at last breaking through. “Piracy? Who do you think you are? What do you mean by—”

  Three tiny eyes in the back of the Martian’s head flipped open. “Has this unpleasantly noisy infant a function?” he demanded, fingering the blaster at his hip.

  “He’s my crew. Be quiet, Hughie.”

  “Yeah—take it easy, kiddo,” said the Earthman, not unkindly. “Orders are orders in this outfit. You got no fight with us. We just work here.”

  “Let them alone, Hughie,” chimed in Nudnick. “We’ve little enough armament and they’re welcome to it. They have every right.” While the Martian stalked out, the scientist turned to the other Patrolman. “This is a Patrol Council order?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who signed it?”

  “Councilman Emil Bjornsen.”

  “Bjornsen? The new member? How has he the right?”

  “Council regulations. ‘If any matter should be put to a vote, the resulting decision shall be executed in the name of the president of the council, except in such cases where the decision is carried by one vote, when the order shall be executed in the name of the councilman whose vote carrried the measure.’ Bjornsen, as the most recently appointed councilman, has the last vote. In this case the action was deadlocked and his vote carried it.”

  “I see. Thank you. I suppose you can’t tell me who proposed this order?”

  “Sorry.”

  The Patrolman moved swiftly about the room, covering every inch of space. In spite of his resentment, Hughie had to admire the man’s efficiency. The kid stood sullenly against the bulkhead; when the man came to him, he ran his hands quickly over the boy, and with the skill of a practiced “dip,” extracted a low-powered pellet-gun from Hughie’s side pocket. “You won’t want this,” he said. “It won’t kill anything but cockroaches and they’re too easily fumigated.” Glancing around swiftly to see if the Martian had returned from the storerooms yet, he clapped his hand over Hughie’s mouth and whispered something. When the Martian came back, the Patrolman was finishing up on the other side of the room, and Hughie was staring at him with an affectionately resentful wonderment.

  “Hardly a thing,” complained the Martian shrilly, displaying a sparse armload of side arms and one neuro ray bow chaser. “Never heard of a Martian councilman sending a destroyer after a couple of nitwits on a pleasure cruise.”

  They saluted and left. In two minutes the ships drifted apart; in five, the destroyer was nothing but a memory and a dwindling spot on the stern visiscreen. Nudnick smiled at Hughie.

  “Tsk! You certainly flew off the handle, Hughie. When that fellow took away your peashooter, I thought you were going to bite him.”

  “Nah,” said Hughie, embarrassed. “He was O.K. I guess I didn’t want the gun much anyhow.”

  There was a silence, while Nudnick inspected the inner airlock gate and then the air-pressure indicator. Finally Nudnick asked:

  “Wel
l, aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “What?”

  “What it was that the Patrolman whispered in your ear. Or are you going to save it for a climax in the best science-fiction tradition?”

  Hughie was saving it for just that. “You don’t miss much, do you?” he said. “It wasn’t nothing much. He said, ‘There’s a lousy little Martian private ship on your tail. Probably will stay on our spot on your visiscreen for a few days and be on top of you before you know it. Better watch him.”

  “Hm-m-m.” Nudnick stared at the screen. “Anything else?” He spoke as if he knew damn well there was something else. Hughie blushed, robbed of the choicest part of his secret.

  “Only just that Bjornsen’s aboard.”

  “That still isn’t all.” Nudnick approached the boy, absolutely dead pan.

  “Honest,” stammered Hughie, wide-eyed.

  Nudnick shook his head, put his hand in his pocket, gave something to Hughie. “There’s just this,” he said. “He slipped it into my pocket on the way out, just as easily as he slipped it out of yours.”

  Hughie stared at the gun in his hand with a delight approaching tears.

  “A very efficient young man,” said Nudnick. “You will notice that he unloaded it.”

  Three weeks later Professor Nudnick took it upon himself to disconnect the stern visiscreen because Hughie could not pry himself loose from it. The Patrolman had been right; the destroyer had dwindled there until it reached a .008 intensity and then had stayed right there for several days, after which it had grown again until the boy could make out the ship itself. It was no longer the destroyer, it was a plump-lined wicked little Martian sportster. He knew without asking that the little ship was fast and maneuverable beyond all comparison with the Stoutfella. It annoyed him almost as much as Nudnick’s calm acceptance of the fact that they were being followed, and that there was every possibility of their never returning to Earth, to say nothing of locating and claiming the prosydium asteroid. He took the trouble to say as much. Nudnick merely raised his eyebrows to uncover his logic and said: