The panel changed its red glowing sign. It said: “Take-off forty-five seconds.”
Somewhere down below a door closed with a cushioned soft definiteness. The inside of the rocket suddenly seemed extraordinarily still. The silence was oppressive. It was dead. Then there came the whirring of very many electric fans, stirring up the air.
The stewardess’ voice came matter-of-factly from below him in the upended cylinder which was the passenger-space.
“We take off in forty-five seconds. You will find yourself feeling very heavy. There is no cause to be alarmed. If you observe that breathing is oppressive, the oxygen content of the air in this ship is well above earth-level, and you will not need to breathe so deeply. Simply relax in your chair. Everything has been thought of. Everything has been tested repeatedly. You need not disturb yourself at all. Simply relax.”
Silence. Two heart-beats. Three.
There was a roar. It was a deep, booming, numbing roar that came from somewhere outside the rocket’s hull. Simultaneously, something thrust Cochrane deep into the foam-cushions of his contour-chair. He felt the cushion piling up on all sides of his body so that it literally surrounded him. It resisted the tendency of his arms and legs and abdomen to flatten out and flow sidewise, to spread him in a thin layer over the chair in which he rested.
He felt his cheeks dragged back. He was unduly conscious of the weight of objects in his pockets. His stomach pressed hard against his backbone. His sensations were those of someone being struck a hard, prolonged blow all over his body.
It was so startling a sensation, though he’d read about it, that he simply stayed still and blankly submitted to it. Presently he felt himself gasp. Presently, again, he noticed that one of his feet was going to sleep. He tried to move it and succeeded only in stirring it feebly. The roaring went on and on and on.…
The red letters in the panel said: “First stage ends in five seconds.”
By the time he’d read it, the rocket hiccoughed and stopped. Then he felt a surge of panic. He was falling! He had no weight! It was the sensation of a suddenly dropping elevator a hundred times multiplied. He bounced out of the depression in the foam-cushion. He was prevented from floating away only by the straps that held him.
There was a sputter and a series of jerks. Then he had weight again as roarings began once more. This was not the ghastly continued impact of the take-off, but still it was weight—considerably greater weight than the normal weight of Earth. Cochrane wiggled the foot that had gone to sleep. Pins and needles lessened their annoyance as sensation returned to it. He was able to move his arms and hands. They felt abnormally heavy, and he experienced an extreme and intolerable weariness. He wanted to go to sleep.
This was the second-stage rocket-phase. The moon-rocket had blasted off at six gravities acceleration until clear of atmosphere and a little more. Acceleration-chairs of remarkably effective design, plus the pre-saturation of one’s blood with oxygen, made so high an acceleration safe and not unendurable for the necessary length of time it lasted. Now, at three gravities, one did not feel on the receiving end of a violent thrust, but one did feel utterly worn out and spent. Most people stayed awake through the six-gravity stage and went heavily to sleep under three gravities.
Cochrane fought the sensation of fatigue. He had not liked himself for accepting the orders that had brought him here. They had been issued in bland confidence that he had no personal affairs which could not be abandoned to obey cryptic orders from the secretary of a boss he had actually never seen. He felt a sort of self-contempt which it would have been restful to forget in three-gravity sleep. But he grimaced and held himself awake to contemplate the unpretty spectacle of himself and his actions.
The red light said: “Second stage ends ten seconds.”
And in ten seconds the rockets hiccoughed once more and were silent, and there was that sickening feeling of free fall, but he grimly made himself think of it as soaring upward instead of dropping—which was the fact, too—and waited until the third-stage rockets boomed suddenly and went on and on and on.
This was nearly normal acceleration; the effect of this acceleration was the feel of nearly normal weight. He felt about as one would feel in Earth in a contour-chair tilted back so that one faced the ceiling. He knew approximately where the ship would be by this time, and it ought to have been a thrill. Cochrane was hundreds of miles above Earth and headed eastward out and up. If a port were open at this height, his glance should span continents.
No.… The ship had taken off at night. It would still be in Earth’s shadow. There would be nothing at all to be seen below, unless one or two small patches of misty light which would be Earth’s too-many great cities. But overhead there would be stars by myriads and myriads, of every possible color and degree of brightness. They would crowd each other for room in which to shine. The rocket-ship was spiralling out and out and up and up, to keep its rendezvous with the space platform.
The platform, of course, was that artificial satellite of Earth which was four thousand miles out and went around the planet in a little over four hours, traveling from west to east. It had been made because to break the bonds of Earth’s gravity was terribly costly in fuel—when a ship had to accelerate slowly to avoid harm to human cargo. The space platform was a filling station in emptiness, at which the moon-rocket would refuel for its next and longer and much less difficult journey of two hundred thirty-odd thousand miles.
The stewardess came up the ramp, moving briskly. She stopped and glanced at each passenger in each chair in turn. When Cochrane turned his open eyes upon her, she said soothingly:
“There’s no need to be disturbed. Everything is going perfectly.”
“I’m not disturbed,” said Cochrane. “I’m not even nervous. I’m perfectly all right.”
“But you should be drowsy!” she observed, concerned. “Most people are. If you nap you’ll feel better for it.”
She felt his pulse in a businesslike manner. It was normal.
“Take my nap for me,” said Cochrane, “or put it back in stock. I don’t want it. I’m perfectly all right.”
She considered him carefully. She was remarkably pretty. But her manner was strictly detached. She said:
“There’s a button. You can reach it if you need anything. You may call me by pushing it.”
He shrugged. He lay still as she went on to inspect the other passengers. There was nothing to do and nothing to see. Travellers were treated pretty much like parcels, these days. Travel, like television entertainment and most of the other facilities of human life, was designed for the seventy-to-ninety-per-cent of the human race whose likes and dislikes and predilections could be learned exactly by surveys. Anybody who didn’t like what everybody liked, or didn’t react like everybody reacted, was subject to annoyances. Cochrane resigned himself to them.
The red light-letters changed again, considerably later. This time they said: “Free flight, thirty seconds.”
They did not say “free fall,” which was the technical term for a rocket coasting upward or downward in space. But Cochrane braced himself, and his stomach-muscles were tense when the rockets stopped again and stayed off. The sensation of continuous fall began. An electronic speaker beside his chair began to speak. There were other such mechanisms beside each other passenger-chair, and the interior of the rocket filled with a soft murmur which was sardonically like choral recitation.
“The sensation of weightlessness you now experience,” said the voice soothingly, “is natural at this stage of your flight. The ship has attained its maximum intended speed and is still rising to meet the space platform. You may consider that we have left atmosphere and its limitations behind. Now we have spread sails of inertia and glide on a wind of pure momentum toward our destination. The feeling of weightlessness is perfectly normal. You will be greatly interested in the space platform. We will reach it in something over two hours of free flight. It is an artificial satellite, with an air-lock our ship will enter
for refueling. You will be able to leave the ship and move about inside the Platform, to lunch if you choose, to buy souvenirs and mail them back and to view Earth from a height of four thousand miles through quartz-glass windows. Then, as now, you will feel no sensation of weight. You will be taken on a tour of the space platform if you wish. There are rest-rooms—.”
Cochrane grimly endured the rest of the taped lecture. He thought sourly to himself: “I’m a captive audience without even an interest in the production tricks.”
Presently he saw Bill Holden’s head. The psychiatrist had squirmed inside the straps that held him, and now was staring about within the rocket. His complexion was greenish.
“I understand you’re to brief me,” Cochrane told him, “on the way up. Do you want to tell me now what all this is about? I’d like a nice dramatic narrative, with gestures.”
Holden said sickly:
“Go to hell, won’t you?”
His head disappeared. Space-nausea was, of course, as definite an ailment as seasickness. It came from no weight. But Cochrane seemed to be immune. He turned his mind to the possible purposes of his journey. He knew nothing at all. His own personal share in the activities of Kursten, Kasten, Hopkins and Fallowe—the biggest advertising agency in the world—was the production of the Dikkipatti Hour, top-talent television show, regularly every Wednesday night between eight-thirty and nine-thirty o’clock central U. S. time. It was a good show. It was among the ten most popular shows on three continents. It was not reasonable that he be ordered to drop it and take orders from a psychiatrist, even one he’d known unprofessionally for years. But there was not much, these days, that really made sense.
In a world where cities with populations of less than five millions were considered small towns, values were peculiar. One of the deplorable results of living in a world over-supplied with inhabitants was that there were too many people and not enough jobs. When one had a good job, and somebody higher up than oneself gave an order, it was obeyed. There was always somebody else or several somebodies waiting for every job there was—hoping for it, maybe praying for it. And if a good job was lost, one had to start all over.
This task might be anything. It was not, however, connected in any way with the weekly production of the Dikkipatti Hour. And if that production were scamped this week because Cochrane was away, he would be the one to take the loss in reputation. The fact that he was on the moon wouldn’t count. It would be assumed that he was slipping. And a slip was not good. It was definitely not good!
“I could do a documentary right now,” Cochrane told himself angrily, “titled ‘Man-afraid-of-his-job.’ I could make a very authentic production. I’ve got the material!”
He felt weight for a moment. It was accompanied by booming noises. The sounds were not in the air outside, because there was no air. They were reverberations of the rocket-motors themselves, transmitted to the fabric of the ship. The ship’s steering-rockets were correcting the course of the vessel and—yes, there was another surge of power—nudging it to a more correct line of flight to meet the space platform coming up from behind. The platform went around the world six times a day, four thousand miles out. During three of its revolutions anybody on the ground, anywhere, could spot it in daylight as an infinitesimal star, bright enough to be seen against the sky’s blueness, rising in the west and floating eastward to set at the place of sunrise.
There was again weightlessness. A rocket-ship doesn’t burn its rocket-engines all the time. It runs them to get started, and it runs them to stop, but it does not run them to travel. This ship was floating above the Earth, which might be a vast sunlit ball filling half the universe below the rocket, or might be a blackness as of the Pit. Cochrane had lost track of time, but not of the shattering effect of being snatched from the job he knew and thought important, to travel incredibly to do something he had no idea of. He felt, in his mind, like somebody who climbs stairs in the dark and tries to take a step that isn’t there. It was a shock to find that his work wasn’t important even in the eyes of Kursten, Kasten, Hopkins and Fallowe. That he didn’t count. That nothing counted…
There was another dull booming outside and another touch of weight. Then the rocket floated on endlessly.
A long time later, something touched the ship’s outer hull. It was a definite, positive clanking sound. And then there was the gentlest and vaguest of tuggings, and Cochrane could feel the ship being maneuvered. He knew it had made contact with the space platform and was being drawn inside its lock.
There was still no weight. The stewardess began to unstrap the passengers one by one, supplying each with magnetic-soled slippers. Cochrane heard her giving instructions in their use. He knew the air-lock was being filled with air from the huge, globular platform. In time the door at the back—bottom—base of the passenger-compartment opened. Somebody said flatly:
“Space platform! The ship will be in this air-lock for some three hours plus for refueling. Warning will be given before departure. Passengers have the freedom of the platform and will be given every possible privilege.”
The magnetic-soled slippers did hold one’s feet to the spiral ramp, but one had to hold on to a hand-rail to make progress. On the way down to the exit door, Cochrane encountered Babs. She said breathlessly:
“I can’t believe I’m really here!”
“I can believe it,” said Cochrane, “without even liking it particularly. Babs, who told you to come on this trip? Where’d all the orders come from?”
“Mr. Hopkins’ secretary,” said Babs happily. “She didn’t tell me to come. I managed that! She said for me to name two science men and two writers who could work with you. I told her one writer was more than enough for any production job, but you’d need me. I assumed it was a production job. So she changed the orders and here I am!”
“Fine!” said Cochrane. His sense of the ironic deepened. He’d thought he was an executive and reasonably important. But somebody higher up than he was had disposed of him with absent-minded finality, and that man’s secretary and his own had determined all the details, and he didn’t count at all. He was a pawn in the hands of firm-partners and assorted secretaries. “Let me know what my job’s to be and how to do it, Babs.”
Babs nodded. She didn’t catch the sarcasm. But she couldn’t think very straight, just now. She was on the space platform, which was the second most glamorous spot in the universe. The most glamorous spot, of course, was the moon.
Cochrane hobbled ashore into the platform, having no weight whatever. He was able to move only by the curious sticky adhesion of his magnetic-soled slippers to the steel floor-plates beneath him. Or—were they beneath? There was a crew member walking upside down on a floor which ought to be a ceiling directly over Cochrane’s head. He opened a door in a side-wall and went in, still upside down. Cochrane felt a sudden dizziness, at that.
But he went on, using hand-grips. Then he saw Dr. William Holden looking greenish and ill and trying sickishly to answer questions from West and Jamison and Bell, who had been plucked from their private lives just as Cochrane had and were now clamorously demanding of Bill Holden that he explain what had happened to them.
Cochrane snapped angrily:
“Leave the man alone! He’s space-sick! If you get him too much upset this place will be a mess!”
Holden closed his eyes and said gratefully:
“Shoo them away, Jed, and then come back.”
Cochrane waved his hands at them. They went away, stumbling and holding on to each other in the eerie dream-likeness and nightmarish situation of no-weight-whatever. There were other passengers from the moon-rocket in this great central space of the platform. There was a fat woman looking indignantly at the picture of a weighing-scale painted on the wall. Somebody had painted it, with a dial-hand pointing to zero pounds. A sign said, “Honest weight, no gravity.” There was the stewardess from the rocket, off duty here. She smoked a cigarette in the blast of an electric fan. There was a party of moon-tour
ists giggling foolishly and clutching at everything and buying souvenirs to mail back to Earth.
“All right, Bill,” said Cochrane. “They’re gone. Now tell me why all the not inconsiderable genius in the employ of Kursten, Kasten, Hopkins and Fallowe, in my person, has been mobilized and sent up to the moon?”
Bill Holden swallowed. He stood up with his eyes closed, holding onto a side-rail in the great central room of the platform.
“I have to keep my eyes shut,” he explained, queasily. “It makes me ill to see people walking on side-walls and across ceilings.”
A stout tourist was doing exactly that at the moment. If one could walk anywhere at all with magnetic-soled shoes, one could walk everywhere. The stout man did walk up the side-wall. He adventured onto the ceiling, where he was head-down to the balance of his party. He stood there looking up—down—at them, and he wore a peculiarly astonished and half-frightened and wholly foolish grin. His wife squealed for him to come down: that she couldn’t bear looking at him so.
“All right,” said Cochrane. “You’re keeping your eyes closed. But I’m supposed to take orders from you. What sort of orders are you going to give?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Holden thinly. “We are sent up here on a private job for Hopkins—one of your bosses. Hopkins has a daughter. She’s married to a man named Dabney. He’s neurotic. He’s made a great scientific discovery and it isn’t properly appreciated. So you and I and your team of tame scientists—we’re on our way to the Moon to save his reason.”
“Why save his reason?” asked Cochrane cynically. “If it makes him happy to be a crackpot—”
“It doesn’t,” said Holden, with his eyes still closed. He gulped. “Your job and a large part of my practice depends on keeping him out of a looney-bin. It amounts to a public-relations job, a production, with me merely censoring aspects that might be bad for Dabney’s psyche. Otherwise he’ll be frustrated.”
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 85