"No usual man wants to die," Hawks said, touching Barker's shoulder and moving him gently toward the suit. The men of the Navy crew were darting covert glances at Barker only after looking around to see if any of their team mates were watching them at that particular instant. "Otherwise, the world would be swept by suicides."
Hawks pointed to the suit. "Now, this is the best we can do for you in the way of protection. You get into it here, on the table, and you'll be wheeled into the transmitter. You'll be beamed up to the Moon receiver in it—once there, you'll find it comfortable and easily maneuverable. You have power assists activated by the various pressures your body puts on them. The suit will comply to all your movements. I'm told it feels like swimming. You have a selection of all the tools we know you'll need, and a number of others we think might be called for. That's something you'll have to tell us afterward, if you can. Now I'd like you to get into it, so the ensign and his men, here, can check you."
The naval officer in charge of the specialist crew stepped forward. "Excuse me, Doctor," he said. "I understand the volunteer has an artificial limb." He turned to Barker. "If you'll please remove your trousers, sir?"
Hawks smiled uncomfortably. "I'll hold your jacket," he said to Barker.
Barker looked around. Beads of cold moisture appeared on his forehead. His eyes were suddenly much whiter than the flesh around them. He handed the windbreaker to Hawks without turning his face toward him. He opened his belt and stepped out of the slacks. He stood with them clutched in his hands, looked at Hawks, then rolled them up quickly and put them down on the edge of the table.
"Now, if you'll just lie down in the suit, sir, we'll see what needs adjusting." The ensign gestured to his team, and they closed in around Barker, lifting him up and putting him down on his back inside the opened suit. Barker lay rigid, staring up, and the ensign said: "Move yourself around, please—we want to make sure your muscles make firm contacts with all the servomotor pressure plates."
Barker began stiffly moving his body.
The ensign said: "Yes, I thought so. The artificial limb will have to be built up in the region of the calf, and on the knee joint. Fidanzato—" He gestured to one of his men. "Measure those clearances and then get down to the machine shop. I want some shim plates on there. I'm sorry, sir," he said to Barker, "but you'll have to let my man take the leg with him. It won't take long. You can just lie there comfortably meanwhile. Sampson—help this man off with his shirt so you can get at the shoulder strap."
Barker jerked his arms up out of the suit, grasped the edges of the torso backplate, and pulled himself up to a sitting position. "I'll take my own shirt off, Sonny." His eyes were whiter. A flash of pain crossed Hawks' face as he looked at him.
Fidanzato walked away with Barker's leg. Hawks said: "Excuse me," quickly, and crossed the laboratory floor to where Sam Latourette was working. "Sam. How's it going?" he asked gently.
"Fine," Latourette said over his shoulder. "Just fine."
Hawks caught his lower lip between his teeth. "Sam, you know, he's putting a lot into this, too. It may not look like it to most people, but he's a complicated—"
"Everybody's complicated. I'm complicated. You're complicated. Everybody bleeds inside for some reason. What counts is the reason. I don't think his is any good at all. He's wild and unpredictable." Latourette pawed clumsily at the air, red-faced. "Ed, you can't use Barker! You can't afford it. It won't work—it'll be too much! My God, you've known him one day and you're already involved with him!"
Hawks stood still, his eyes shut. "Don't you think he'll work out, Sam?"
"Listen, if he has to be put up with day after day, it'll get worse all the time!"
"So you do think he'll work out." Hawks opened his eyes at Latourette. "You're afraid he'll work out."
Latourette looked frightened. "Ed, he doesn't have sense enough not to poke at every sore spot he finds in you. It'll get worse, and worse, and the longer he lasts, the worse it'll be!"
"But what has it got to do with the work?" After a moment, he sent Latourette back to the transmitter, and walked across the laboratory toward Barker.
When Barker's leg came back, Hawks stood watching it being refitted. Bulges of freshly ground aluminum were bolted to the flesh-colored material. Then he was put in with the first of his undersuits.
Barker sat on the edge of the dressing table, smoothing the porous silk over his skin, with talcum powder showing white at his wristlets and around the turtle neck. The undersuit was bright orange.
"I look like a circus acrobat."
Hawks looked at his wristwatch. "We'll be ready to scan in about twenty minutes. I want to be with the transmitter crew in five. Pay attention to what I'm going to tell you."
"Is there more?"
"There are details. I've told you all there is to the program. You're an intelligent human being and perhaps you'll be able to think out the details for yourself. Some or all of them," Hawks said. "Nevertheless," he went on after a moment, "I want to remind you. This is the first scan. We have no control tape on you—that's why we're taking this scan now. So the fidelity of the transmission depends entirely on how good our basic hardware is—on how little static is permitted to appear as noise in the speaker cone, if you want a simple analogy. Even after we have a file tape, we have to introduce a statistical correction in each transmission, to account for the time lapse between the making of the tape and the time of the transmission.
"But this first time, you're trusting entirely to our skill as engineers. There won't be any gross errors. But there may be errors our equipment is too crude to correct or control—naturally, we can't know that.
"You have to realize—we don't know why the scanner works. We have no theory in this field. We only know how it works, and that may not be enough.
"Once the scan is in progress, we can't correct any errors. The equipment is in motion, and we can only make sure it keeps moving. We're blind. We don't know which bit of the signal describes which bit of the man, any more than Thomas Edison knew which bit of scratch on his first recording cylinder contained which precise bit of 'Mary Had A Little Lamb.' We never know."
Barker said patiently: "Would you please make your point, Doctor? I know this is a crash program, and we're all in a hurry."
"A man is a phoenix, Barker," Hawks persisted. "He has to be reborn from his own ashes, for there isn't another being like him in the Universe. If the wind stirs the ashes into a parody, there is nothing we can do about it."
Barker said: "So what does it all add up to—am I taking a chance on coming out so hashed-up I'd be a monster who needed killing?"
Hawks shook his head quickly. "Oh, no, no—I told you; there won't be any gross errors. This is a simple business—transmitting along a cable to the receiver here. You may not be able to remember whether your first schoolbooks were covered in red or blue. Or you may remember incorrectly. And who could check it?"
"And that's all? For Pete's sake, Doctor, so what?"
Hawks shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know. I suppose it all depends on how much of yourself you feel can be lost without your dying as an individual. But, remember—the equipment doesn't know, or care, and we at least don't know."
Barker smiled up viciously. "Just so long as you care, Doctor."
Hawks came up to the transmitter, where Sam Latourette was waiting for him.
"All set, Ed," Latourette said. "Anytime," he said with a bitter look toward Barker.
Hawks took a deep breath. "Sam, I want to talk to you for a minute." He walked toward a quiet corner of the laboratory, and Latourette followed.
"What's the trouble, Ed?"
"Sam, do you want me to put Ted Gersten in charge of the project right now?"
Latourette turned pale. "Why? What for? Don't you think I can handle it?" He blushed suddenly. In an embarrassed mumble, he said: "Look, it bothers me, but not that much. I've got a few more months left before I have to . . . you know, go to the hospital. I mean, sure, I
have to take a lot of aspirin these days, but it's not bad."
Hawks grimaced. "Sam, I need him more than I do you." He turned away suddenly, and stared at the wall. "Either leave him and me alone, or I've got to take you off this project. All it would take would be one slip—one dial setting wrong, one calculation off by a decimal place, and I wouldn't have him any longer. Do you understand what I'm saying, Sam? Unless you can put yourself in a state of mind where you won't be liable to make that mistake—unless you can calm down, and leave us alone—I can't risk it. All right, Sam? Do you understand?"
"Ed. . . God damn it, Ed . . ."
Hawks turned around. "Let's get things rolling, Sam." He walked toward the transmitter. He looked more like a scarecrow than ever.
"We're going to wheel you in now, Barker," Hawks said into his chest microphone.
"Roger, Doctor," came from the p.a. speaker mounted over the transmitter's portal.
"When you're in, we'll switch on the chamber electromagnets. You'll be held in mid-air, and we'll pull the table out. You won't be able to move, and don't try—you'll burn out the suit motors. You'll feel yourself jump a few inches into the air, and your suit will spread-eagle rigidly. That's the magnetic field. You'll feel another jolt when we close the chamber door and the fore-and-aft magnets take hold."
"I read you loud and clear."
"We're simulating conditions for a Moon shot. I want you to be familiar with them. So we'll turn out the chamber lights. And there will be a trace component of formalin in your air, to deaden your olfactory receptors."
"Uh-huh."
"Next, we'll throw the scanning process into operation. There is a thirty second delay on that switch on the scanner; that same impulse will first activate certain automatic functions of the suit. We're doing our best to eliminate human error, as you can see."
"I dig."
"A general anesthetic will be introduced into your air circulation. It will dull your nervous system without quite making you lose consciousness. It will numb your skin temperature-and-pressure receptors entirely. It will cycle out after you resolve in the receiver. All traces of anesthesia will be gone five minutes after you resolve."
"Got you."
"All right. Finally I'm going to switch off my microphone. Unless there's an emergency, I won't switch it on again. And from this point on, the microphone switch controls the two servoactivated ear plugs in your helmet. You'll feel the plugs nudging your ears; I want you to move your head as much as necessary to allow them to seat firmly. They won't injure you, and they'll retract the instant I have any emergency instructions to give you, if any. Your microphone will remain on, and we'll be able to hear you if you need any help, but you won't be able to hear yourself.
"You'll find that with your senses deadened or shut off, you'll soon begin to doubt you're alive. You'll have no way of proving to yourself that you're exposed to any external stimuli. You will begin to wonder if you have a mind at all. If this condition were to persist long enough, you would go into an uncontrollable panic. The required length of time varies from person to person. If yours exceeds the few minutes you'll be in the suit today, that'll be long enough. If it's less, we'll hear you shouting, and I'll begin talking to you."
"That'll be a great comfort."
"It will."
"Anything else, Doctor?"
"No." He motioned to the Navy crew, and they began rolling the table into the chamber.
Hawks looked around. Latourette was at the transmitter control console. Then his glance swept undeviatingly over Weston, who was leaning back against an amplifier cabinet, his arms and ankles crossed, and over Holiday, the physician, standing tensely pot-bellied at the medical remote console.
The green bulb was still lighted over the transmitter portal, but the chamber door was dogged shut, trailing the cable that fed power to its share of the scanner components. The receiver chamber was sealed. The hiss of Barker's breath, calm but picking up speed, came from the speaker.
"Sam, give me test power," Hawks said. Latourette punched a console button, and Hawks glanced at the technicians clustered around the input of the amplifier bank. A fresh spool of tape lay in the output deck, its end threaded through the brake rollers and recording head to the empty takeup reel. Petwill, the engineer borrowed from Electronic Associates, nodded to Hawks.
"Sam, give me operating power," Hawks said. "Shoot." The lights over the transmitter and receiver portals leaped from the green bulbs into the red. Barker's breath sighed into near silence.
Hawks watched the clock mounted in the transmitter's face. Thirty seconds after he had called for power, the multi-channel tape began to whine through the recording head, its reels blurred and roaring. A brown disk began to grow around the takeup spindle with fascinating speed. The green bulb over the receiver portal burst into life. The green bulb came back on over the transmitter.
The brakes locked on the tape deck. The takeup reel was three-quarters filled. Barker's shallow breath came through the speaker.
Hawks said, "Doctor Holiday, anytime you're ready to ease up on the anesthesia. . . ."
Holiday nodded. He cranked the reduction-geared control wheel remote-linked to the tank of anesthetic gas in Barker's armor.
Barker's breathing grew stronger. It was still edging up toward panic, but he had not yet begun to mumble into his microphone.
"How does it sound to you, Weston?" Hawks asked.
The psychologist listened reflectively. "He's doing pretty well. And it sounds like panic breathing; no pain."
Hawks shifted his glance. "What about that, Doctor Holiday?"
The little man nodded. "Let's hear how he does with a little less gas." He put his hands back on the controls.
Hawks thumbed his microphone switch. "Barker," he said gently.
The breathing in the speaker became stronger and calmer.
"Barker."
"Yes, Doctor," Barker's irritated voice said. "What's your trouble?"
"Doctor Hawks," Holiday said from the console, "he's down to zero anesthesia now."
Hawks nodded. "Barker, you're in the receiver. You'll be fully conscious almost immediately. Do you feel any pain?"
"No!" Barker snapped. "Are you all through playing games?"
"I'm turning the receiver chamber lights on now. Can you see them?"
"Yes!"
"Can you feel all of your body?"
"Fine, Doctor. Can you feel all of yours?"
"All right, Barker. We're going to take you out, now."
The Navy crew began pushing the table toward the receiver as Latourette cut the fore-and-aft magnets and technicians began un-dogging the chamber door. Weston and Holiday moved forward to begin examining Barker as soon as he was free of the suit.
Hawks walked to the control console. "All right, Sam," he said as he saw the table slip under Barker's armor. "You can slack down on the primary magnets."
"You figure he's all right?" Latourette asked in a neutral voice.
"I'll let Weston and Holiday tell me about that. He certainly sounded as if he's as functional as ever." He essayed a Utile chuckle.
"Okay," Latourette said.
Hawks began again, gently: "Come on, Sam—let's go for a walk. We'll have Weston's and Holiday's preliminary reports in a minute. The boys can start setting up for tomorrow's shot."
"I'll start setting up for tomorrow's shot," Latourette growled.
Hawks sighed. "All right, Sam," he said and walked away.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hawks sat with his back pressed into the angle of the couch in Elizabeth Cummings' studio. He held his brandy glass cupped loosely in his hands, and watched the night sky through the frames of glass behind her. She was curled in the window seat, her profile to him, her arms clasped around her drawn-up knees.
"My first week in high school," he said to her, "I had to make a choice. Did you go to grammar school here in the city?"
"Yes."
"I went to school in a very small town. The s
chool was fairly well equipped—there were four rooms for less than seventy pupils. But there were only three teachers, including the principal, and each of them taught three grades, including pre-primary. It meant that two thirds of each day, my teachers were unavailable to me. When I went to high school, I suddenly found myself with a teacher for each subject.
"Toward the end of the first week, the high school principal and I happened to meet in the hall. She'd read my intelligence test results and things, and she asked me how I liked high school. I told her I was having a wonderful time."
Hawks smiled down at his brandy glass. "She drew herself up, and her face turned to stone. 'You're not here to have fun!' she said, and marched away.
"So I had a choice. I could either find my school work a punishment, after that, and find ways to evade it, or I could pretend I felt that way about it, and use the advantages that pretense gives. I had a choice between honesty and dishonesty. I chose dishonesty. I became very grim, and marched to classes carrying a briefcase full of books and papers. I asked serious questions and mulled over my homework even in the subjects that bored me. I became an honor student. In a very little while, it was a punishment. But I had done it to myself, and I took the consequences of my dishonesty."
He looked around. "This is a very nice studio you have here, Elizabeth. I'm glad I was able to see it. I wanted to see where you worked—what you did."
"Please go on telling me about yourself," she said from the window.
"Well, you see," he said after a while in which he simply sat and looked at her, smiling, "that tells a great deal about me. I'd been made to realize so many things in one blow. I was never the same after that. I was—well, I was on my way here." He smiled uncomfortably.
"It happens to a lot of us—I mean, to a lot of us youngsters who aren't constituted to see learning as work, or even as a luxury. Some of us react one way, some of us another, on that day when we suddenly see into the hearts of our fellow men. I did what a lot of us do— I shut myself up, and kept out of the world's way. It seemed to me that science; a place where I could deal with known quantities, or at least with a firm discipline, away from people who might be concealing anything within them—it seemed to me, as I say, that science was the best place for me.
The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B Page 16