The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  "I hear there's trouble on that planet we're going to—Eden, isn't it?" Frank commented.

  "You think we'd be hauling an E out there if there weren't?" Tom countered wryly.

  They continued to check over each item in the generator room, their flying fingers making sharp contrast to their slow, idle conversation. They gave the room extra care this time because there had been some quick-fingered students around who just might have got it into their heads to improve the machinery. Satisfied at last that there had been no subtle meddling, they snapped the cowl of the generator back into position. They took one more sharp look around, then walked, single file, up the narrow passage to the control room. Louie LeBeau was sitting in the astronavigator's seat, checking over his star charts and instruments. He glanced up at them as they came level with his cubicle. He was the third man of the team, as used to them as they were to him.

  "Fourteen hop adjustments to get us past Pluto and out of the heavy traffic," he grumbled sourly. His round face and liquid brown eyes were perpetually disgusted. "They keep saying over at Traffic that they're going to provide a freeway out of the solar system so we can take it in one hop, but they don't do it. Wonder when we'll ever go modern, start doing things scientific?"

  They paid no attention to his grumbling. That was just Louie.

  "Then how many hops to Eden, after Pluto?" Tom asked.

  "I figure twenty," Louie answered. "Can't take full light-year leaps every time. There's stuff in the way. There's always stuff in the way to louse up a good flight plan. Universe is too crowded. There'll be no trouble getting to Eden, no trouble getting there. Make it in about fourteen hours. Fourteen hours to go eleven lousy little light-years. Fourteen hours I got to work in one stretch. Wait'll the union agent hears you're working me fourteen hours without a relief. And are you letting me get my rest now, so I can work fourteen hours? Or are you stopping me from resting with a lot of questions?"

  "But you think there may be trouble after we get to Eden?" Tom asked.

  Louie looked at him. There was no fear in the soft, brown eyes; just an enormous indignation that life should always treat him so dirty.

  "Don't you?" he asked.

  4

  Calvin Gray, Junior Extrapolator, stood nude before his bathroom mirror and played a no-beard light over his chin and thin cheeks. That should take care of the beard problem for the next six months or so. He leaned forward and examined the fine lines beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. Well, that was one of the signs he'd reached the thirty mark. One couldn't stay forever at the peak of youth—not yet, anyway. Perhaps he should think about that sometime.

  Trouble was, there was always something more urgent….

  He became conscious that Linda was standing in the bathroom door watching him. He hadn't heard her get out of bed.

  "You used the no-beard just last month, Cal," she said. There was a questioning note in her voice.

  "Want to keep handsome," he said lightly. "Never know when I might have to run out to some other world. Wouldn't want one of my other wives to catch me with stubble on my face."

  It was a stale joke, a childish one, but it served to introduce the topic foremost in his mind.

  "This Eden problem. I can't plan on it, but I hope it's my solo to qualify me for my big E. I'm due, you know."

  Linda chose to avoid coming directly to grips with it.

  "Yehudi is already at the door," she said, and made a face of exasperation. "Someday I'm going to turn off the gadget that signals the orderly room the minute you get out of bed, so I can have you all to myself."

  "It's better if you get used to him," Cal cautioned. "Turn off the signal and that turns on an alarm. Instead of one Yehudi, you'd have twenty rushing in to see what was wrong."

  "Well, it seems to me a grown man ought to be able to take his morning shower without an observer standing by to see that he doesn't drown himself or swallow the soap," she commented with a touch of acid.

  "Get used to it, woman," he commanded. "There's only one observer now. When—if I get my Senior rating, there'll be three."

  She didn't say anything. Instead she stepped over to him, pressed her nude body against his, and tenderly nuzzled his arm.

  "Maybe if we go back to bed, he'll go away," she said, and glittered her eyes at him wickedly.

  "He won't, but it's a good idea," Cal grinned at her.

  "You could tell him to go away," she whispered with a little pout.

  She was fighting. She was fighting with the only weapon she had to hold him, to keep him from going away, to face an unknown. He knew it, and the bitterness in her eyes, back of her teasing, showed she knew he knew it.

  He took her tenderly in his arms, held her close to him, stroked her hair, kissed her mouth. She pulled her face away, buried it in his chest. He felt her sobbing.

  He picked her up, lightly, carried her back into the bedroom, laid her gently on the bed, and, oblivious to the attendant who stood expressionless inside the door, knelt down beside the bed and held her head in his arms.

  "Don't fight it," he said softly. "It isn't the first time a man has had to go."

  "It's the first time it ever happened to me," she sobbed.

  "You knew when you married me…. You agreed…."

  "It was easy to agree, then. There was the glamor of being known as the wife of an E. Now that doesn't matter. There's just you, and the thought of losing you, never seeing you again."

  "I haven't gone yet," he reminded her. "I don't know that I'll get the job. There are three Seniors at base right now. One of them might want it. Even if I do get the problem, who says I won't be back? You take old McGinnis. He's eighty if he's a day. He's been an E for nigh on to fifty years. He's still around, you'll notice."

  She was quieter now. She lay, looking at him, drinking in his dark hair, blue eyes, handsome face, the shape of his intelligent head, the slope of his neck and shoulders, the tapering waist, all the masculine grace and beauty. She pressed her closed fist into her mouth. All the beauty she might never see again, feel enfolded around her, enfold with herself.

  "I'm a little fool," she said through clenched teeth. "Of course you'll be back. And you'd better make it quick, or I'll come after you."

  He kissed her, rumpled her short hair, straightened her crumpled body on the bed, pulled the sheet over her.

  "Why don't you go back to sleep," he suggested. "Rest. I'll have breakfast in the E club room. That's where we'll be watching the Eden briefing. Sleep. Sleep all morning."

  Gently he closed her eyes with the tip of his forefinger. Gently he kissed her once more. This time she didn't cling to him, try to hold him.

  He tucked the sheet in around her throat. Dutifully, she kept her eyes closed. He stood up then, and signaled the orderly.

  "I'll take my shower now," he said.

  The orderly didn't speak, just followed him into the bathroom to stand in the doorway and watch him through the shower glass. He was rigidly obeying the cardinal rule of E.H.Q.

  Unless his life is in danger, never interrupt the thinking of an E. The whole course of man's destiny in the universe may depend on it.

  How much of the future of the universe depended upon his not interrupting the scene he had just witnessed wasn't for him to say. He sighed. He thought of his own wife—shrewish, fat, coarse, always complaining. He wondered what she would do if he picked her up, carried her to bed, closed her eyes with his fingers. For once, he'd bet, she'd be speechless.

  He must try it sometime. But first, she'd have to lose about fifty pounds.

  * * * * *

  When Cal got to the E club room two Seniors were already there—McGinnis and Wong. He thought their greeting was a shade more cordial, a shade more interested than usual. They seemed, this time, to be looking at him as if he were a person, not merely a Junior E. When he turned away from them to greet the three Juniors, who, along with himself, ranked the club-room privileges, he became certain of his impressions. Their faces
were frankly envious.

  Eden was to be his problem!

  He'd hoped for it. Even half expected it. Yet all the way through his shower, dressing, coming down the elevator from his apartment, he'd been nagged with the fear he might not be considered; that the grief of Linda and her rise above it would lead only to anticlimax. By the time he'd got to the club-room door, followed by his orderly, he had already conditioned himself to disappointment.

  Now he subdued his elation while he told his orderly what he wanted for breakfast.

  "You fellows join me in something?" he asked both Juniors and Seniors.

  "A second cup of coffee," Wong agreed.

  "A second bourbon," old McGinnis said drily.

  The Juniors shook their heads negatively. Yesterday they had been his constant companions, only a few degrees below him in accomplishment, pushing rapidly to become his equal competitors for the next solo. Today, this morning, there was already a gap between them and him, a chasm they would make no move to bridge until they had earned the right. They seated themselves at another table, apart.

  "Of course we haven't asked you if you want this Eden problem," McGinnis commented while orderlies placed food and drink in front of them. "We ought to ask him, hadn't we, Wong?"

  "First I should ask if either of you want it?" Cal said quickly. "Or perhaps Malinkoff, if he shows up."

  "Malinkoff is too deep in something to come to the briefing," Wong said.

  "Wong and I came only to help on your first solo, if we can," McGinnis said. "Always think a young fellow needs a little send-off. I remember, about fifty years ago, more or less …"

  "Worst thing to guard against," Wong interrupted, "is disappointment. This whole thing might add up to nothing. Might not turn out to be a genuine solo at all, just something any errand boy could do. In that case it wouldn't qualify you. You know that."

  "Sure," Cal said. Naturally the problem would have to give real challenge. You didn't just go out and knock a home run to become an E. You tackled something outside the normal frame of reference, something that required original thinking, the E kind of thinking. You brought it off successfully. A given number of Seniors reviewed what you'd done. If they thought it was worth something, you got your big E. If they didn't, you tried again. And you didn't get it by default, just because somebody thought there should be a given quota of Seniors on the list.

  "Little or big," he added, "I'd like the problem."

  They said no more. He knew the score. He'd had twelve years of the most intensive training the E's themselves could devise. He knew that sometimes a Junior spent another ten or twelve years chasing down jobs which anybody on the spot could have solved if they'd used their heads a little before they ran on to something that challenged that training. He'd be lucky if this was big enough—but not too big.

  That was in their minds, too.

  5

  On ordinary days there were only the usual few science reporters in the press room of E.H.Q. These held their jobs by the difficult compromise between the scientists' insistence upon accuracy and their publishers' equal insistence upon sensationalism.

  Since the publisher paid the salary; since rewrite men, like television writers, maintained their own feeling of superiority to the mass by writing down to the level of a not very bright twelve-year-old; since the facts had to be trimmed and altered to fit the open space or time slot; even these reporters had a difficult time of maintaining the usual odds—that there is only a twenty-to-one chance that anything said in the newspapers or on the air may be accurate.

  But on this morning the press room was crowded. In spite of all efforts of journalism to stir up old animosities to make news, or to force factional leaders into rashness which could not be settled without violence; the various states of world government insisted upon negotiating ethnical differences amicably, and factional leaders persisted in keeping their heads. There had been no world-shaking discoveries made in the last week or so; the public no longer believed that changing a screw thread was exactly a scientific "break-through"; no real or imagined scandals seemed of such journalistic stature as to work the public into a frenzy of intolerance for one another's aberrations.

  In such a dry spell, when advertisers were beginning to question circulation figures, and editors were racking their brains for a strong hate symbol to create interest, the delayed report from Eden came as a summer shower, that might be magnified into a flood.

  EDEN SILENT quickly became COLONY FEARED LOST and progressed normally to COLONY WIPED OUT.

  That there was no proof of loss or destruction bothered no one in journalism. If it did turn out this way, they'd have been on top of the news; and if it didn't, well, who remembers yesterday's headlines in the press of today's new hate and panic.

  The public, with an established addiction to ever increasing daily doses of sensationalism, and deprived of its shots through this dry spell, snapped out of its apathy to greet this new thrill with vociferous calls to editors, wires to congressmen, telegrams to the Administration.

  What are we doing about this colony that has been wiped out? Where is our space battle fleet? Who is going to be punished?

  It was an overnight sensation, and on this morning following the news leak there could even be seen some secretaries to the writers for top commentators and columnists in the crowded press room.

  Naturally these stood in little groups apart and associated only with each other to maintain the literary tradition of proper insulation from the realities of what was going on in the rest of the world. Obviously no first-rate writer could have afforded to appear in person not only because of damage to his stature lest it be noted he was doing his own spadework; but, more important, first-hand observation might limit his capacity for rationalizing the situation into the mold demanded by the bias of his commentator or columnist. It was always difficult to maintain author integrity when the facts did not support the sensationalism required by the employers, and best not to put oneself in such a position.

  Now two of these secretaries could be seen over in a corner of the press room exchanging their views, probing one another for information. No one thought it curious they weren't trying to get the information from source for everyone in journalism understands the importance lies in what the competition is going to say, not in what happened.

  "How long has it been since the first message came through, or didn't?"

  "Fourteen hours, about."

  "We could have had a rescue fleet out there by now."

  "To rescue 'em from what?"

  "Whatever's wrong."

  "I understand an assistant attorney general is checking into it."

  "So Gunderson's still gunning for the E's, eh?"

  "Has he ever let up since he became attorney general? Gripes his soul he can't arrest them for not doing what he wants, or for doing what he doesn't want."

  "How'd they ever get immune, anyhow?"

  "Skip class that day in history?"

  "Must've."

  "Vague, myself. Right after the insurrection. Seems there were two powers, Russia and America. The people of the world got fed up, gave a pox to both their houses, boiled over, formed a world government. Somehow the scientists got in their licks in the turmoil, pointed out that scientists who have to confine their discoveries to what suits the ideology of the non-scientists can only find limited solutions."

  "Quite a deal."

  "Could only happen in a world turmoil, when everything was fluid. Anyhow, they got away with it, for a certain group, Extrapolators, had to be free to extrapolate without fear of reprisal."

  "Boy, something. Imagine. Take any dame you want. Nobody can squawk. Take any money, riches you want. Nobody can stop it."

  "Funny thing. Nothing like that happens. Idea seems to be that when you don't have to fight against restrictions, they aren't important any more. At least not to an E."

  "Guess that's why one of 'em pointed out that police are the major cause of crime."

 
; "Whether he was right or wrong, that's what sent Gunderson into a tail spin. I wouldn't be surprised but what he's a little hipped on that subject. He'll get 'em one of these days. Even an E can make a mistake, and when one of 'em does, he'll be there."

  "I dunno, the public has a lot of hero-worship for the E. Pretty tough for any politician to buck that."

  "The public! You know as well as I do—they think what we tell 'em to think, you and me."

  "You think that's why he's got a man out here on this Eden thing? Looking for a mistake?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not. He just never passes up the chance that maybe this time he can grab something."

  "Between Gunderson and the E's, I'll take the E's."

  "Your boss feel the same way?"

  "Far as I know."

  "But if your boss changed his mind, you would have an agonizing reappraisal."

  "Well, sure. A guy's got to eat."

  6

  The west wall of the E club room began to glow, lose its appearance of solidity. Cal signaled his orderly to lift away his table. Now, where the west wall had been, another room seemed to join this one, an office. A large man in a brown suit made an entrance through the door of the office and sat down back of the desk. His face was drawn with weariness.

  "I am Bill Hayes," he said. "Sector administration chief of the Eden area. I am acting moderator of this review. We follow the usual rules of procedure. I just want to say, as an aside, that the scientists involved in this problem have been up all night reviewing every known fact about Eden. We ask the indulgence of the E's not only for the kind of knowledge that may prove too little, but for any strain caused by trying to assemble such massive data into order in so short a time.

  "For the press, let me say we are aware of some questions of why we didn't immediately send out a fleet of ships as soon as the call failed to come through. A military man does not rush troops into battle until he has some idea of what he must oppose; even a plumber needs to get some idea of the problem before he knows what tools to take with him. It would serve no constructive purpose to rush an unprepared fleet out to rescue, and might prove the highest folly."