To Be Continued 1953-1958

by Robert Silverberg

  Thetona took two heavy steps towards him and put her arms on his shoulders. “No,” he murmured, and wriggled away. “Can’t you see it’s over?”

  “Matt—” Warshow said.

  “Don’t Matt me, Cap’n! I’m out of my womb now, and back in your crew.” He turned sad eyes on Warshow. “Thetona and I had something good and warm and beautiful, and you busted it up. It can’t get put together again, either. Okay. I’m ready to go back to Earth, now.”

  He stalked out of the room without another word. Grayfaced, Warshow stared at Cullinan and at Thetona, and lowered his eyes.

  He had fought to keep Matt Falk, and he had won—or had he? In fact, yes. But in spirit? Falk would never forgive him for this.

  Warshow shrugged, remembering the book that said, “The relation of commander to crewman is that of parent to child.”

  Warshow would not allow Falk’s sullen eyes to upset him any longer; it was only to be expected that the boy would be bitter.

  No child ever really forgives the parent who casts him from the womb.

  “Come on, Thetona,” he said to the big, enigmatically frowning alien girl. “Come with me. I’ll take you back down to the city.”

  SUNRISE ON MERCURY

  The fine old custom of having writers construct stories around cover paintings—now, I believe, probably extinct—brought “Sunrise on Mercury” into existence in what was for me the hyperactive month of November, 1956. In that vanished era, the pulp-magazine chains found it efficient and economical to print their covers in batches of four, well in advance of publication date, which meant that there was usually no time to go through the process of buying a story, farming it out to an artist to be illustrated, making plates from the artist’s painting, etc. Instead the artists would think up ideas for illustrations—some sort of vivid and dramatic scene, often cheerfully depicting some highly improbable event that was designed to tax a writer’s ingenuity to the limit—and it went to press right away, while some reliable writer was hired to put that scene, by hook or by crook, into a story that could be published to accompany it. It’s a measure of how far I had come by this time that I was already being given such assignments, here in the second year of my career. But the editors knew I could be depended on to utilize the illustration in some plausible way and to turn my cover story in on time.

  The editor for whom I did more of these than for any other was Robert W. Lowndes of Science Fiction Stories and Future Science Fiction, who had been a prominent figure in the science fiction field as reader, writer, and editor for the past two decades. Bob Lowndes and I had become close friends by now, despite an age difference of nearly twenty years. He was a charming man, scholarly by nature, somewhat awkward and shy, and, since we had many interests in common—among them, classical music, cats, and the collecting of old science-fiction magazines—we swiftly took to each other. My wife and I began to be frequent weekend guests at Lowndes’ small but pleasant country home about an hour’s drive outside New York City; I explored his huge record collection, he and I argued amiably over our favorite stories and books, and I played with his cats. (And took a kitten home for Christmas in 1956.)

  Soon after Randall Garrett had introduced me to him and I began regularly selling stories to his magazines, Lowndes started handing me two or three covers at once, commissioning me to write stories of five or six thousand words to accompany each one. The money wasn’t much—a cent or occasionally a cent and a half a word on publication, cut-rate pay even in those days—but it was a guaranteed sale, and so speedy was I at turning out the stories that even at $60 for 6000 words, which is what I was paid for “Sunrise on Mercury,” I did all right. ($60 for a day’s pay was nothing contemptible in 1956.)

  The cover that inspired this one, by the versatile and prolific Ed Emshwiller, showed the bleak landscape of Mercury with the sun rising ominously in the upper left-hand corner, a transparent plastic dome melting in Daliesque fashion in the upper right, and two harassed-looking men in spacesuits running for their lives below. Obviously something unexpected was going on, like sunrise happening a week ahead of schedule; so all I had to do was figure out a reason why that might occur, and I had my sixty bucks. The result, all things considered, wasn’t half bad; and the story, which Lowndes used in the May, 1957 Science Fiction Stories, has been frequently anthologized over the past forty-plus years.

  ——————

  Nine million miles to the sunward of Mercury, with the Leverrier swinging into the series of spirals that would bring it down on the solar system’s smallest world, Second Astrogator Lon Curtis decided to end his life.

  Curtis had been lounging in a webfoam cradle waiting for the landing to be effected; his job in the operation was over, at least until the Leverrier’s landing-jacks touched Mercury’s blistered surface. The ship’s efficient sodium-coolant system negated the efforts of the swollen sun visible through the rear screen. For Curtis and his seven shipmates, no problems presented themselves; they had only to wait while the autopilot brought the ship down for Man’s second landing on Mercury.

  Flight Commander Harry Ross was sitting near Curtis when he noticed the sudden momentary stiffening of the astrogator’s jaws. Curtis abruptly reached for the control nozzle. From the spinnerets that had spun the webfoam came a quick green burst of dissolving fluorochrene; the cradle vanished. Curtis stood up.

  “Going somewhere?” Ross asked.

  Curtis’s voice was harsh. “Just—just taking a walk.”

  Ross returned his attention to his microbook for a moment as Curtis walked away. There was the ratchety sound of a bulkhead dog being manipulated, and Ross felt a momentary chill as the cooler air of the superrefrigerated reactor-compartment drifted in.

  He punched a stud, turning the page. Then—

  What the hell is he doing in the reactor compartment?

  The autopilot would be controlling the fuel flow, handling it down to the milligram, in a way no human system could. The reactor was primed for the landing, the fuel was stoked, the compartment was dogged shut. No one—least of all a Second Astrogator—had any business going back there.

  Ross had the foam cradle dissolved in an instant, and was on his feet in another. He dashed down the companionway and through the open bulkhead door into the coolness of the reactor compartment.

  Curtis was standing by the converter door, toying with the release-tripper. As Ross approached, he saw the astrogator get the door open and put one foot to the chute that led downship to the nuclear pile.

  “Curtis, you idiot! Get away from there! You’ll kill us all!”

  The astrogator turned, looked blankly at Ross for an instant, and drew up his other foot. Ross leaped.

  He caught Curtis’ booted foot in his hands and, despite a barrage of kicks from the astrogator’s free boot, managed to drag Curtis off the chute. The astrogator tugged and pulled, attempting to break free. Ross saw the man’s pale cheeks quivering; Curtis had cracked, but thoroughly.

  Grunting, Ross yanked Curtis away from the yawning reactor chute and slammed the door shut. He dragged him out into the main section again and slapped him, hard.

  “Why’d you want to do that? Don’t you know what your mass would do to the ship if it got into the converter? You know the fuel intake’s been calibrated already; a hundred eighty extra pounds and we’d arc right into the sun. What’s wrong with you, Curtis?”

  The astrogator fixed unshaking, unexpressive eyes on Ross. “I want to die,” he said simply. “Why couldn’t you let me die?”

  He wanted to die. Ross shrugged, feeling a cold tremor run down his back. There was no guarding against this disease.

  Just as aqualungers beneath the sea’s surface suffered from l’ivresse des grandes profondeurs—rapture of the deeps—and knew no cure for the strange, depth-induced drunkenness that induced them to remove their breathing-tubes fifty fathoms below, so did spacemen run the risk of this nameless malady, this inexplicable urge to self-destruction.

  It
struck anywhere. A repairman wielding a torch on a recalcitrant strut of an orbiting Wheel might abruptly rip open his facemask and drink Vacuum; a radioman rigging an antenna on the skin of his ship might suddenly cut his line, fire his directional-pistol, and send himself drifting away sunward. Or a Second Astrogator might decide to climb into the converter.

  Psych Officer Spangler appeared, an expression of concern fixed on his smooth pink face. “Trouble?”

  Ross nodded. “Curtis. Tried to jump into the fuel chute. He’s got it, Doc.”

  Scowling, Spangler rubbed his cheek, then said: “They always pick the best times, dammit. It’s swell having a psycho on a Mercury run.”

  “That’s the way it is,” Ross said wearily. “Better put him in stasis till we get home. I’d hate to have him running loose looking for different ways of doing himself in.”

  “Why can’t you let me die?” Curtis asked. His face was bleak. “Why’d you have to stop me?”

  “Because, you lunatic, you’d have killed all the rest of us by your fool dive into the converter. Go walk out the airlock if you want to die—but don’t take us with you.”

  Spangler glared warningly at him. “Harry—”

  “Okay,” Ross said. “Take him away.”

  The psychman led Curtis within. The astrogator would be given a tranquillizing injection and locked in an insoluble webfoam jacket for the rest of the journey. There was a chance he could be restored to sanity once they returned to Earth, but Ross knew that the astrogator would make a beeline for the nearest method of suicide the moment he was let loose in space.

  Brooding, Ross turned away. A man spends his boyhood dreaming about space, he thought, spends four years at the Academy and two more making dummy runs. Then he finally gets up where it counts and he cracks up. Curtis was an astrogation machine, not a normal human being; and he had just disqualified himself permanently from the only job he knew how to do.

  Ross shivered, feeling chill despite the bloated bulk of the sun filling the rear screen. It could happen to anyone…even him. He thought of Curtis lying in a foam cradle somewhere in the back of the ship, blackly thinking over and over again, I want to die, while Doc Spangler muttered soothing things at him. A human being was really a frail form of life, Ross reflected.

  Death seemed to hang over the ship; the gloomy aura of Curtis’ suicide-wish polluted the atmosphere.

  Ross shook his head and punched down savagely on the signal to prepare for deceleration. The unspinning globe that was Mercury bobbed up ahead. He spotted it through the front screen.

  They were approaching the tiny planet middle-on. He could see the neat division now: the brightness of Sunside, that unapproachable inferno where zinc ran in rivers, and the icy blackness of Darkside, dull with its unlit plains of frozen CO2.

  Down the heart of the planet ran the Twilight Belt, that narrow area of not-cold and not-heat where Sunside and Darkside met to provide a thin band of barely tolerable territory, a ring nine thousand miles in circumference and ten or twenty miles wide.

  The Leverrier plunged downward. “Downward” was actually a misnomer—space had no ups or downs—but it was the simplest way for Ross to visualize the approach. He allowed his jangled nerves to calm. The ship was in the hands of the autopilot; the orbit was precomputed and the analogue banks in the drive were happily following the taped program, bringing the ship to rest smack in the middle of—

  My God!

  Ross went cold from head to toe. The precomputed tape had been fed to the analogue banks—had been prepared by—had been the work of—

  Curtis.

  A suicidal madman had worked out the Leverrier’s landing program.

  Ross’ hands began to shake. How easy it would have been, he thought, for death-bent Curtis to work out an orbit that would plant the Leverrier in a smoking river of molten lead—or in the mortuary chill of Darkside.

  His false security vanished. There was no trusting the automatic pilot; they’d have to risk a manual landing.

  Ross jabbed down on the communicator button. “I want Brainerd,” he said hoarsely.

  The First Astrogator appeared a few seconds later, peering in curiously. “What goes, Captain?”

  “We’ve just carted your assistant Curtis off to the pokey. He tried to jump into the converter.”

  “He—?”

  Ross nodded. “Attempted suicide; I nabbed him in time. But in view of the circumstances, I think we’d better discard the tape you had him prepare and bring the ship down manually, yes?”

  The First Astrogator moistened his lips. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Damn right it is,” Ross said, glowering.

  As the ship touched down Ross thought, Mercury is two hells in one.

  It was the cold, icebound kingdom of Dante’s deepest pit—and it was also the brimstone empire of another conception. The two met, fire and frost, each hemisphere its own kind of hell.

  He lifted his head and flicked a quick glance at the instrument panel above his deceleration cradle. The dials all checked: weight placement was proper, stability 100 per cent, external temperature a manageable 108°F, indicating they had made their descent a little to the sunward of the Twilight Belt’s exact middle. It had been a sound landing.

  He snapped on the communicator. “Brainerd?”

  “All OK, Captain.”

  “How was the landing? You used manual, didn’t you?”

  “I had to,” the astrogator said. “I ran a quick check on Curtis’ tape, and it was all cockeyed. We’d have grazed Mercury’s orbit by a whisker and kept on going—straight for the sun. Nice?”

  “Sweet,” Ross said. “But don’t be too hard on the kid; it’s not his fault he went psycho. Good landing, anyway. We seem to be pretty close to the center of the Twilight Belt, give or take a mile or two.”

  He broke the contact and unwebbed himself. “We’re here,” he announced over the shipwide circuit. “All hands to fore double pronto.”

  The men got there quickly enough—Brainerd first, then Doc Spangler, followed by Accumulator Tech Krinsky and the three crewmen. Ross waited until the entire group had assembled.

  They were looking around curiously for Curtis, all but Brainerd and Spangler. Crisply, Ross said, “Astrogator Curtis won’t be with us. He’s aft in the psycho bin; luckily, we can shift without him on this tour.”

  He waited until the implications of that statement had sunk in. The men adjusted to it well, he thought, judging from the swiftness with which the horror faded from their faces.

  “All right,” he said. “Schedule calls for us to spend a maximum of thirty-two hours on Mercury before departure. Brainerd, how does that check with our location?”

  The astrogator frowned and made some mental calculations. “Current position is a trifle to the sunward edge of the Twilight Belt; but as I figure it, the sun won’t be high enough to put the Fahrenheit much above 120 for at least a week. Our suits can handle that temperature with ease.”

  “Good. Llewellyn, you and Falbridge break out the radar inflaters and get the tower set up as far to the east as you can go without roasting. Take the crawler, but be sure to keep an eye on the thermometer. We’ve only got one heat-suit, and that’s for Krinsky.”

  Llewellyn, a thin, sunken-eyed spaceman, shifted uneasily. “How far to the east do you suggest, sir?”

  “The Twilight Belt covers about a quarter of Mercury’s surface,” Ross said. “You’ve got a strip forty-seven degrees wide to move around in—but I don’t suggest you go much more than twenty-five miles or so. It starts getting hot after that, and keeps going up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ross turned to Krinsky. The Accumulator Tech was the key man of the expedition: it was his job to check the readings on the pair of Solar Accumulators that had been left here by the first expedition. He was to measure the amount of stress created by solar energies here, so close to the source of radiation, study force-lines operating in the strange magnetic field of
the little world, and re-prime the Accumulators for further testing at a later date.

  Krinsky was a tall, powerfully-built man, the sort of man who could stand up to the crushing weight of a heat-suit almost cheerfully. The heat-suit was necessary for prolonged work in the Sunside zone, where the Accumulators were—and even a giant like Krinsky could stand the strain only for a few hours at a time.

  “When Llewellyn and Falbridge have the radar tower set up, Krinsky, get into your heat-suit and be ready to move. As soon as we’ve got the Accumulator Station located, Dominic will drive you as far east as possible and drop you off. The rest is up to you. We’ll be telemetering your readings, but we’d like to have you back alive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s about it,” Ross said. “Let’s get rolling.”

  Ross’s own job was purely administrative—and, as the men of his crew moved busily about their allotted tasks, he realized unhappily that he himself was condemned to temporary idleness. His function was that of overseer; like the conductor of a symphony orchestra, he played no instrument himself, and was on hand mostly to keep the group moving in harmony towards the finish.

  Now he had only to wait.

  Llewellyn and Falbridge departed, riding the segmented, thermo-resistant crawler carried in the belly of the Leverrier. Their job was simple: they were to erect the inflatable plastic radar tower far to sunward. The tower that had been left by the first expedition had long since librated into a Sunside zone and been liquefied; the plastic base and parabola, covered with a light reflective surface of aluminum, could hardly withstand the searing heat of Sunside.

  Out there, it got up to 700° when the sun was at its closest. The eccentricities of Mercury’s orbit accounted for considerable Sunside temperature variations; but the thermometer never showed lower than 300° on Sunside, even during aphelion. On Darkside, there was little variation; temperature hung down near absolute zero, and frozen drifts of heavy gases covered the surface of the land.