Adventures in the Far Future

by Donald A. Wollheim

  Welsh was the project engineer. For several minutes Goodrich answered his technical questions about the operation of the rocket.

  They were almost over the station now, the Earth spinning westward beneath them. In their two-hour orbit, another twenty minutes would take them out of radio range.

  “How about our final course correction data?” Goodrich asked. “Have you got that worked up yet?”

  “Just a minute,” Welsh said. “I’ll check.”

  The minute stretched out. “Thumbtack, Rubberneck,” Goodrich said. “You still there?”

  “Thumbtack,” the operator’s voice said. “Wait. They’re working on a new angle here. We’ll have something for you in just a minute.”

  Goodrich waited, wondering vaguely what the new angle was. Rubberneck had been planned down to the last second for six months now, and so far had cost a little over a billion dollars. The worst of his nausea was gone, but it had left him feeling limp and beat-up, and not too bright.

  A new voice came on the radio. “Goodrich?” it asked.

  “This is Goodrich.”

  “Captain Bartell here. We’re going to have to change your course, want you to vector in on that bogey. We have to get a look at that thing, this is more important than Rubberneck. It may change our whole planning on Highjump. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I see. We’ll do what we can. We hadn’t planned any major maneuvers, though. How about fuel?”

  “You’ll have enough. We grossed you out on fuel, since you wouldn’t be carrying cargo this trip, and we wanted a good safety factor till we have a chance to check fuel consumption figures.

  “In any event, your landing reserve isn’t important. I want you to close with this thing … uh, let’s see, let’s call it ‘Bertha’ … I want you to close with Bertha and make an identification, even if you have to bum your last drop and sit up there until we get up and bring you back down. Do you have that?”

  “Roger.”

  “O.K., now here’s what you’re to do. We’re going to vector you in on Bertha. Close to visual range. We get a good sharp return on this thing, but it may be physically quite small, and possibly it’s a natural satellite no one ever happened to notice. If it is, we need it. Make fast to it, go aboard and establish possession … put down some sort of marker and get pictures. Get as much data as you can as to size, composition, et cetera, and report … let’s see, make that report: ‘Bertha condition Able.’ Do you have that? ‘Bertha condition Able.’ Now acknowledge.”

  Goodrich printed carefully on his log: nat sat—Able. “Rubberneck, Roger,” he said.

  “Good. Now there’s a chance it may not be natural, it may be an artificial satellite. Our intelligence is good, but it isn’t perfect, and it’s just possible somebody has beat us to the punch. If so, we want to know who. Use discretion here, try to avoid observation, and above all don’t provoke an incident; but make positive identification if at all possible, and get all you can in the way of pictures, stuff like that. If you’re fired on, report: “Baker/ Take evasive action, draw as much fire as possible without endangering your mission, and try to keep contact until further advised. Good luck, boy.”

  “Roger,” Goodrich said.

  McKay and Brown had been listening wide-eyed.

  “Well,” McKay said. “You think there’s really something there, or have they just got us chasing flying saucers?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think I like it,” Brown said. “You know what that means when they say: ‘Good luck, boy.’ That means you better check and see if your beneficiary is current.”

  Goodrich flipped an impatient hand at them. “Break it off,” he said. “You can figure it all out later. Now give me a hand to copy this stuff, we’ll be out of range in a minute.” He snapped the mike switch. “Go ahead, Thumbtack,” he said. “We’re ready to copy.”

  They picked up Bertha as a faint point of light below and somewhat behind them, but without radar of their own they had no way of knowing exactly how far away.

  The satellite was artificial.

  The men studied it wordlessly. It did not look like the product of an Earthly technology, Goodrich thought, although he could assign no specific reason for this feeling. Apparently spherical, and about the size of a dime on the view screen without magnification, it might have been ten feet across and a few hundred yards away, or a hundred feet and a mile. They seemed to be below and somewhat behind it, but overtaking, the relative bearing changing by about one degree per minute. There were hints of hatches or ports on its surface, and various protuberances which might have been antenna or telescopic gear.

  Or, Goodrich thought, if it was extraterrestrial, they might even be weapons, the strange unguessable weapons of science fiction.

  “O.K.,” he said. “Let’s get to work here. Swing the ship and get the nose camera working.” He turned to his perforator. “How do you set up an evasive course on a rocket?” he asked McKay. “You got any ideas?”

  The navigator shrugged. “We can’t zigzag, all we can do is go in the direction were pointed. I’d say, since we want to use the nose camera anyway, just point her a couple of degrees off a collision course and set up a tape with random accelerations, that should foul up their firing data some, and if they’re looking this way, we could be past and gone the other way before they could swing on us—maybe.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Goodrich said. “All they have to do is be ready to catch us going away on the other side, if they can see us at all they can see which way we’re pointed.” He scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Well, I guess that’s the best we can do, though. When they built this thing, they didn’t think we’d have to fight anybody with it, just get up here was all they were thinking about.” He punched a tape and fed it into the autopilot and sat with his thumb on the firing switch, watching the satellite.

  The control station was sliding over the horizon behind them now; they would soon lose contact. He had better report what they had, he thought, in case they were not there when they came around again. But what did they have? Well, there was no evidence, really, only a feeling—

  ‘Thumbtack, this is Rubberneck,” he said. “Visual contact. Bertha condition King. I say again, Bertha condition King. Over.”

  The answer came faintly but promptly. ‘Thumbtack, Roger. Maintain contact and continue to investigate. Acknowledge.”

  “Rubberneck, Roger. Out.”

  Bertha was abeam them now, relative to Earth. Goodrich gave thought to the problem of fixing its range and relative velocity.

  “Get me a couple of timed fixes on Bertha, Mac,” he said.

  “How about the pictures? I’ll have to swing the ship.”

  “Let the pictures go, for now, we’ve got a few. Get the fixes and then swing the ship to one eighty azimuth, zero inclination. I’m going to fire a three foot-second blast and see what happens.” He punched a new tape for the evasive action, keeping a wary eye on the sphere, with a runner on the front end for the three foot-second blast. If their move provoked Bertha to action, all he had to do was trip the switch again and keep right on going.

  “O.K. on the fixes,” McKay said. He juggled the flywheel controls and the ship swung gently about. He took another observation. “One eighty azimuth, zero inclination, on heading,” he said. “Ready to fire.”

  Goodrich punched the firing switch once. There was a single sharp jolt.

  “Now get me range and speed,” he said. He studied the sphere narrowly, thumb on the firing switch. It spun slowly, oblivious to their activity.

  “I make it twelve hundred yards range, about one foot-second relative velocity now,” McKay said.

  “O.K.” Goodrich rubbed at his chin. Twelve hundred yards range made Bertha’s diameter around eighty feet. Big. There could be a lot inside a sphere that size.

  He glanced down at the Earth. The North Atlantic seaboard beneath them was dark now, they would be in the shadow in a few more minutes.
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  “O.K.” he said. “Let’s get a few more pictures while we can.

  They swung the ship again to bring the nose camera to bear and took pictures until they swung into the shadow.

  “Secure the cameras,” Goodrich said.

  Bertha hidden in darkness for the thirty-six minutes they took to pass through the shadow was not a comfortable companion. Goodrich could make out the sphere at times, as it occluded the stars, and after a while he began to get a panicky feeling it was closing in on him.

  “Take a look at Bertha, Mac,” he said. “Does she look any bigger to you?”

  The navigator studied the screen carefully. “I believe it is,” he said slowly.

  It was an uneasy idea. He watched the screen carefully, measuring with his eye the span between stars obscured by the sphere. The image was growing larger, he was sure.

  “You know, Mac,” he said, “does it strike you funny that we haven’t seen a sign of life from that thing? Do you suppose they might not know we’re here?”

  “Well, no. If it’s a satellite, they’re probably crammed with radar and optical gear, so it isn’t very likely they’d miss us. Just because we can’t see anything happening on the outside, that doesn’t mean they aren’t busy on the inside. They could be tracking and photographing every move we make, and we’d never know it.”

  “Still you’d think they’d make some sort of signal, try to establish contact.”

  “Why? Have we?”

  Goodrich blinked. “By golly, that’s right,” he said. “We’ve been so busy watching them, we never thought of it.” He thought for a moment. “We could use the bow landing light for a blinker, I suppose. Either of you fellows know the international code for ‘identify yourselves’?”

  “QRA, I think,” Brown said. “Interrogatory.”

  Goodrich manipulated the landing light switch several times. They watched the shadowy sphere for a reply. There was none.

  “Maybe the landing light’s not working,” McKay said. “Turn her on for a minute, I’ll swing the ship and see if we get a reflection off Bertha.”

  The sphere suddenly brightened in the bow screen, dimmed again as they swung past, and then brightened again as McKay centered the beam. It was closer, about seven or eight hundred yards, Goodrich guessed.

  He worked the switch again, spelling out “QRA?” very slowly. There was no response.

  “Maybe she’s derelict,” Brown said. “You see those little circles? I’m pretty sure those are direct view ports, but I don’t see any lights behind them.”

  “Could be,” Goodrich said. “On the other hand, those circles could be television cameras. And maybe they just don’t want to talk to us. They may want to keep us guessing.” Whoever it is, they would want to keep ’em guessing.

  They were more than halfway through the shadow now. For the rest of the time, Goodrich kept the landing light on Bertha. Occasionally he flashed a signal with the switch. Bertha still gave no sign of life.

  When they came out into the sunlight again, Rubberneck was directly ahead of Bertha, leading by about five hundred yards.

  “Take a look at that little bulge about the middle, just coming into sight, “McKay said presently. “What’s it look like to you?”

  “Which one?” Goodrich asked.

  “The one just below that stub mast, or whatever it is, that slants up a little. I’ve been watching it for a while, it looks like a hatch to me, and it looks like it might be half-open. You can see better when it comes around farther.”

  “Yeah,” Goodrich said. “It does look like it might be a hatch,” he admitted.

  “I think it is a hatch,” McKay said positively. “Next time it comes around, watch the shadow when the sun hits at the angle from this side.”

  The men watched and fed the camera. The sphere hung there. It showed no sign of life. Goodrich kept his thumb on the firing switch. The coast of California showed a thin line on the horizon and grew rapidly into shape below them. He looked at Brown. The captain could not leave the ship, and the navigator was of almost equal importance. The second officer was the spare-parts man. “We could drop our pressure and let you out the hatch,” Goodrich said. “Bring you back in the same way. I guess these suits are good enough to stand it”

  “They’re supposed to be,” Brown said. “It’s different in a decompression chamber, though. If anything goes wrong, they can get you out.” He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the sphere. “I wish we had a line,” he said. “If I miss, it’s a long way down.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Goodrich said. “It’s up to you.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. What if he starts something when I’m halfway across?”

  “We’d have to haul out and leave you.”

  “That’s what I thought … well, O.K., I guess. We can’t disappoint all that brass. Give me a hand getting fixed up here, will you, Mac?”

  “Thumbtack, Rubberneck,” Goodrich said into his mike. “We’re going to try it.”

  “Good boy. This won’t be forgotten.”

  “I’ll bet it won’t,” Brown said. “Not by me, anyway.”

  He slid his helmet on and secured it to his pressure suit. McKay helped him lash a spare oxygen bottle to his midriff, and two more on his back in such fashion that he could get at them readily, but they would not interfere with his movements. “Take it easy on that oxygen at first, till you get the feel of it,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll need very much push, that’s just in case.” McKay and Goodrich put on their own helmets. All three plugged into the intercom.

  “O.K.,” Goodrich said. “I’m going to depressurize now.” He felt the pressure suit stiffen and constrict on’ his arms and legs. McKay released the hydraulic seal of the hatch and swung it open.

  “Here I go,” Brown said. “Watch for my hand signals.” He pulled himself to the hatch opening and balanced gingerly on its edge, holding himself steady with one hand. He flexed and straightened his legs slowly several times, getting the feel of it, and then let go and jumped strongly away. McKay and Goodrich watched tensely.

  The thrust of Brown’s legs had not been exactly in line with his center of gravity, and he began to cartwheel slowly. He was also slightly off on his line of flight. It was soon obvious he would miss the sphere, but they could not be sure if he realized this. They could see him twisting his head about and making futile swimming motions with his arms and legs, trying to orient himself. After about a minute he stopped moving and lay quietly. He apparently got his bearings, for they saw him manipulate the oxygen bottle and he began to spin slowly in the opposite direction. He lay quiet for a moment again, then again used the bottle and this time killed almost all his spin. By this time he was a good halfway to his target.

  He made no further move until he was almost on the verge of passing the sphere, or so it appeared to Goodrich, and then suddenly his course altered. It was too far to see exactly what he was doing, but he must have used the oxygen bottle again.

  McKay spoke for the first time: “I believe the lad’s going to make it.”

  Brown’s green-clad figure was sharp now against the white of the sphere. It suddenly exhibited Violent activity, to what end was not immediately clear, and then the watchers made out that he had struck the sphere and was sliding over its surface, scrabbling for a handhold.

  He found one and lay quiet for a while, and the rotation of the sphere carried him around out of their sight When he reappeared, they could see. that he was cautiously working his way over the surface toward what they had thought might be a hatch.

  The radio broke in impatiently: “Rubberneck, this is Thumbtack. Do you have anything to report? Over.”

  “Thumbtack, Rubberneck,” Goodrich said. “We have a man aboard Bertha now. Wait.”

  Brown reached the hatch and disappeared. Apparently it was open, as they had suspected. For ten minutes nothing happened.

  “Rubberneck, this is Thumbtack,” the radio said. “Hasn’t your man r
eported yet? Over.”

  “He can’t report,” Goodrich said shortly, “No radio. Wait.”

  Five more minutes went by. Goodrich’s hands were getting numb and his belly and chest hurt him. His eyes tended to blur unless he focused carefully.

  “We’re getting close to the limit on these suits,” he said. “If he don’t show up in a few minutes, were going to have to pressurize.

  They were coming around to the terminator again, in another eight minutes they would be in darkness. If he’s not out by then, Goodrich thought—

  “Hey,” McKay said suddenly. “I think I saw that hatch move. Yeah, there he is, he’s coming out now.” Goodrich could see Brown now. He moved out onto the surface and stopped a few feet from the hatch.

  “He’s making himself fast to that stub mast,” McKay said. “I think he’s going to signal us.”

  Apparently the navigator’s eyes were holding up better than Goodrich’s.

  “He’s waving all clear now,” McKay said. “By golly, I think he’s waving us in. What do you make of it?”

  “I can’t see,” Goodrich said. He thought briefly. ‘We’ve got to do something pretty quick. You’re sure he’s waving us in?”

  “It looks that way to me.”

  “O.K., I’m going to ask permission from Control to go in and pick him up.” He switched on his mike. “Thumbtack, this is Rubberneck,” he said. “Our man signals all clear, wants us to move in. Request permission to approach Bertha. Over.”

  “Thumbtack, Roger. Wait.”

  ‘Wait, hell! Get on the ball down there!” Goodrich burst out. ‘We’ve had thirty minutes in these suits now, we won’t last forever.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.