“Burkes, on the Salvador, reports one and three quarters, refuses to try higher. No others above that except yourself and Olsen. Are you going to match the Tar Baby?”
Match the Tar Baby, indeed, and ran short of fuel or blow up! “No chance. Still expect to win, though.”
Well, at least it would sound nice back home, and it might worry Olsen a little. He was too conceited about his speed. But I couldn’t see myself making good. Even if I cut closer to the ecliptic, it wouldn’t save enough time to count, and the risk wasn’t worthwhile. I dug into my store of concentrates and satisfied a raving hunger—double weight takes double energy, just as it does sleep. The only thing I could think of was to wish I could maintain acceleration all the way, instead of just half.
That’s the trouble with racing. You accelerate with all you’ve got half the way, then turn around and decelerate just as hard until you reach your goal; then you repeat the whole thing in getting back. The result is that as soon as you reach top speed, you have to check it, and you average only a part of what you can do. If there were just something a man could get a grip on in space to slew around, instead of stopping dead, every record made would go to pieces the next day.
I checked over the automat, found it ticking cheerfully, and fiddled around with the calculator. But the results were the same as they’d been back in Kor. It still said I’d have to decelerate after about forty-four hours. Then I messed around with imaginary courses to kill time, listened to the thrilling reports of the race—it must have been nice to listen to—and gave up. Setting the alarm, I went back to sleep with the announcer’s voice concluding some laudatory remarks about the “fearless young man out there giving his ship everything he’s got in a frantic effort to win.”
But I was awake when the next bulletin came in from Kor at the end of the forty-hour mark. “Special bulletin! We’ve just received word from Dynatomic fuels that there’s a prize of fifty thousand additional to any and every man who makes the course in less than eight full days! Olsen and Masters are now way ahead in the field, and about to do their reversing. Come on, Masters, we’re pulling for you; make it a close race! All right, Olsen, come in.”
“Tell Dynatomic the prize is due me already, and give ’em my thanks. Holding up fine here, fuel running better than I expected. Hundred and forty million out; speed, seven million. Reversing in two hours.”
By a tight margin, I might make it, since it applied to as many as came in within the time period. “I’ll be in the special field, Kor. Everything like clockwork here, standing it fine. Pyrometer still says tubes okay. Position, one-twenty-five millions; speed, six and a quarter. Reversing in four hours.”
“Okay, Masters; hope you make it. Watch out for Jupiter, both of you. Even at forty million miles, he’ll play tricks with your steering when you hit the beacon. Signing off at Kor.”
Jupiter! Right then a thought I’d been trying to nurse into consciousness came up and knocked on my dome. I dug my fingers into the calculator; the more the tape said, the better things looked.
Finally I hit the halfway. Olsen had reversed a couple of hours before with no bad effects from the change. But I was busy dialing Mars. They came in, after a good long wait. “Acknowledging Masters. Trouble?”
“Clear sailing, here and ahead, Kor.” It’s nice to feel confident after staring second prize in the face all the trip. “Is there any rule about the course, provided a man passes the beacon inside of a hundred thousand miles? Otherwise, do I have free course?”
“Absolutely free course, Masters. Anything you do after the beacon is okay, if you get back. Advise you don’t cut into asteroids, however.”
“No danger of that. Thanks, Kor.”
I’d already passed the reversing point, but that wasn’t worrying me. I snapped off the power, leaving only the automat cut into the steering tubes, and gazed straight ahead. Sure enough, there was Jupiter, with his markings and all; the fellow that was going to let me maintain full speed over halfway, and make the long course the faster one. I was remembering Jimmy’s remark that put the idea into my head: “A man can pick the fuel he wants, the same as he can travel any course he wants, no matter how long.”
With power off, I was still ticking off about seven million miles an hour, but I couldn’t feel it. Instead, I felt plenty sick, without any feeling of weight at all. But I couldn’t bother about that. Kor was calling again, but I shut them off with a few words. If I was crazy, that was my business, and the ship was doing okay.
I set the buzzer to wake me when I figured I’d be near Olsen. Looking out, when the thing went off, I could see his jets shooting out away off side, and a little ahead. But he was cutting his speed sharply, while I was riding free, and I began sliding past him.
I was all set to gloat when his voice barked in over the ultraset: “Masters! Calling Masters!”
“Okay, Olsen.”
“Man, decelerate! You’ll crack up on Jupiter at that rate. If something’s wrong, say so. We’re way out ahead, and there’s plenty of time. Give me the word and I’ll try to cut in on you. The Tar Baby’s strong enough to hold back your soup can. How about it, Masters?”
That was the guy I’d been hating for a glory hound, figuring him as out for himself only. “No need, Olsen, but a load of thanks. I’m trying out a hunch to steal first place from you.”
The relief in his voice was as unquestionable as his bewilderment. “It’s okay if you can do it, mister. I’ll still make the special. Why not let me in on the hunch? I won’t crib your idea.”
“Okay, but I don’t know how it’ll work, for sure. I’m going around Jupiter at full speed instead of cutting to the beacon.”
“You’re crazy, Masters.” The idea didn’t appeal to him at all. “Hope your tubes hold up under the extra eighty million miles. So long!”
Sixty-seven hours out of Kor I passed the beacon at the required hundred thousand miles—which isn’t as wide a margin at full speed as it sounds—and headed out. Olsen must have called ahead to tell them what I was doing, because the beacon acknowledged my call, verified my distance, and signed off without questions.
I caught an hour’s sleep again, and then Jupiter was growing uncomfortably close. I’d already been over my calculations twenty times, but so darned much depended on them that I wasn’t taking chances. I ran them through again. The big fellow was coming up alongside like a mountain rolling toward an ant, and I was already closer than anyone I’d ever heard of.
But it worked out all right, at first. I grazed around the side, was caught in his gravity, and began to swing in an orbit. That’s what I’d been looking for, something to catch hold of out in space to swing me around without loss of momentum, and that’s what I’d found; Jupiter’s gravity pulled me around like a lead weight on a swung rope.
Which was fine—if I had enough speed to make him let go again, as close as I was to his surface. Fortunately, he hasn’t any extensive atmosphere to speak of—beyond that which creates his apparent surface—in proportion to his diameter, or I’d have been warmed up entirely too much for pleasant living. In no time I was coming around and facing back in the general direction of Mars; and then two things happened at once.
Jupiter wasn’t letting me go on schedule; he seemed to think he needed a little more time for observation of this queer satellite he’d just caught. And Io swung up right where it shouldn’t have been. I’d forgotten the moons!
That’s when I began counting heartbeats. Either Jupiter pulled me too far, or he threw me square into Io, and I didn’t like either prospect. The steering tubes were worthless in the short space I had at that speed. I waited, and Jupiter began to let go—with Io coming up!
Whishh! I could hear—or imagine, I don’t know which—the outer edges of the moon’s atmosphere whistle briefly past the sides of my soup can, and then silence. When I opened my eyes, lo lay behind, with Jupiter, and I was headed s
traight for the beacon. Dear old Io!
Light as its gravity was, it had still been enough to correct the slight error in my calculations and set me back on my course, even if I did come too close for my peace of mind.
I was asleep when I passed the beacon again, so I don’t know what they had to say. It was Olsen’s call that woke me up. “Congratulations, Masters! When you reach Mars, tell them to hold the special and second prizes for me. And I’ll remember the trick. Clear dodging!” He was still heading in toward the beacon on deceleration, and less than eighty hours had passed.
Well, there wasn’t much more to it, except for the sleeping and the ravings of that fool announcer back on Kor. I reversed without any trouble at about the point where I’d stopped accelerating and began braking down for Mars. Then the monotony of the trip began again, with the automat doing all the work. The tubes, safe for six days, would be used for only about three and a half, thanks to all that time with power off, and I had soup to spare.
Miraculously, they had the landing pit cleared when I settled down over Kor, and the sweetest-looking white ambulance was waiting. I set her down without a jolt, slipped out, and was inside the car before the crowds could get to me. They’ve finally learned to protect the winning dodger that way.
Jimmy was inside, chewing on an unlit cigarette. “Okay,” he told the ambulance driver, “take us to Mom Doughan’s. Hi, kid. Made it in a hundred and forty-five hours. That gives you first and special, so you’re out of the red. Nice work!”
I couldn’t help rubbing it in a little. “Next time, Jimmy, bet on a Masters if you want to go through with those endowments of yours.”
Jimmy’s face was glum, and the cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth in a dull rhythm, but his eyes crinkled up and he showed no rancor at the crack. “There won’t be any endowments, kid. Should have stuck to the old handicapping, instead of trying to start something new. I’m cleaned, lock, stock, and barrel. Anyway, those endowment dreams were just sort of a habit.”
“You’ve still got your formula.”
“Um-hm. Your fuel formula; I’m sticking to the old habits and letting the newfangled ideas go hang.”
I stopped playing with him then. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jimmy. I did a lot of thinking out there, and I’ve decided some habits are things to get rid of.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound very convinced. “How’d you mean?”
“Well, take the old idea that the shortest time is made on the shortest possible course; that’s a habit with pilots, and one I had a hard time breaking. But look what happened. And Dad had one habit, you another, and you’d both have been better off without those fixations.”
“Um-hm. Go on.”
“Dad thought a fuel was good only in racing, because he was used to thinking in terms of the perambulating soup cans,” I explained. I’d done plenty of thinking on the way in, when I was awake, so I knew what I was talking about. “You had a habit of thinking of everything in terms of betting. Take that fuel. You say it gives eighty percent efficiency. Did you ever stop to think there’d be a fortune in it for sale to the commercials? The less load they carry in fuel, the more pay cargo.”
“Well, I’ll be—” He mulled it over slowly, letting the idea seep in. Then he noticed the cigarette in his mouth and started to light it.
I amplified the scheme. “We’ll market it fifty-fifty. You put up the fuel and salesmanship; I’ll put up the prize money and technical knowledge. And if you’re looking for fame, there ought to be some of that mixed up in there, too.”
“Um-hm.” Jimmy stuck out his hand. “Shake on the partnership, Len. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll use the money like I said. Those endowment ideas sort of got to be a habit with me.”
NERVES
I
The graveled walks between the sprawling, utilitarian structures of the National Atomic Products Co., Inc., were crowded with the usual five o’clock mass of young huskies just off work or going on the extra shift, and the company cafeteria was jammed to capacity and overflowing. But they made good-natured way for Doc Ferrel as he came out, not bothering to stop their horseplay as they would have done with any of the other half hundred officials of the company. He’d been just Doc to them too long for any need of formality.
He nodded back at them easily, pushed through, and went down the walk toward the Infirmary Building, taking his own time; when a man has turned fifty, with gray hairs and enlarged waistline to show for it, he begins to realize that comfort and relaxation are worth cultivating. Besides, Doc could see no good reason for filling his stomach with food and then rushing around in a flurry that gave him no chance to digest it. He let himself in the side entrance, palming his cigar out of long habit, and passed through the surgery to the door marked:
PRIVATE
ROGER T. FERREL
PHYSICIAN IN CHARGE
As always, the little room was heavy with the odor of stale smoke and littered with scraps of this and that. His assistant was already there, rummaging busily through the desk with the brass nerve that was typical of him; Ferrel had no objections to it, though, since Blake’s rock-steady hands and unruffled brain were always dependable in a pinch of any sort.
Blake looked up and grinned confidently. “Hi, Doc. Where the deuce do you keep your cigarettes, anyway? Never mind, got ’em… Ah, that’s better! Good thing there’s one room in this darned building where the ‘No Smoking’ signs don’t count. You and the wife coming out this evening?”
“Not a chance, Blake.” Ferrel struck the cigar back in his mouth and settled down into the old leather chair, shaking his head. “Palmer phoned down half an hour ago to ask me if I’d stick through the graveyard shift. Seems the plant’s got a rush order for some particular batch of dust that takes about twelve hours to cook, so they’ll be running No. 3 and 4 till midnight or later.”
“Hm-m-m. So you’re hooked again. I don’t see why any of us has to stick here—nothing serious ever pops up now. Look what I had today; three cases of athlete’s foot—better send a memo down to the showers for extra disinfection—a guy with dandruff, four running noses, and the office boy with a sliver in his thumb! They bring everything to us except their babies—and they’d have them here if they could—but nothing that couldn’t wait a week or a month. Anne’s been counting on you and the missus, Doc; she’ll be disappointed if you aren’t there to celebrate her sticking ten years with me. Why don’t you let the kid stick it out alone tonight?”
“I wish I could, but this happens to be my job. As a matter of fact, though, Jenkins worked up an acute case of duty and decided to stay on with me tonight.” Ferrel twitched his lips in a stiff smile, remembering back to the time when his waistline had been smaller than his chest and he’d gone through the same feeling that destiny had singled him out to save the world. “The kid had his first real case today, and he’s all puffed up. Handled it all by himself, so he’s now Dr. Jenkins, if you please.”
Blake had his own memories. “Yeah? Wonder when he’ll realize that everything he did by himself came from your hints? What was it, anyway?”
“Same old story—simple radiation burns. No matter how much we tell the men when they first come in, most of them can’t see why they should wear three ninety-five percent efficient shields when the main converter shield cuts off all but one-tenth percent of the radiation. Somehow, this fellow managed to leave off his two inner shields and pick up a year’s burn in six hours. Now he’s probably back on No. 1, still running through the hundred liturgies I gave him to say and hoping we won’t get him sacked.”
No. 1 was the first converter around which National Atomic had built its present monopoly in artificial radioactives, back in the days when shields were still inefficient to one part in a thousand and the materials handled were milder than the modern ones. They still used it for the gentler reactions, prices of converters being what they were; anyhow,
if reasonable precautions were taken, there was no serious danger.
“A tenth percent will kill; five percent thereof is one two-hundredth; five percent of that is one four-thousandth; and five percent again leaves one eighty-thousandth, safe for all but fools.” Blake sing-songed the liturgy solemnly, then chuckled. “You’re getting old, Doc; you used to give them a thousand times. Well, if you get the chance, you and Mrs. Ferrel drop out and say hello, even if it’s after midnight. Anne’s gonna be disappointed, but she ought to know how it goes. So long.”
“’Night.” Ferrel watched him leave, still smiling faintly. Some day his own son would be out of medical school, and Blake would make a good man for him to start under and begin the same old grind upward. First, like young Jenkins, he’d be filled with his mission to humanity, tense and uncertain, but somehow things would roll along through Blake’s stage and up, probably to Doc’s own level, where the same old problems were solved in the same old way, and life settled down into a comfortable, mellow dullness.
There were worse lives, certainly, even though it wasn’t like the mass of murders, kidnappings and applied miracles played up in the current movie series about Dr. Hoozis. Come to think of it, Hoozis was supposed to be working in an atomic products plant right now—but one where chrome-plated converters covered with pretty neon tubes were mysteriously blowing up every second day, and men were brought in with blue flames all over them to be cured instantly in time to utter the magic words so the hero could dash in and put out the atomic flame barehanded. Ferrel grunted and reached back for his old copy of the Decameron.
Then he heard Jenkins out in the surgery, puttering around with quick, nervous little sounds. Never do to let the boy find him loafing back here, when the possible fate of the world so obviously hung on his alertness. Young doctors had to be disillusioned slowly, or they became bitter and their work suffered. Yet, in spite of his amusement at Jenkins’ nervousness, he couldn’t help envying the thin-faced young man’s erect shoulders and flat stomach. Years crept by, it seemed.
The 13th Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 20