Troubled Star

by George O. Smith

  Dusty looked at her sourly. "I'd hoped you'd help," he said unhappily. "You at least know what the score is."

  "Dusty, I'd like to help. I do know what the score is. It's hopeless. You're trapped in an awkward position. And like a lot of other people, you are in a position where you can't do a damned thing about it. So you might as well save your high blood pressure and start looking around to see what you can make out of it."

  Dusty finished his drink and left. In a trash-can by the alley was a Dusty Britton Blaster, complete with holster and a tin medal for sharpshooting. The school-store across the street was displaying a Jack Vandal mask and a small case containing ten candy cigarettes and a secret compartment suitable for concealing ten-thousand dollar bills lifted from lawless characters who might have used the dough to bribe juries or buy professional gunmen.

  Dusty made his way along the street unrecognized.

  – – –

  The guard at the front gate looked at Dusty with suspicion. Dusty looked back defiantly; for a number of years the guard had practically bowed thrice as Dusty approached, Dusty hoped that the habit of deference was well established.

  "Have you a pass, Mr. Britton?"

  "Now see here, Sam, I don't need a pass and—"

  "Mr. Britton, I've got orders to—"

  "Look Sam. Let's not stall. I want in and I'm going to—"

  "One minute, Mr. Britton. I'll have to call."

  Dusty grunted. "I want to see Doctor Ross."

  "Oh. Well, just a minute."

  The guard called, and Dusty could hear the roar of Martin Gramer, "Throw the louse out!"

  "Sorry, Mr. Britton. We can't let you in."

  "Look, Sam. I've got trouble. You've got trouble. Do you remember your younger days, Sam? When you were the top boy at Graphic Arts?"

  "Sure do. Great days, too."

  "What happened, Sam?"

  The smile faded from Sam's face. "I got too old."

  "Sam, all I want is to gab with Dr. Ross for a minute or two. I've got a great idea. And I'll make you a promise, Sam."

  "Promise?"

  "Sure. I'll promise you that if you let me in right now, and this idea of mine goes through; that I'll see that you get a good bit in anything I'm in. We'll work it up from character actor until you're playing bigger and bigger bits. You can make a comeback, Sam, and I'll help you then if you help me now. How's about it?"

  Sam looked through the studio gates for a moment, and the thinking could almost be seen in operation. He had darned little to lose; he could always blame Dusty's entrance on some dreamed-up excuse, and if Dusty's idea worked, he might even be able to take credit for having used some initiative.

  "It's a deal, Mr. Britton. But don't forget me."

  "I won't."

  Dusty went inside, found the main idea-office, and talked himself into the office of Dr. Ross. These hurdles he found less difficult than the front gate; possibly due to the fact that once a man was inside the fence, everyone thought he belonged there.

  Doctor Harold Ross greeted Dusty with surprise.

  "Dusty! How goes it?"

  "Not good. I'm a professional louse."

  "How come?"

  "Don't you read? Forget it. Look, Doc, you're actually the only scientist I know, so I want to ask a couple of questions."

  "I'll try. But let's not lose sight of the fact that I'm not a credited scientist, as you put it. I'm a sort of cockeyed physicist whose job is to see that actors squinting through telescopes see Saturn at the right angle, and that birds looking through spectroscopes don't point at a blue triplet and call it the Sodium D Lines."

  "You might be even better than a real physicist of the research kind," said Dusty.

  "Thanks for them kind words, Dusty. Flattery will get you nowhere."

  "I'm not trying flattery. You've been in this make-believe business for a long time. That's why you might be able to think it out."

  "Go on, man. Spill your idea. What do you want me to do?"

  "Let's assume that Dusty Britton's wild tale about a man named Scyth Radnor, from Marandis, is right. And that this guy came out of a spacecraft parked in the ocean, sitting on the sill of the spacelock waiting for me. He talked about the death of the general relativity theory in favor of something called the machinus theory of space-time, phanobands, menslators and all sorts of things."

  "Yeah? We've been having space warps ever since the days of Jack Williamson."

  Dusty grinned, perhaps for the first time in weeks. "Look," he said. "I know the patter well enough. Doc Smith invented the Bergenholm and Murray Leinster came along with the superdrive and George O. Smith developed the matter transmitter to a fare-thee-well, but all this guff is so much birdfood."

  "What are you getting at, Dusty?"

  "I wish I had studied a bit more science," said Dusty plaintively. "But dammit, I don't know a microfarad from a polysyllabic neutron. But I'm telling you that my so-called strange fancy is the God's Truth. Some time in the next couple of weeks the Earth is going to get itself transplanted. You can either help me now or you can come back later and tell me that you're damned sorry you tossed me out. Take it or leave it."

  "All right. So maybe I'll take it. I've only a couple of weeks to lose. What do you want me to say?"

  "Look, Doc, supposing that you were convinced that interstellar travel is possible; that these phanobands do exist. That this menslator is a commercial instrument. And so on. Take the first premise: faster-than-light travel is a commercial fact due to the development of a theory called the machinus theory of space-time. Can you do a bit of hypothetical theorization?"

  "Sure thing. I don't mind. We'll take this on the basis of plenic syllogistics. Our first premise will be that this menslator works as your pal Scythe claims."

  "It's Scyth. Not scythe."

  "Then as I put it, the menslator produces the mental image that Scyth intends. He will say, for instance: 'A gostak distims the doshes,' and because he means that a professional preparer of comestibles has placed an unstated number of crustaceans under an open flame, you receive this statement of Scyth as: 'The cook broiled some lobsters.' Is that clear?"

  "I can follow you," said Dusty. "This much Scyth explained."

  "Good. Now let's look at our commonly accepted definition of 'Mechanus'. This means that it works. In other words we have him telling us that their culture has developed a 'workable theory of space-time' which has been taken up after the theory of general relativity displayed a number of gaping holes. So their 'mechanus theory of space-time' is a workable theory."

  "And where does this lead us?" asked Dusty.

  "Right back into a circle," said Dr. Ross thoughtfully. "Because if they've developed interstellar travel due to considerations brought about by the mechanus theory, that means that they have proved their theory by practise."

  Dusty grunted half-humorously. "Isn't this like saying that mud is sticky because it's gooey? Or that winter is cold because of a lack of heat?"

  Ross nodded. "Or that things fall because of the law of gravity."

  "But aren't all these things a case of defining 'A' in terms of 'A'?"

  "What isn't?" demanded Dr. Ross. "You're not looking for the Universal Truth, are you?"

  "No. but—"

  "Look, Dusty, the reason that we can afford to accept the fact that one and one adds up to two is simply due to the fact that one and one adds up to two in a great majority of cases."

  "Wait a minute, Doc. One and one is always two."

  "Not when you add a quart of alcohol to a quart of water. One and one here adds up to about one point eight."

  Dusty waved a hand. "That's different."

  "Not by a long shot, Dusty. There are extenuating circumstances. But this is just a proof of the fact that one and one is not always two."

  "All right. But where does this leave us?"

  "In the same damned circle. Granting that your observations are correct, proper, and unwarped by the addition of bourbon, Sc
yth and his galactic civilization have developed faster-than-light travel which has resulted in the establishment of a galactic government. But the explanation of how it is done cannot be derived from the nomenclature of the theory. Frankly, I have not the faintest idea of how to go about unravelling the word 'phanoband' unless we take it apart from its roots. Let's see, now."

  – – –

  Brows furrowed and lips pursed, the physicist thought for a long time and then looked apologetically at Dusty.

  "I may be off the beam, Dusty, but I have a notion that your own mind put it together this way: Phan probably pertains to the roots of phantom, or unreal, or ghostly, or what is commonly referred to as the 'supernatural.' The so-called supernatural is invariably a phenomenon which cannot be explained by commonly accepted academic theory or empirical practise, mostly because the folks who work with it have neither academic nor empirical data. Incidentally, the V part of this first phase is undoubtedly a conjunctive vowel stuffed into the word so that it can be uttered without losing a couple of front teeth or blowing a vocal fuse, or maybe spraying the listener like a professional German lecturer. So let's accept the concept of 'Phan' as something that you cannot explain in common terms."

  "Go on, Doc. You're reducing my case to an absurdity, you know."

  "I'm sorry, Dusty, but that's how I see it. Now, let's take the 'Band' part of the word. As a disciple of Maxwell, et al, I am hopelessly incapable of concocting a workable theory of radiation which has nothing to do with some basic concept of frequency. Frequency, when you sit down and start analyzing it, is a nice, stable idea that explains a hell of lot, Dusty, and as you get into atomics you find that particle radiation can be mathematically reduced to terms of frequency. You can actually compute the equivalent frequency of a thrown baseball or a .22 rifle bullet, you know. Then we get to that high-flung miracle we call 'resonance' and God protect me from having to deliver a thirty-minute explanation of resonance."

  "I won't ask you to, Doc. But aren't you getting involved in your own traps?"

  "Yes, I am. And I'm sorry. But I can't help it. But you can follow my fumblings, Dusty. In the first place the radiation is not understood, which explains your accepting the mental concept as 'Phano' and because the physics of the radiation must be other than electromagnetic—which would call for the menslation into 'spectrum' the somewhat ambiguous term 'band' is assigned in your mental concept of the idea. So the literal menslation of the word is: 'Unknown mode of radiation' which—"

  "But where are we getting, Doc?"

  "That's what I was approaching, Dusty. This harangue boils down to the following: these people have a form or type of energy level which is completely inexplicable to terrestrial science at the present state of the art. Their terms, when menslated into our level of appreciation, come out as 'something that works' and 'something that cannot be defined' which, after all, is like trying to explain to a savage why a hunk of black rock always turns toward one direction."

  "Hell!"

  – – –

  The doctor continued. "Sure. It's hell. Even your own term 'menslator' which I've picked up as a fine concept is only your own feeble transliteration of the definition. It does not carry any of the basic theory. So the fantastic gizmo merely aids in the conveying of an idea from one mind to another, despite the fact that the two minds place different values upon the definition of words."

  "But this isn't what I'm getting at, Doc. What I want to know is: granting the possibility of faster-than-light velocities, what have we got to explain it?"

  "Nothing. Nothing but your own statements that you believe that this is possible and that someone has done it. None of us have any evidence that it is possible, except you. And I am afraid that I must question your training as a scientific observer."

  "But, Doc. I—"

  "Let's face it, Dusty. You swing about as much weight in scientific circles as Suzy Richtmeyer, voted last year as Miss Alphatron, parked on the Caltech boo-hucky showing about three yards of shapely nylon and thirty-two well-polished teeth. She was gorgeous but ill-educated, Dusty. She wasn't afraid of getting sterile in a radiation lab. She was afraid of getting pregnant. But if you sit there and ask me how anybody could possibly make any sound and workable theory out of what you describe, I can't see it."

  "Look, Doc, maybe I can't deliver much. But they were there and that's what the guy told me."

  "There's only one hope, Dusty."

  Dusty Britton looked at Dr. Ross; with a voice of determination he said, "Doc, if there's any hope, let me know how?"

  "You've claimed that this galactic gang have some humanitarian instincts. They aren't just going to set fire to good old Sol and let us alternately fry and freeze."

  "Stop kidding me."

  "Maybe I'm not kidding. I'm still promulgating on your own cockeyed pie num."

  "You're not giving me much—"

  Dr. Ross sat back confidently. "No, dammit, I can't say that I give much credit to your cockeyed story, Dusty."

  "Now see here—"

  "Now you see here," snapped the physicist sternly, "I won't deny that anything is possible. But I am a firm believer in the law of least reaction, and I think that this covers the case. If this character Scyth is at all concerned about our welfare—still granting that he does exist elsewhere but in your own mind—then get this, Dusty Britton: he will be back to see how you've made out in your program of preparing people for the big change before he turns on this barytrine generator."

  Dusty eyed Dr. Ross sourly. "And what is your explanation of that word?"

  "Easy, and it means no more than anything else when it is what you call menslated. 'Bary' stems from the root 'heavy' as in 'barytone' referring to something of heavy voice or highly accented. 'Trine' refers to something threefold in astronomical or—er—astrological (har-uumpf) meaning. My God, Dusty, the word itself pertains to something as three-times-as-heavy. You don't expect me—or any other scientist—to come up with something sensible from a bunch of half-baked definitions, do you? All you've given me so far is a workable theory, an unknown medium of radiation, and something that is three-times-heavy. Tell you what, chum. Bring me your Scyth Radnor and introduce me. I know guys who would analyze MacBeth's three witches' brew if they could get a microgram sample. But not from that gobble-gabble about the 'fillet of a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil & bake!' line out of Shakespeare." The physicist went on in an undertone, "Eye of frog and tongue of newt," until Dusty stood up and prepared to leave.

  Chapter VI

  Scyth Radnor was pleased with himself. The trip had gone well. He was back on Earth and the barytrine generator was running in the warm-up cycle, building its field to the magnitude necessary for synchronization to the fabric of space stress caused by the planet Earth. It had not been difficult to maneuver himself into this position of having to run the barytrine generator and in doing so turn up with a few days of vacation.

  He surveyed himself in the mirror and nodded. Then he left the big spacecraft and embarked on an errand that looked very interesting indeed.

  Eventually, with no adventure worth reporting, Scyth found himself standing before a door pressing on a button.

  Barbara Crandall cracked the door an inch or so and peered out. "Yes?" she asked. Barbara was not expecting any visitors, and her natural reaction was to open the door only a few inches until she determined the person making the call. But the sight of this man in faultless whites caused her to open the door a full two feet.

  "Miss Crandall, I—"

  "I don't think I—"

  Scyth chuckled again. "Barbara, may I call you Barbara?"

  "Oh, now see here—"

  "You don't know me?" demanded Scyth with a hurt expression.

  "Should I?"

  Barbara was beginning to doubt this parley as a program of good sense. As a stage personality, even though far from a universal popularity, she knew very well that a completely dull" heart frequently beat lustily beneath an expensive exterior and th
at a clear, open, friendly face often went with a mind fit only for the company of scorpions.

  He saw her doubt and decided that he had played this guessing game long enough. "Barbara Crandall, I know you don't recognize me in these clothes and in this surrounding. Our last meeting was under a rather strange circumstance. I am Scyth Radnor, the Marandanian."

  "Scyth Radnor!" she exclaimed. "I—yes, it is. I'm sorry, Scyth. I did not recognize you in human clothing."

  "Please," he parried, "Don't say it that way. I am as human as you are."

  Barbara looked at him defensively. "And you're here to prove it?"

  Scyth blinked. She was rather distractingly direct. "There is no suitable answer to that," he said. "Must I supply one?"

  Barbara laughed. "Come in, Scyth. Let me offer you the hospitality of a drink."

  "Pleased," he said, following her into the living room. She waved him into a chair and turned towards the kitchen.

  When she came back with two highballs, Scyth was relaxed in the loveseat. Barbara noted it with inward amusement and handed him the drink without comment. Scyth sipped the drink first and then took a deep and appreciative drink.

  "You do have something to offer," he said, not showing his disappointment that Barbara had seated herself in the chair instead of on the loveseat beside him.

  "That," she said, "makes two items, doesn't it, Scyth?"

  Scyth knew that he had lost the initiative; Barbara was way ahead of him. He tried another tack:

  "I came to see how you are making out," he said.

  "I'm not doing badly."

  "Is the public aware of the impending event?"

  "Aware, but not believing. Dusty Britton lost his shirt over this."

  "He'll get it back," said Scyth. "I'm not concerned over the result. It's happened before and it will probably happen again."

  "It's more than possible that Dusty will be vindicated but will then be blamed for not doing something about it," said Barbara.

  "That cannot be helped. Dusty couldn't do anything about it, you know. And if Dusty loses out in the long run, we can't permit the well-being of one lonely man to stand in the way of galactic progress."