The Past Through Tomorrow

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Howdy, Delos,” the publisher said, “how’s the traffic in green cheese today?” He then caught sight of the button and frowned. “If that is a joke, it is in poor taste.”

  Harriman pocketed the disc; it displayed not but the hammer-and-sickle.

  “No,” he said, “it’s not a joke; it’s a nightmare. Colonel, you and I are among the few people in this country who realize that communism is still a menace.”

  Sometime later they were talking as chummily as if the Colonel’s chain had not obstructed the Moon venture since its inception. The publisher waved a cigar at his desk. “How did you come by those plans? Steal them?”

  “They were copied,” Harriman answered with narrow truth. “But they aren’t important. The important thing is to get there first; we can’t risk having an enemy rocket base on the Moon. For years I’ve had a recurrent nightmare of waking up and seeing headlines that the Russians had landed on the Moon and declared the Lunar Soviet—say thirteen men and two female scientists—and had petitioned for entrance into the U.S.S.R.—and that the petition had, of course, been graciously granted by the Supreme Soviet. I used to wake up and tremble. I don’t know that they would actually go through with painting a hammer and sickle on the face of the Moon, but it’s consistent with their psychology. Look at those enormous posters they are always hanging up.”

  The publisher bit down hard on his cigar. “We’ll see what we can work out. Is there any way you can speed up your take-off?”

  6

  “MR. HARRIMAN?”

  “Yes?”

  “That Mr. LeCroix is here again.”

  “Tell him I can’t see him.”

  “Yes, sir—uh, Mr. Harriman, he did not mention it the other day but he says he is a rocket pilot.”

  “Damn it, send him around to Skyways. I don’t hire pilots.”

  A man’s face crowded into the screen, displacing Harriman’s reception secretary. “Mr. Harriman—I’m Leslie LeCroix, relief pilot of the Charon.”

  “I don’t care if you are the Angel Gab— Did you say Charon?”

  “I said Charon. And I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Come in.”

  Harriman greeted his visitor, offered him tobacco, then looked him over with interest. The Charon, shuttle rocket to the lost power satellite, had been the nearest thing to a space ship the world had yet seen. Its pilot, lost in the same explosion that had destroyed the satellite and the Charon had been the first, in a way, of the coming breed of spacemen.

  Harriman wondered how it had escaped his attention that the Charon had alternating pilots. He had known it, of course—but somehow he had forgotten to take the fact into account. He had written off the power satellite, its shuttle rocket and everything about it, ceased to think about them. He now looked at LeCroix with curiosity.

  He saw a small, neat man with a thin, intelligent face, and the big, competent hands of a jockey. LeCroix returned his inspection without embarrassment. He seemed calm and utterly sure of himself.

  “Well, Captain LeCroix?”

  “You are building a Moon ship.”

  “Who says so?”

  “A Moon ship is being built. The boys all say you are behind it.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to pilot it.”

  “Why should you?”

  “I’m the best man for it.”

  Harriman paused to let out a cloud of tobacco smoke. “If you can prove that, the billet is yours.”

  “It’s a deal.” LeCroix stood up. “I’ll leave my name and address outside.”

  “Wait a minute. I said ‘if.’ Let’s talk. I’m going along on this trip myself; I want to know more about you before I trust my neck to you.”

  They discussed Moon flight, interplanetary travel, rocketry, what they might find on the Moon. Gradually Harriman warmed up, as he found another spirit so like his own, so obsessed with the Wonderful Dream. Subconsciously he had already accepted LeCroix; the conversation began to assume that it would be a joint venture.

  After a long time Harriman said, “This is fun, Les, but I’ve got to do a few chores yet today, or none of us will get to the Moon. You go on out to Peterson Field and get acquainted with Bob Coster—I’ll call him. If the pair of you can manage to get along, we’ll talk contract.” He scribbled a chit and handed it to LeCroix. “Give this to Miss Perkins as you go out and she’ll put you on the payroll.”

  “That can wait.”

  “Man’s got to eat.”

  LeCroix accepted it but did not leave. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, Mr. Harriman.”

  “Huh?”

  “Why are you planning on a chemically powered ship? Not that I object; I’ll herd her. But why do it the hard way? I know you had the City of Brisbane refitted for X-fuel—”

  Harriman stared at him. “Are you off your nut, Les? You’re asking why pigs don’t have wings—there isn’t any X-fuel and there won’t be any more until we make some ourselves—on the Moon.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way I heard it, the Atomic Energy Commission allocated X-fuel, under treaty, to ‘several other countries—and some of them weren’t prepared to make use of it. But they got it just the same. What happened to it?”

  “Oh, that! Sure, Les, several of the little outfits in Central America and South America were cut in for a slice of pie for political reasons, even though they had no way to eat it. A good thing, too—we bought it back and used it to ease the immediate power shortage.” Harriman frowned. “You’re right, though. I should have grabbed some of the stuff then.”

  “Are you sure it’s all gone?”

  “Why, of course, I’m— No, I’m not. I’ll look into it. G’bye, Les.”

  His contacts were able to account for every pound of X-fuel in short order—save for Costa Rica’s allotment. That nation had declined to sell back its supply because its power plant, suitable for X-fuel, had been almost finished at the time of the disaster. Another inquiry disclosed that the power plant had never been finished.

  Montgomery was even then in Managua; Nicaragua had had a change in administration and Montgomery was making certain that the special position of the local Moon corporation was protected. Harriman sent him a coded message to proceed to San Jose, locate X-fuel, buy it and ship it back —at any cost. He then went to see the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission.

  That official was apparently glad to see him and anxious to be affable. Harriman got around to explaining that he wanted a license to do experimental work in isotopes—X-fuel, to be precise.

  “This should be brought up through the usual channels, Mr. Harriman.”

  “It will be. This is a preliminary inquiry. I want to know your reactions.”

  “After all, I am not the only commissioner… and we almost always follow the recommendations of our technical branch.”

  “Don’t fence with me, Carl. You know dern well you control a working majority. Off the record, what do you say?”

  “Well, D. D.—off the record—you can’t get any X-fuel, so why get a license?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Mmmm… we weren’t required by law to follow every millicurie of X-fuel, since it isn’t classed as potentially suitable for mass weapons. Just the same, we knew what happened to it. There’s none available.”

  Harriman kept quiet.

  “In the second place, you can have an X-fuel license, if you wish—for any purpose but rocket fuel.”

  “Why the restriction?”

  “You are building a Moon ship, aren’t you?”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t you fence with me, D. D. It’s my business to know things. You can’t use X-fuel for rockets, even if you can find it—which you can’t.” The chairman went to a vault back of his desk and returned with a quarto volume, which he laid in front of Harriman. It was titled: Theoretical Investigation into the Stability of Several Radioisotopic Fuels
—With Notes on the Charon-Power-Satellite Disaster. The cover had a serial number and was stamped: SECRET.

  Harriman pushed it away. “I’ve got no business looking at that—and I wouldn’t understand it if I did.”

  The chairman grinned. “Very well, I’ll tell you what’s in it. I’m deliberately tying your hands, D. D., by trusting you with a defense secret—”

  “I won’t have it, I tell you!”

  “Don’t try to power a space ship with X-fuel, D. D. It’s a lovely fuel— but it may go off like a firecracker anywhere out in space. That report tells why.”

  “Confound it, we ran the Charon for nearly three years!”

  “You were lucky. It is the official—but utterly confidential—opinion of the government that the Charon set off the power satellite, rather than the satellite setting off the Charon. We had thought it was the other way around at first, and of course it could have been, but there was the disturbing matter of the radar records. It seemed as if the ship had gone up a split second before the satellite. So we made an intensive theoretical investigation. X-fuel is too dangerous for rockets.”

  “That’s ridiculous! For every pound burned in the Charon there were at least a hundred pounds used in power plants on the surface. How come they didn’t explode?”

  “It’s a matter of shielding. A rocket necessarily uses less shielding than a stationary plant, but the worst feature is that it operates out in space. The disaster is presumed to have been triggered by primary cosmic radiation. If you like, I’ll call in one of the mathematical physicists to elucidate.”

  Harriman shook his head. “You know I don’t speak the language.” He considered. “I suppose that’s all there is to it?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m really sorry.” Harriman got up to leave. “Uh, one more thing, D. D.—you weren’t thinking of approaching any of my subordinate colleagues, were you?”

  “Of course not. Why should I?”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You know, Mr. Harriman, some of our staff may not be the most brilliant scientists in the world—it’s very hard to keep a first-class scientist happy in the conditions of government service. But there is one thing I am sure of; all of them are utterly incorruptible. Knowing that, I would take it as a personal affront if anyone tried to influence one of my people—a very personal affront.”

  “So?”

  “Yes. By the way, I used to box light-heavyweight in college. I’ve kept it up.”

  “Hmmm… well, I never went to college. But I play a fair game of poker.” Harriman suddenly grinned. “I won’t tamper with your boys, Carl. It would be too much like offering a bribe to a starving man. Well, so long.”

  When Harriman got back to his office he called in one of his confidential clerks. “Take another coded message to Mr. Montgomery. Tell him to ship the stuff to Panama City, rather than to the States.” He started to dictate another message to Coster, intending to tell him to stop work on the Pioneer, whose skeleton was already reaching skyward on the Colorado prairie, and shift to the Santa Maria, formerly the City of Brisbane.

  He thought better of it. Take-off would have to be outside the United States; with the Atomic Energy Commission acting stuffy, it would not do to try to move the Santa Maria: it would give the show away.

  Nor could she be moved without refitting her for chem-powered flight.

  No, he would have another ship of the Brisbane class taken out of service and sent to Panama, and the power plant of the Santa Maria could be disassembled and shipped there, too. Coster could have the new ship ready in six weeks, maybe sooner… and he, Coster, and LeCroix would start for the Moon!

  The devil with worries over primary cosmic rays! The Charon operated for three years, didn’t she? They would make the trip, they would prove it could be done, then, if safer fuels were needed, there would be the incentive to dig them out. The important thing was to do it, make the trip. If Columbus had waited for decent ships, we’d all still be in Europe. A man had to take some chances or he never got anywhere.

  Contentedly he started drafting the messages that would get the new scheme underway.

  He was interrupted by a secretary. “Mr. Harriman, Mr. Montgomery wants to speak to you.”

  “Eh? Has he gotten my code already?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, put him on.”

  Montgomery had not received the second message. But he had news for Harriman: Costa Rica had sold all its X-fuel to the English Ministry of Power, soon after the disaster. There was not an ounce of it left, neither in Costa Rica, nor in England.

  Harriman sat and moped for several minutes after Montgomery had cleared the screen. Then he called Coster. “Bob? Is LeCroix there?”

  “Right here—we were about to go out to dinner together. Here he is, now.”

  “Howdy, Les. Les, that was a good brain storm of yours, but it didn’t work. Somebody stole the baby.”

  “Eh? Oh, I get you. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t ever waste time being sorry. We’ll go ahead as originally planned. We’ll get there!”

  “Sure we will.”

  7

  FROM THE JUNE ISSUE of Popular Technics magazine: “URANIUM PROSPECTING ON THE MOON—a Fact Article about a soon-to-come Major Industry”

  From HOLIDAY: “Honeymoon on the Moon—A Discussion of the Miracle Resort that your children will enjoy, as told to our travel editor.”

  From the American Sunday Magazine: “DIAMONDS ON THE MOON?—A World Famous Scientist Shows Why Diamonds Must Be Common As Pebbles in the Lunar Craters”

  “Of course, Clem, I don’t know anything about electronics, but here is the way it was explained to me. You can hold the beam of a television broadcast down to a degree or so these days, can’t you?”

  “Yes—if you use a big enough reflector.”

  “You’ll have plenty of elbow room. Now Earth covers a space two degrees wide, as seen from the Moon. Sure, it’s quite a distance away, but you’d have no power losses and absolutely perfect and unchanging conditions for transmission. Once you made your set-up, it wouldn’t be any more expensive than broadcasting from the top of a mountain here, and a demed sight less expensive than keeping copters in the air from coast to coast, the way you’re having to do now.”

  “It’s a fantastic scheme, Delos.”

  “What’s fantastic about it? Getting to the Moon is my worry, not yours. Once we are there, there’s going to be television back to Earth, you can bet your shirt on that. It’s a natural set-up for line-of-sight transmission. If you aren’t interested, I’ll have to find someone who is.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”

  “Well, make up your mind. Here’s another thing, Clem—I don’t want to go sticking my nose into your business, but haven’t you had a certain amount of trouble since you lost the use of the power satellite as a relay station?”

  “You know the answer; don’t needle me. Expenses have gone out of sight without any improvement in revenue.”

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant. How about censorship?”

  The television executive threw up his hands. “Don’t say that word! How anybody expects a man to stay in business with every two-bit wowser in the country claiming a veto over what we can say and can’t say and what we can show and what we can’t show—it’s enough to make you throw up. The whole principle is wrong; it’s like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can’t eat steak. If I were able to lay my hands on those confounded, prurient-minded, slimy—”

  “Easy! Easy!” Harriman interrupted. “Did it ever occur to you that there is absolutely no way to interfere with a telecast from the Moon—and that boards of censorship on Earth won’t have jurisdiction in any case?”

  “What? Say that again.”

  “ ‘LIFE goes to the Moon.’ LIFE-TIME Inc. is proud to announce that arrangements have been completed to bring LIFE’s readers a personally conducted tour of the first trip to our satellite. In place o
f the usual weekly feature ‘LIFE Goes to a Party’ there will commence, immediately after the return of the first successful—”

  “ASSURANCE FOR THE NEW AGE”

  (An excerpt from an advertisement of the North Atlantic Mutual Insurance and Liability Company)

  “—the same looking-to-the-future that protected our policyholders after the Chicago Fire, after the San Francisco Fire, after every disaster since the War of 1812, now reaches out to insure you from unexpected loss even on the Moon—”

  “THE UNBOUNDED FRONTIERS OF TECHNOLOGY”

  “When the Moon ship Pioneer climbs skyward on a ladder of flame, twenty-seven essential devices in her ‘innards’ will be powered by especially-engineered DELTA batteries—”

  “Mr. Harriman, could you come out to the field?”

  “What’s up, Bob?”

  “Trouble,” Coster answered briefly.

  “What sort of trouble?”

  Coster hesitated. “I’d rather not talk about it by screen. If you can’t come, maybe Les and I had better come there.”

  “I’ll be there this evening.”

  When Harriman got there he saw that LeCroix’s impassive face concealed bitterness, Coster looked stubborn and defensive. He waited until the three were alone in Coster’s workroom before he spoke. “Let’s have it, boys.”

  LeCroix looked at Coster. The engineer chewed his lip and said, “Mr. Harriman, you know the stages this design has been through.”

  “More or less.”

  “We had to give up the catapult idea. Then we had this—” Coster rummaged on his desk, pulled out a perspective treatment of a four-step rocket, large but rather graceful. “Theoretically it was a possibility; practically it cut things too fine. By the time the stress group boys and the auxiliary group and the control group got through adding things we were forced to come to this—” He hauled out another sketch; it was basically like the first, but squattier, almost pyramidal. “We added a fifth stage as a ring around the fourth stage. We even managed to save some weight by using most of the auxiliary and control equipment for the fourth stage to control the fifth stage. And it still had enough sectional density to punch through the atmosphere with no important drag, even if it was clumsy.”