Maynard groped. How could he tell Ingalls that he wanted to take Laura home without sounding like a jealous adolescent? Perhaps he was, but he didn’t want to sound childish in front of these people. Ingalls’ suggestion was reasonable, from a practical standpoint, but Maynard did not want to be practical. He thought that Laura should have objected; surely she would prefer that he see her home. She should prefer it, according to etiquette. But she did not protest, and Maynard sacrificed his desire for the benefit of practicality.
They said good-by, and Laura patted his cheek and made him promise to see her soon. Guy promised, and as she turned away to go with Ingalls, he had a fleeting thought that the pat on the cheek was small solace. Maynard wanted a bit of loving.
Instead, he sat on the far side of Alice from Timmy, and watched Alice doze on Timmy’s shoulder all the way from Havana to Miami. Their good-by was quick, and though Timmy demanded his right to pay this part of the fare on the basis that Maynard had a long drag ahead and that this portion of the trip would have been his anyway, Guy laughed and waved the other man out of the cab with a cheery: “See you later!”
Dawn was over New York when Maynard’s flier started out across the Atlantic toward Sahara Base. Maynard dropped in his landing-space at Sahara nearly two and one half hours later, and wearily made his way toward home.
The smell of good coffee caused him to stop, and he entered the small lunchroom with remembrance. Coffee and breakfast might take the pang out of the night’s lack of climax, so Guy seated himself at the long counter and toyed with the menu. The waitress came forward, recognized him, and said; “Guy Maynard! Well! Hello!”
Guy looked up. The open welcome sound in the voice was good to hear. He smiled wearily and answered: “Howdy, Joan. Glad to see me back?”
Joan leaned forward over the counter and put her elbows down, cradling her chin on the interlaced fingers. “You! Guy Maynard, are a sight for sore eyes. Over at Mother Andrew’s we thought you were a real M-12.”
“I am,” he smiled. Joan and the rest of the people might think they knew the real purpose of M-12. Those who lived within the vastness of Sahara Base had good reason to think as they did, but Maynard believed that this was as good a time as any to dispel that belief. “I am a real M-12. I’ve been off working on some hush-hush. You’re still living at Mother Andrew’s?”
“You bet. I’m going to stay there, what’s more, until my name isn’t Forbes any more,” and Joan held up the bare left hand. “We missed you every morning at breakfast.”
“I saw her last night. She kept my room in fine shape.”
“She’s wonderful.” Joan yawned. “Tired?”
“Uh-huh. I’ve been on the dawn patrol. Look, Guy, I’m going off in about an hour. Have yourself a good, hearty breakfast, and you may walk me home. O.K.?”
Guy Maynard looked into Joan’s cheerful face and nodded. Joan shook her curls at him, and without asking for his order, she went to the kitchen and was gone for fifteen minutes. When she returned, she was laden with breakfast, complete from grapefruit to toast. She drew his coffee, sugared and creamed it, and then said: “Pitch in, spaceman. Have a good breakfast. I’ll bet my hat that you haven’t had one like that since you left on that M-12.”
Maynard looked the counter-full over and said: “You are right, Joan.”
He set to with a will, and when he finished, Joan was ready to leave.
They walked home in almost-silence. Joan knew better than to press him concerning tales of his activities while on the mission, and she was wise enough to know better than to speak of other men and ‘ other fun to a man who has been away and at work. Nothing had happened to her worth mentioning, and the rest of her life had been discussed with Guy Maynard long ago.
As for Guy, he felt at ease. He did not know it; he was unaware of the reason for his better-feeling. He did know that the tightness was gone from the muscles across his stomach, and he felt less like running and hiding than he had in hours. He wondered whether the coffee and excellent breakfast had done it, and then forgot about it. He felt too good to wonder why.
They walked in silence and partly in understanding companionship. Maynard knew that he needed no “act” to impress Joan. She would accept him as he was. And when Joan spoke, she directed her thought at him, which made him feel at ease.
Together they entered Mother Andrew’s apartments, and as Joan did not dismiss him, he followed up the stairs to the door of her apartment. She fumbled with the key and the door swung open.
“Well,” he said, extending a hand, “it’s been nice seeing you again.”
Joan took the hand and gave it a gentle pressure. She smiled up at him mischievously and said: “Is that the best you can do?” She laughed, but her laugh was gentle.
Instinctively, Guy put his free hand on her shoulder, and her head went back so that she faced him squarely. “You know, I think you’ve been lonely,” she told him. She did not evade him, but went into his arms willingly, almost eagerly.
VIII.
The days that followed were busy, indeed. Maynard found that the increase in rank not only gave him more pay, but more authority too. He was now entitled, by his rank of senior executive, to command one of the speedy, small destroyers, and his command was being prepared for him.
Unlike other,.normal commands, the Asterite was being fitted with laboratory equipment, and was to be staffed with technical men. Maynard found himself literally swamped with paper work, and he was expected to supervise the installation of the equipment too. But he found time to dine with Kane twice, and the publisher extracted a promise from Maynard that the young officer should co-operate with him.
When the time for leaving was at hand, Guy made his parting with Laura Greggor at the Greggor home. Laura, realizing that her actions had not been too complimentary to him, was duly affectionate. Guy left there with his heart high and his spirit unbeatable.
He went home and packed, and as he was leaving for the Asterite, he paused and knocked on Joan’s door. There was no answer, and so Maynard asked Mother Andrew to tell the girl good-by for him.
The elderly woman smiled cheerfully and said: “She knew she’d miss you, Guy. She left this letter. You’re to read it after you get aboard your command.”
“After?” asked Maynard. “Nonsense.” He ripped the envelope and read:
Dear Guy:
I was right. You were lonely. Space must be lonely; even if for no other reason than its vastness. I’ve been told before, but I didn’t realize. You’ve been lonely, Guy, and you will be lonely again, once you are back in space. I may not keep you from loneliness there, Guy, but please, never be lonely again when at home.
Joan
“She’s a fine girl,” said Guy.
“Joan Forbes is one of the world’s finest,” said Mother Andrew positively. She was gratified to see him put the letter in an inside pocket as he left. What was in Guy’s mind, she could not guess, but she believed that he was slightly muddled, for some reason.
Guy was confused. There was something wrong with the way things went, and he was not brilliant enough to understand the trouble. He gave it up as a major problem after trying several times to unravel the tangle.
Then, too, there was no time to think about it. His problem lost importance when displayed against the program he had set out to cover.
And as the miles and the days sped by, the problem at hand became the important thing, and the other problem died in dimness. The Asterite moved swiftly out into the region beyond the Belt, and into a completely untenanted region that was marked by absolutely nothing. On his astrogator’s chart, a dotted line was labeled Neptune, but the planet itself was almost in quadrature with that position. Pluto was on the far side of Sol from him, and Saturn and Uranus were motes of unwinking light in almost-opposition to Neptune.
He was alone with his crew. They worked diligently, setting up the barrier-screen generators, and when they had them working to satisfaction, they tried variations.
>
The pilot worked upon their course day by day until it was corrected and stable; an orbit about a mythical point, the centripetal force of the outward-directed drive being in balance with the centrifugal force of their orbit. It made them a neat 1-G for stability, and did not cause them to cover astral units in seconds, or require continuous turnovers for deceleration and return, which would have been the case had no orbit been established.
Their work progressed. The neat, orderly arrangement of the scanning room became slightly haywire as they ran jury-rigged circuits in from the barrier-generators.
No petty quarreling marred their work. This was partly due to the training of the men at Patrol School, and partly due to Maynard’s foresight in picking his crew. He had done a masterful job, for in this kind of job, the tedious nature of flight was amplified, and the lack of any variation in the day’s duration, or of one day from the one past or the one coming next, made men rub each other the wrong way.
And part of it was due to the nature of the job, enigmatically. They were working on something entirely new. It was interesting to watch the results pile up, and to add to the diary of the experiment the day’s observations and the opinions of the workers.
Then as the end came in sight, the inevitable irritation flared briefly as the technician tossed his chessboard aside with a snort and stamped to his quarters. It might have started a long chain of events if a real diversion had not presented itself, right in the technician’s department.
Maynard heard the communicator snap on, and listened.
“Technician to Executive: Spacecraft approaching. Range extreme, about one point seven megs.”
“One million, seven hundred miles,” said Maynard aloud. “Technician : can you get a reading?”
“The cardex is chewing on the evidence, sir,” came the reply.
“Let me know as soon as you get the answer, Stan.”
“O.K. Here it is. It is the Loki, a private craft owned by the publisher, Kane. Want the vital statistics?”
“Forget the color of eyes, weight, and fighting trim,” smiled Maynard. “What’s his course and velocity?” “Deceleration at about 4-Gs, course within ten thousand miles of us. Velocity less than a thousand miles per second.”
“How soon can we match her speed?”
“Depends upon their willingness. Perhaps ten or twelve hours will do it,” answered Stan. “Get your astrogator on it.”
“Executive to astrogator: Have you been listening?”
“Astrogator. You bet, and Stan’s wild. Make it fourteen hours.” “Executive to pilot: Contact astrogator and follow course. Stan, will you try to contact them? I think it’s your job, since they’re at extreme range. Communications, you try with the standard sets, but I will not have any tinkering with the set-up in an effort to get another mile of range out of it.”
“This is Stan. I have them on a weakling signals, they’re asking for you.”
“Tell ’em I’m here and we’ll see ’em later. Check their course and prepare to match it. Then tell ’em to keep silence. That’s an official order. Follow?”
“Check.”
Fourteen hours later, Thomas Kane came across the intervening space in a lender and shook Maynard by the hand.
“Kane! How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“The same. But how did you find us?”
“Did a little ferreting.”
“Did you know this is restricted space?”
“Sure, but forget it. How’s the experiment?”
“Excellent.”
“Mind telling all?”
“No. We set up a barrier on the Asterite, here, and have been testing and investigating it for months, as you know.”
“Have you licked the main bugaboo?”
“We’ll never lick that one. The drive, being a type of radiation, will not pass the barrier and so will not drive us. We can not discover a range of radiation that passes outward at all, though there is some minute leakage. The latter is absolutely insufficient to do any good.” “Too bad.”
“It is. But the barrier is a good thing.”
“Oh, it’ll serve in spite of its difficulties.”
“We developed the reverse, too. In addition to the barrier, we have what we call a disperser. It is the reverse of the barrier in every way.”
“That’s interesting. You can drive through that one?”
“Yes, but that’s strictly impractical for space maneuvers. You see, both barriers are tenuous with regard to material bodies. A torpedo will pass without knowing that a barrier is there. And no ship can hope to match acceleration with a torpedo, roaring along at a hundred Gs or better. The barrier will keep a ship from detection, but it is sudden death to the ship if its presence is known. AutoMacs will bum the ship to nothing, torpedoes will enter and blast. Even misses with the, AutoMacs cause trouble because their energy goes into the barrier-sphere and remains, reflecting off of the insides of the sphere until absorbed by the ship. The trick in use is to speed up and stab with torpedoes, and then continue on your course undetected until a safe distance is covered.
“The disperser screen is opposite. It will protect against AutoMacs or any other energy. It is delectable in itself, since it reflects anything sent against it, and also passes any inside energy right out through the screen. A ship with one of those is bear-meat. The AutoMacs wouldn’t be used at all, a torpedo will be shot out to blast it from the universe. No, the disperser is useless.”
“Do torpedoes work on the barrier?”
“Not too well,” said Maynard. “You see, their aiming and steering circuits arc useless until a target is set. Since the sphere is nonradiating, the only way you can fire a torpedo into a sub-ship is to aim it well and drive it into the barrier screen by sheer aim. Once inside the screen, however, it will track the target. It will bar against drive-interferers, too. But take my word for it, there is nothing good about the disperser.”
“How about combining them?” “We had that idea, too,” laughed Maynard. “No dice.”
“Why? Seems tome—?” “When the barrier is equal to the disperser, they cancel, believe it or not. If the barrier is put inside of the disperser, the disperser can not form since the barrier also bars the radiation that sets up the disperser screen. It will also bar the idea of establishing two barriers, too, by the way. On the other hand, if the disperser is put inside of the barrier, they can be held. But—and this is a big but, Kane, energy enters the barrier, and energy emanates from the ship, and there is a stress set up in the volume between the two spheres that sets up a counter force that blows the generators right out of this universe.”
“You seem to have seen the whole works,” smiled Kane.
“You know, I can’t even see the idea of carrying this disperser equipment on a detector to go up in case of attack with AutoMacs, even if it could be made to establish instantly. Just takes up good room—the generators, I mean.” “What’s the generating time?” “Seventy-three milliseconds is the best we’ve been able to clock. That’s a close screen, and it takes considerable stability in the generators to hold it. The best barriers for distance and power establish in point one nine eight seconds. Anything beyond that would require too much holding power, anything closer requires more generator stability.”
“How does instability affect the screen?”
“Won’t hold up. It collapses, and the build-up begins from zero again. That would be dangerous.”
“You’ve been a busy boy,” smiled Kane. “Also a definite credit to us all.”
“Thanks.”
“And how do you intend to operate this thing in practice?” asked Kane. “Not attack, in defense. I mean?”
“We’ve got the thing hitched to the finders,” Maynard punched a switch. “Now, for instance, if anything that radiates comes within detector-range of us, the barrier goes on. You’ll see that everything is tacked down. We’ve been trying it out with the tenders, and the first time we did it, we went fr
ee and everything floated around the place in no-gravity. We’re now protected, and if your pilot should kick his drive, we’d go free.” Maynard adjusted three dials. “Now,” he said, “the .spotter is set to neglect any radiation from the Loki. We can set up many such channels, compensating for every ship in a flight, and yet have the whole flight protected in case of intrusion by another ship.”
“You’ve got everything all set, haven’t you?”
“Just about. If we had torpedoes, we could declare a private war on Mars.”
“Then you’re about finished?”
“Just about. Want to come in with us, or will you go in the Loki?”
“I’ll ride with you, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” smiled Guy. “Executive to Communications: Inform Loki that Kane will return with us, and to make for Terra immediately.”
“Check.”
“Well lose him,” grinned Guy. “We’re all set for 5-G.”
“He’ll take it easy, at three. I don’t mind.”
“Executive to Pilot: Take course for Terra at five!”
“Check!”
The Asterite turned and left the Loki far behind, and the velocity began to build up for the return trip. An hour later, with the Asterite bettering a hundred miles per second, the second incident occurred. It came as a complete surprise, since they were running through a restricted space, and Maynard remarked that it looked more like a public thoroughfare.
The finder-alarm clanged stridently, and immediately the ship went free. Men clutched at the handrails, and as they settled down, the technician took the communicator and started to speak excitably: “Technician to crew: Hold your hats! We’re about to be passed by the Orionad!”
“Orionad? Holy Pete!” exploded Maynard. “See that this confounded screen doesn’t fail. If it dies, so do we!”
Nomad (1944) Page 9