An emergency refueling station between the two globes was the obvious solution, so the astro-technicians said—and the asteroids provided a means to that end. Of the fourteen hundred bodies then known, only Ceres, Pallas, Vesta, and Juno were large enough to be feasible. For various reasons the latter three were rejected—though little enough was known about any of them—and Ceres, because it was the largest, and because its orbit was comparatively close to the half-way mark, became the unanimous choice. Work was begun immediately to fit the little, airless sphere for its lone inhabitant, the guard of the refueling station—and the Outpost on Ceres became an actuality.
When H.C. MacDonald sought for the man to become the first guard, Larry Damore was one of the few applicants for the job. The life on the asteroid was obviously one of the loneliest in the Solar System, and few men were willing to isolate themselves so completely—particularly young, educated men, the type H.C. MacDonald wanted. Larry was really the only applicant suited for the position—and he got it.
At his first sight of Larry Damore, interest lit up H.C. MacDonald’s eyes. Tall, lean, with a long, dark face, high cheek bones, and deep-set, gray eyes, Larry couldn’t have been called handsome. Nor was there anything very striking about him, unless it was his diffidence, his perpetual, half-apologetic self-effacement—a trait that seemed entirely out of harmony with his general appearance. Despite that, however, there was something magnetic about him, something that seized and retained the interest of an observer. It wasn’t his face . . . rather, it seemed to be something behind his face, a lurking fear, a deep-lying hurt that couldn’t be entirely suppressed. It was that more than anything else, probably, that prompted H.C. MacDonald to hear Larry’s story—and to send him to Ceres.
Summed up, Larry Damore’s tale—and the tragedy of his life—could be told in a sentence. He was a drug addict—a dope fighter. There was more to it than that, of course; and H.C. MacDonald heard it all. Larry told it simply, frankly, and without any attempt at self-justification.
His first year out of college; an excellent position in a big observatory, following the study closest to his heart—astronomy. Then had come the crash in a passenger plane, and the injury to his spine. It wasn’t incurable, but it had taken time—and the pain was incessant. They had used morphine to enable him to bear it. When he had recovered, had left the hospital, the morphine habit had persisted.
He had taken a cure but it had done no good. A second attempt had failed as dismally. Finally, he had gone north into the white wilderness of ice and snow where the drug could not be gotten—had fought his way to freedom.
A slip on the ice—a broken leg—a doctor who had administered morphine—and Larry Damore was back at the bottom. Now, applying for a job in the lonely emptiness of interplanetary space, he was making one more attempt to regain his manhood.
Despite his gruff exterior, H.C. MacDonald had a heart as big as his own great body; and when Larry Damore finished his low-voiced story, he gazed at him in tight-lipped silence, a strange light in his squinting eyes. Then his big hand gripped Larry’s shoulder.
“Lad,” he said quietly, “the job’s yours. An’ I hope—I hope—you’ll pull through!”
THREE months on Ceres! Larry Damore laughed shortly. Three months, as time was reckoned on earth, he had been alone on this barren little world. Three months of—hell!
First, the struggle with his desire for a narcotic. He could smile at it now, a little grimly, perhaps, but it hadn’t been amusing; no! His features stiffened as he thought of the hell-fire of desire like the concentrated thirst of a Sahara that had tortured every inch of him. But that was past now, the drug-craze subjugated—at least for the present.
Loneliness had followed—the burden of utter solitude. He was alone on an airless mass of rock where there was no movement save his movements, no sounds but those that he brought into being—and the latter only within the two rooms of his air-tight, air charged metal dwelling. Loneliness . . . he had never before realized the meaning of the word. But he knew now; knew what it meant to be startled by the sound of his own voice suddenly breaking the dead silence; knew the horror of a solitude that caused him to raise fevered eyes and hands to an unresponsive expanse of star-flecked blackness and plead for the sound of another human voice.
The drug had undermined his brain and body; weakness had made his isolation the more terrifying.
To occupy his thoughts during the first two months, he had explored the entire surface of the asteroid, removing some of the ballast from the feet of his space-suit, and bounding over the jagged world in tremendous soaring leaps. He had spent countless hours in inspecting the huge, squat, drum-shaped tank that held the compressed fuel-gases, familiarizing himself with every detail of its construction. He had sat for endless days before the ultra-short wave visaphone, listening for voices out in space—voices that did not come. He had read and reread books; he had tried to write a record of his excursions about the asteroid. But all had palled after a time.
Only his interest in astronomy had remained constant. During each of the short but frequent Ceresian nights he spent some time in the open beneath his portable refracting telescope, studying the heavens under conditions that were ideal. Observation was excellent even during the day, but he preferred the utter blackness of night.
This interest, he believed, had saved his sanity during those early weeks; now the suffering from his loneliness, like the drug habit, was largely a thing of the past. Three months without morphine had freed his body of its blight—forever, he hoped. His reactions to his environment had become those of a normal human being. His craving for companionship was no longer a mania.
Abruptly, with a half-impatient shake of his head, Larry rose to his feet. He had to guard against those ever-recurring thoughts of his solitude; they could make his lonely life no easier—and they would make it harder. He crossed the room to one of the thick, circular, convex windows—then suddenly whirled, startled.
Clang . . . clang . . . clang! Loud, clamorous, the bell tone rang through the boxlike chamber. A pause; then it came again. Clang . . . clang . . . clang! An instant’s hesitation, and Larry sprang toward the far wall.
Three notes—the distress signal! A message coming in on the Universal wave-length. He crouched before the powerful visaphone, tense fingers adjusting the instrument, transferring the message from the recording discs to the televisor screen. The rectangle of white glowed momentarily—then the control room of a space cruiser flashed into view.
A stern-faced figure stood stifflegged in the foreground, despairing eyes staring into Larry’s. Behind him a blue-clad pilot struggled with a bank of controls. Larry caught the frantic flow of words in the midst of his plea for aid.-
“—rushing through space directly in our path. We’ve tried to avoid it, but it’s too big—we saw it too late—we haven’t a chance. The meteor will strike in a very few moments.
“The passengers are in air-tight compartments in the base of the ship. If we aren’t completely smashed, they may escape. Rush a rescue cruiser out here to pick up survivors.”
A short pause, then: “Private E.V. & M. cruiser Helios, bound from Mars to Callisto on a diplomatic visit. Following space-route 31, passing over asteroid belt. Pilot Banning speaking. We’ve entered the path of a huge meteor—”
With a single, sweeping motion Larry returned the message to the recording discs and closed the switch that lit up the tubes of a transmitter. His own strained figure and voice flashed through the void on the Universal wave-length.
“Space ship Helios—space ship Helios! Larry Damore speaking from Outpost on Ceres. Have your message. Am relaying it to Mars. Starting at once for Route 31.”
Twice he repeated this, then switched the current back to the televisor screen. There was no sound save static; and the white rectangle stared blankly. Larry’s throat was dry. There was death out there in the silence—sudden death.
Abruptly he spun away from the silent televisor; faced
the transmitter. Adjusting it to the restricted wavelength of the E.V. & M. Lines, he reported the fate of the Helios, repeating the message again and again till he was certain it had reached listeners on Mars or earth. Help would come in the fastest ship in space—he was certain of it.
With a final check over the instrument board, Larry cut off all current except that of the emergency recorder and distress bell, and climbed into a massive space suit. A cross between a diver’s suit and armor, it looked intolerably heavy; but in the weak gravitation of Ceres, with only one ten-thousandth of the mass of earth, it was almost weightless.
After testing his air-purifier, he passed through a vacuum chamber and paused an instant on the meteoric dust and jagged rocks of Ceres. Directly before him lay the huge fuel-gas tank, and close beside it, overshadowed by its great bulk, were two small, metal buildings—one, housing the dynamos that generated his electricity; the other, the hangar for his two-passenger cruiser. A single bound carried him across the intervening space; and a minute later he was seated at the control board of his craft.
A high-pitched roar burst from the base of the blunt nosed cylinder, and it tore through the opening in the hangar’s roof, out into the blackness. Up it shot at right angles to the plane of the ecliptic, up, until it passed the orbit of even the most eccentric asteroid—above the asteroid belt. Then, studying his space chart, Larry headed toward Space-route 31 at maximum acceleration.
For the moment the controls needed no attention; it gave him a chance to think. He glanced into the gloom at a passing asteroid, and smiled mirthlessly. He had something to do now, something beside killing time. And perhaps he’d have human companions for a while—if any had survived the wreck . . .
His plans for the night had gone awry. Down there somewhere in the asteroid belt, Vesta, smaller only than Pallas and Ceres, was moving slowly toward the latter. Their orbits would not intersect, but in seventeen hours they would make their closest approach to each other. He had intended studying the other asteroid, for, viewed from earth, Vesta, 240 miles in diameter, was three times as brilliant as Ceres, though Ceres was twice its size. Ever since its discovery in 1807 Vesta had been a mystery to terrestrial astronomers—and Larry had hoped to solve the enigma of its unnatural brilliancy.
He shrugged. What did it matter? There would be other opportunities. And somewhere before him in the blackness men and women might be drifting helplessly about in a battered derelict waiting for Vividly he pictured the tragedy of the Helios; vividly he saw fellow beings writhing in suffocation . . . And for an instant he longed for a “shot” of morphine . . . Then cursed himself for his weakness.
After a time Larry’s thoughts struck off on another tangent. The Helios. That name seemed familiar. He repeated it aloud, but though that sense of familiarity remained, he could associate it with nothing tangible.
On and on his craft sped, with Larry peering steadily ahead into the starry firmament. Occasionally he would glance at his space-chart and adjust his course to conform with his readings. Skillfully handled charges shot from lateral vents could correct any minute deviation from the route set by the chart. And the latter was practically infallible, for, with delicately balanced pointers that were controlled by variations of the gravitational pull of every body in the System, it could only fail through the faulty human element that entered into its construction.
The flight to Route 31 seemed almost endless to the taut nerves of Larry Damore, though actually it required a little less than four hours.
But he reached it finally, and began the search for the wrecked Helios, a wide, powerful beam of white radiance spreading from the nose of his flier.
His discovery of the drifting derelict after a long and futile quest was the result of good fortune rather than design. He had traversed many miles of Space-route 31, moving toward both Mars and Callisto, without catching a glimpse of the Helios. Despairing, at last, he had sent his craft careening aimlessly through space—and his beam of light had been reflected from an irregular metal surface far to the right.
Instantly he realized why he had missed the cruiser, and berated himself for his stupidity. The velocity of the meteor had been so great that it had borne the Helios along with it for some distance. Momentum had carried it racing in the meteor’s wake.
A few minutes of careful maneuvering—and he was beside the wreck, following the same course, and moving with identical speed, coasting with rocket charges cut off.
The Helios was in a deplorable state. The fore part had been torn away completely, and the rest of it, except for a small section near the base, had been crushed into a shapeless hulk. Larry surveyed it gloomily. It seemed absurd to imagine that anyone could be alive in that ruin. But he had to be certain—though he dreaded to see the results of sudden death that the Helios was sure to reveal.
With an impatient shake of his head he prepared to visit the derelict. Securing a long, coiled steel cable from a supply chest, he let it unwind, then carried it through the airlock into space. Drifting along beside the boat, propelling himself by means of regularly spaced hand grips, he reached its base, and fastened the cable to a large metal ring put there for that purpose.
Then placing his feet against the side of the space flier, his head pointing toward the Helios, the end of the unwound cable held in one hand, he kicked vigorously. In an unwavering line he shot toward the wreck. Almost upon it, he swung on the cable, and with out-thrust feet checked his flight. A moment later he floated through an irregular rift in the walls and set foot on the battered cruiser.
After fastening the cable securely, anchoring the space boats together, he looked around him. Luxurious furniture floated aimlessly about, its motion maintained by occasional collisions with the walls. Amid the wreckage drifted the lifeless body of a tall, frail, pink-skinned Martian. Blood had gushed from his long nose and wide, pendulous ears, and great, ugly ruptures had torn his skin. With the sudden loss of atmospheric pressure, the man had literally burst! Sickened, Larry turned his eyes away.
A wave of weakness swept over him. He glanced back toward the aperture in the wall. It was foolish to waste time in this derelict. They were all dead—must be. He could turn back—His lip curled in derision. Hell of a brave man he was! Savagely he pushed against the wall and floated through a doorway into the next room.
A sudden gasp of surprise and relief escaped him as he glanced across this chamber—a dining salon. Floating toward him were two figures in space suits! And they were alive!
In his excitement Larry called a greeting—then realized its futility, and waved. The approaching figures waved in turn, and a moment later joined him. A gloved hand caught Larry’s and gripped it tensely. A handsome face—too handsome, Larry thought—stared into his, and full lips framed the words!
“LORD, but I’m glad to see you! . . . We’re alone—the only survivors.”
Larry swung his gaze to the other figure; and he was looking at a woman—small, piquant, blonde-haired. Her blue eyes stared from beneath tear-reddened lids, alight with dawning recognition.
“Marcia MacDonald!” Larry exclaimed. She smiled wanly; and her lips said, “Larry.” Then pointing to herself and her companion, she indicated that there were none living beside themselves.
Nodding, Larry waved toward the doorway through which he had come. With one accord they propelled themselves into the adjoining room and from there to the outside. Following Larry’s example, they drew themselves hand over hand along the steel cable toward the space-flier.
The thoughts of Larry Damore were in a turmoil. Marcia MacDonald out here in space! The irony of it! The daughter of H.C. MacDonald—she must be his daughter, for the Helios, he remembered now, was the big boss’s private cruiser. And she was the girl he loved, had hoped to marry—before his downfall!
He had met her in college, and had loved her from the first. He had been on the verge of proposing marriage when his accident had occurred—and he had seen her for the last time when she had visited him in the
hospital . . . He couldn’t very well ask her to be his wife now, could he? Larry Damore, a dope fighter—and the daughter of H.C. MacDonald! He grinned bitterly, a rebellious light creeping into his eyes. It would be pleasant to associate with her under the circumstances, pleasant—as hell!
Reaching Larry’s craft, the three passed through the airlock into the cramped interior. When the pressure gauge registered “normal,” they removed their spherical isol-glass helmets.[1]
The instant she could talk, Marcia MacDonald cried with some of her characteristic lightness:
“Larry Damore—you—out here in space!”
Larry nodded somberly. “Working for your father, Miss MacDonald. The guard of the emergency refueling station on Ceres.”
“Well, it was lucky for us that you were here, for if you hadn’t been—” Marcia’s attempt at a smile failed dismally.
“Yes, old man,” her companion interposed, “you came when we needed you most. Our oxygen supply would have lasted about ten hours longer; then—we’d have gone the way of Darec Plnov and Na Gertswa, our Martian fellow-travellers.” The man’s expression was cordial enough, but his friendliness seemed somewhat forced. Perhaps, Larry thought, he had not liked the fact that Marcia knew him.
Rather stiffly he answered, “I’m glad I could help you, Mr.—”
“Ray Starke!” Marcia concluded quickly. “Sorry—I should have introduced you two. But I’m afraid I’m not quite myself just now.”
Larry smiled deprecatingly and gazed out through an isol-glass porthole at the shattered Helios. His attitude became suddenly businesslike.
“Are you certain, Miss MacDonald, that there were no other survivors?”
“Absolutely certain,” Starke answered for her. “You see, this wasn’t an ordinary passenger cruise. It’s Mr. MacDonald’s private car which we were using for a—a diplomatic trip to Callisto. The Callistonians are a peaceful people, according to the Ganymedians, so Mr. MacDonald permitted his daughter to represent him. I am the agent for the smaller stockholders; and the two Martians were emissaries from their branch of the company. Venus, of course, had no official representation. Beside the four of us there were only the members of the crew—two pilots, a cook and his roustabout. All of the crew were carried away by the meteor, and the Martians, because they didn’t think space suits were necessary, were killed instantly. We’re the only ones left.” Larry turned toward the control board. “Such being the case,” he said, “I believe we’d better be heading for Ceres. Your father will be worried about you, Miss MacDonald; I want to relieve his mind as quickly as possible.”
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