The best of e e doc smi.., p.14
The Best of E.E. Doc Smith, page 14
Thus, when Cloud cut his Bergenholm, restoring thereby to the flitter the absolute velocity and inertia she had had before going free, there resulted a distinctly anti-climactic crash.
There was a last terrific bump as the motionless vessel collided with the equally motionless ground; and "Storm" Cloud, vortex blaster, went out like the proverbial light.
Help came, of course; and on the double. The pilot was unconscious and the flitter's door could not be opened from the outside, but those were not insuperable obstacles. A plate, already loose, was sheared away; the pilot was carefully lifted out of his prison and rushed to Base Hospital in the "meat-can" already in attendance.
And later, in a private office of that hospital" the greyclad Chief of the Atomic Research Laboratory sat and waited-but not patiently.
"How is he, Lacy?" he demanded, as the Surgeon-General entered the room. "He's going to live" isn't he?" "Oh, yes, Phil-definitely yes," Lacy replied, briskly. "He has a good skeleton, very good indeed. The burns are superficial and will yield quite readily to treatment. The deeper, delayed effects of the radiation to which he was exposed can be neutralized entirely effectively. Thus he will not need even a Phillip's treatment for the replacement of damaged parts" except possibly for a few torn muscles and so on." "But he was smashed up pretty badly, wasn't he? I know that he had a broken arm and a broken leg, at least." "Simple fractures only-entirely negligible." Lady waved aside with an airy gesture such small ills as broken bones.
"He'll be out in a few weeks." "How soon can I see him?" the Lensman-physicist asked. "There are some important things to take up with him, and I've got a personal message for him that I must give him as soon as possible."
Lacy pursed his lips. Then: "You may see him now," be decided. "He is conscious, and strong enough. Not too long, though, Phil-fifteen minutes at most." "QX, and thanks," and a nurse led the visiting Lensman to Cloud's bedside.
"Hi, Stupe!" he boomed, cheerfully. "Stupe' being short for stupendous, not 'stupid."' "Hi, Chief. Glad to see somebody. Sit down." "You're the most-wanted man in the Galaxy," the visitor informed the invalid, "not excepting even Kimball Kinnison.
Look at this spool of tape, and it's only the first one. I brought it along for you to read at your leisure. As soon as any planet finds out that we've got a sure-enough vortex blower-outer, an expert who can really call his shots-and the news travels mighty fast-that planet sends in a double urgent, Class A-Prime demand for first call upon your services.
"Sirius IV got in first by a whisker, it seems, but Aldebaran II was so close a second that it was a photo finish" and all the channels have been jammed ever since. Canopus, Vega, Rigel, Spica. They all want you.
Everybody from Alsakan to Vandemar and back. We told them right off that we would not receive personal delegations-we had to almost throw a couple of pink-haired Chickladorians out bodily to make them believe that we meant it-and that the age and condition of the vortex involved, not priority or requisition, would govern, QX?" "Absolutely," Cloud agreed. "That's the only way it could be, I should think." "So forget about this psychic trauma.... No, I don't mean that," the Lensman corrected himself hastily.
"You know what I mean. The will to live is the most important factor in any man's recovery, and too many worlds need you too badly to have you quit now. Not?" "I suppose so," Cloud acquiesced, but somberly. "I'll get out of here in short order. And I'll keep on pecking away until one of those vortices finishes what this one started." "You'll die of old age then, son"" the Lensman assured him. "We got full data-all the information we need. We know exactly what to do to your screens. Next time nothing will come through except light, and only as much of that as you feel like admitting. You can wait as close to a vortex as you please, for as long as you please; until you get exactly the activity and time-interval that you want. You will be just as comfortable and just as safe as though you were home in bed." "Sure of that?" "Absolutely-or at least, as sure as we can be of anything that hasn't happened yet. But I see that your guardian angel here is eyeing her clock somewhat pointedly, so I'd better be doing a flit before they toss me down a shaft. Clear ether, Storm!" "Clear ether, Chief!" And that is how "Storm" Cloud, atomic physicist, became the most narrowly-specialized specialist in all the annals of science: how he became "Storm" Cloud, Vortex Blaster-the Galaxy's only vortex blaster.
TEDRIC
Aided by Llosir, his strange, new god, Tedric enters into battle with Sarpedion, the sacrifice-demanding god of Lomarr in this story of science and swash-buckling adventure.
"The critical point in time of mankind's whole existence is there-RIGHT THERE!" Prime Physicist Skandos slashed his red pencil across the black trace of the chronoviagram. "WHY must man be so stupid? Anyone with three brain cells working should know that for the strength of an individual he should be fed; not bled; that for the strength of a race its virgins should be bred, not sacrificed to propitiate figmental deities. And it would be so easy to straighten things out-nowhere in all reachable time does any other one man occupy such a tremendously-such a uniquelykeystone position!" "Easy, yes," his assistant Furmin agreed. "It is a shame to let Tedric die with not one of his tremendous potentialities realized. It would be easy and simple to have him discover carburization and the necessary techniques of heat-treating. That freak meteorite need not lie there unsmelted for another seventy years.
However, simple carburization was not actually discovered until two generations later, by another smith in another nation; and you know, Skandos, that there can be no such thing as a minor interference with the physical events of the past. Any such, however small-seeming, is bound to be castastrophically major." "I know that." Skandos scowled blackly. "We don't know enough about time. We don't know what would happen.
We have known how to do it for a hundred years, but have been afraid to act because in all that time no progress whatever has been made on the theory." He paused, then went on savagely: "But which is better, to have our entire time-track snapped painlessly out of existence-if the extremists are right-or to sit helplessly on our fat rumps wringing our hands while we watch civilization build up to its own total destruction by lithiumtritiide bombs? Look at the slope of that curve-ultimate catastrophe is only one hundred eighty seven years away!" "But the Council would not permit it. Nor would the School." "I know that, too. That is why I am not going to ask them. Instead, I am asking you. We two know more of time than any others. Over the years I have found your judgment good. With your approval I will act now.
Without it" we will continue our futile testing-number eight hundred eleven is running now, I believe?-and our aimless drifting."
"You are throwing the entire weight of such a decision on me?" "In one sense, yes. In another" only half, since I have already decided." "Go ahead." "So be it." "Tedric, awaken!" The Lomarrian ironmaster woke up; not gradually and partially, like one of our soft modern urbanites" but instantaneously and completely, as does the mountain wildcat. At one instant he lay, completely relaxed, sound asleep; at the next he had sprung out of bed, seized his sword and leaped halfway across the room.
Head thrown back, hard blue eyes keenly alert, sword-arm rock-steady he stood there, poised and ready. Beautifully poised, upon the balls of both feet; supremely ready to throw into action every inch of his six-feet-four, every pound of his two hundred-plus of hard meat, gristle, and bone. So standing, the smith stared motionlessly at the shimmering, almost invisible thing hanging motionless in the air of his room, and at its equally tenuous occupant.
"I approve of you, Tedric." The thing-apparition whatever it was-did not speak, and the Lomarrian did not hear; the words formed themselves in the innermost depths of his brain. "While you perhaps are a little frightened, you are and have been completely in control. Any other man of your nation-yes, of your world-would have been scared out of what few wits he has."
"You are not one of ours, Lord," Tedric went to one knee. He knew, of course, that gods and devils existed; and, while this was the first time that a god had sought him out personally, he had heard of such happenings al! his life.
Since the god hadn't killed him instantly, he probably didn't intend to-right away, at least. Hence: "No god of Lomarr approves of me. Also, our gods are solid and heavy. What do you want of me, strange god?" "I'm not a god. If you could get through this grill, you could cut off my head with your sword and I would die." "Of course. So would Sar..." Tedric broke off in the middle of the word.
"I see. It is dangerous to talk?" "Very. Even though a man is alone, the gods and hence the priests who serve them have power to hear.
Then the man lies on the green rock and loses his brain, liver, and heart." "You will not be overheard. I have power enough to see to that." Tedric remained silent.
"I understand your doubt. Think, then; that will do just as well. What is it that you are trying to do?" "I wonder how I can hear when there is no sound, but men cannot understand the powers of gods. I am trying to find or make a metal that is very hard, but not brittle. Copper is no good, I cannot harden it enough. My soft irons are too soft, my hard irons are too brittle; my in-betweens and the melts to which I add various flavorings have all been either too soft or too brittle, or both." "I gathered that such was your problem. Your wrought iron is beautiful stuff; so is your white cast iron; and you would not, ordinarily, in your lifetime, come to know anything of either carburization or high-alloy steel, to say nothing of both. I know exactly what you want, and I can show you exactly how to make it." "You can, Lord?" The smith's eyes flamed. "And you will?" "That is why I have come to you, but whether or not I will teach you depends on certain matters which I have not been able entirely to clarify. What do you want it for that is, what, basically, is your aim?" "Our greatest god, Sarpedion, is wrong and I intend to kill him." Tedric's eyes flamed more savagely, his terrifically muscled body tensed.
"Wrong? In what way?" "In every way!" In the intensity of his emotion the smith spoke aloud. "What good is a god who only kills and injures? What a nation needs, Lord, is people-people working together and not afraid. How can we of Lomarr ever attain comfort and happiness if more die each year than are born? We are too few. All of us-except the priests, of course-must work unendingly to obtain only the necessities of life."
"This bears out my findings. If you make high-alloy steel, exactly what will you do with it?" "If you give me the god-metal, Lord, I will make of it a sword and armor-a sword sharp enough and strong enough to cut through copper or iron without damage; armor strong enough so that swords of copper or iron cannot cut through it. They must be so because I will have to cut my way alone through a throng of armed and armored mercenaries and priests." "Alone? Why?" "Because I cannot call in help; cannot let anyone know my goal. Any such would lie on the green stone very soon.
They suspect me; perhaps they know. I am, however, the best smith in all Lomarr, hence they have slain me not.
Nor will they, until I have found what I seek. Nor then, if by the favor of the gods-or by your favor, Lord-the metal be good enough." "It will be, but there's a lot more to fighting a platoon of soldiers than armor and a sword, my optimistic young savage." "That the metal be of proof is all I ask, Lord," the smith insisted, stubbornly. "The rest of it lies in my care." "So be it. And then?"
"Sarpedion's image, as you must already know, is made of stone, wood, copper, and gold-besides the jewels, of course. I take his brain, liver, and heart, flood them with oil, and sacrifice them...." "Just a Minute! Sarpedion is not alive and never has been; does not, as a matter of fact, exist. You just said, yourself, that his image was made of stone and copper and...." "Don't be silly, Lord. Or art testing me? Gods are spirits; bound to their images, and in a weaker way to their priests, by linkages of spirit force. Life force, it could be called. When those links are broken, by fire and sacrifice, the god may not exactly die, but he can do no more of harm until his priests have made a new image and spent much time and effort in building up new linkages. One point now settled was bothering me; what god to sacrifice him to. I'll make an image for you to inhabit, Lord, and sacrifice him to you, my strange new god. You will be my only god as long as I live. What is your name, Lord? I can't keep on calling you 'strange god' forever." "My name is Skandos." "S... Sek... That word rides ill on the tongue. With your permission, Lord, I will call you Llosir." " Call me anything you like, except a god. I am not a god.
"You are being ridiculous, Lord Llosir," Tedric chided. "What a man sees with his eyes, hears with his ears-especially what a man hears without ears, as I hear now-he knows with certain knowledge to be the truth.
No mere man could possibly do what you have done, to say naught of what you are about to do." "Perhaps not an ordinary man of your..." Skandos almost said "time," but caught himself "... of your culture, but I am ordinary enough and moral enough in my own." "Well, that could be said of all gods, everywhere." The smith's mien was quiet and unperturbed; his thought was loaded to saturation with unshakable conviction.
Skandos gave up. He could argue for a week, he knew" without making any impression whatever upon what the stubborn, hard-headed Tedric knew so unalterably to be the truth.
"But just one thing, Lord," Tedric went on with scarcely a break. "Have I made it clear that I intend to stop human sacrifice? That there is to be no more of it, even to you? We will offer you anything else-anything else-but not even your refusal to give me the god-metal will change my stand on that." "Good! See to it that nothing ever does change it. As to offerings or sacrifices, there are to be none, of any kind. I do not need, I do not want" I will not have any such. That is final. Act accordingly.
"Yes, Lord. Sarpedion is a great and powerful god, but art sure that his sacrifice alone will establish linkages strong enough to last for all time?"
Skandos almost started to argue again, but checked himself. After all, the proposed sacrifice was necessary for Tedric and his race, and it would do no harm.
"Sarpedion will be enough. And as for the image, that isn't necessary, either." "Art wrong, Lord. Without image and temple, everyone would think you a small, weak god, which thought can never be. Besides, the image might make it easier for me to call on you in time of need." "You can't call me. Even if I could receive your call, which is very doubtful, I wouldn't answer it. If you ever see me or hear from me again, it will be because I wish it, not you." Skandos intended this for a clincher, but it didn't turn out that way." "Wonderful!" Tedric exclaimed. "All gods act that way, in spite of what they-through their priests-say. I am overwhelmingly glad that you are being honest with me. Hast found me worthy of the god-metal, Lord Llosir?" "Yes, so let's get at it. Take that biggest chunk of 'metal-which-fell-from-the-sky'-you'll find it's about twice your weight...." "But I have never been able to work that particular piece of metal, Lord." "I'm not surprised. Ordinary meteorites are nickel-iron, but this one carries two additional and highly unusual elements, tungsten and vanadium, which are necessary for our purpose. To melt it you'll have to run your fires a lot hotter. You'll also have to have a carburizing pot and willow charcoal and metallurgical coke and several other things. We'll go into details later. That green stone from which altars are made-you can secure some of it?" "Any amount of it." "Of it take your full weight. And of the black ore of which you have occasionally used a little, one-fourth of your weight...." The instructions went on, from ore to finished product in complete detail, and at its end: "If you follow these directions carefully you will have a high-alloy-steel-chrome-nickel-vanadium-molybdenumtungsten steel, to be exact-case-hardened and heat treated; exactly what you need. Can you remember them all?" "I can, Lord. Never have I dared write anything down" so my memory is good. Every quantity you have given me, every temperature and step and process and item; they are all completely in mind." "I go" then. Good-bye." "I thank you, Lord Llosir. Good-bye." The Lomarrian bowed his head, and when he straightened up his incomprehensible visitor was gone.
Tedric went back to bed; and" strangely enough, was almost instantly asleep. And in the morning after his customary huge breakfast of meat and bread and milk, he went to his sprawling establishment, which has no counterpart in modern industry" and called his foreman and his men together before they began the day's work.
"A strange god named Llosir came to me in the night and showed me how to make better iron," he told them in perfectly matter-of-fact fashion, "so stop whatever you're doing and tear the whole top off of the big furnace. I'll tell you exactly bow to rebuild it." The program as outlined by Skandos went along without a hitch until the heat from the rebuilt furnace began to come blisteringly through the crude shields. Then even the foreman, faithful as he was, protested against such unheard-of temperatures and techniques.
"It must be that way!" Tedric insisted. "Run more rods across, from there to there, to hold more hides and blankets.
You four men fetch water. Throw it over the hides and blankets and him who turns the blower. Take shorter tricks in the hot places-here, I'll man the blower myself until the heat wanes somewhat."
He bent his mighty back to the crank, but even in that raging inferno of heat he kept on talking.
"Knowst my iron sword, the one I wear" with rubies in the hilt?" he asked the foreman. That worthy did, with longing; to buy it would take six months of a foreman's pay. "This furnace must stay this hot all day and all of tonight, and there are other things as bad. But 'twill not take long. Ten days should see the end of it"-,actually seven days was the schedule, but Tedric did not want the priests to know that "but for those ten days matters must go exactly as I say. Work with me until this iron is made and I give you that sword. And of all the others who shirk not, each will be given an iron sword-this in addition to your regular pay. Dost like the bargain?" They liked it.
Then, during the hours of lull, in which there was nothing much to do except keep the furious fires fed, Tedric worked upon the image of his god. While the Lomarrian was neither a Phidias nor a Praxiteles, he was one of the finest craftsmen of his age. He had not, however, had a really good look at Skandos' face. Thus the head of the image, although it was a remarkably good piece of sculpture, looked more like that of Tedric's foreman than like that of the real Skandos. And with the head, any resemblance at all to Skandos ceased. The rest of the real Skandos was altogether too small and too pitifully weak to be acceptable as representative of any Lomarrian's god; hence the torso and limbs of the gleaming copper statue were wider, thicker, longer, bigger, and even more fantastically muscled than were Tedric's own. Also, the figure was hollow; filled with sand throughout except for an intricately carved grey sandstone brain and red-painted hardwood liver and heart.
