The complete fiction, p.28
The Complete Fiction, page 28
“Stations attention,” Wythe ordered crisply. “Trim off—”
From beyond the bulkhead came the rising roar of Rexdallians pushed to their limit. Emergency and instrument lamps dimmed with the terrific drain of current from spent batteries. Before Wythe’s eyes shield amplitude indicators crept up as the converters fought back the encroaching substratum. Men were rigid with the concentration of those who literally hold their lives in their hands. But Wythe’s indicators moved steadily toward the green line of safety that marked conversion potential. Seconds more—
A SCUFF of sound, where had been taut silence, brought Wythe’s head around. Sanger stood in the doorway, a crooked grin on his face, the paralysis gun lifted. No one budged. And as the W-12 hung upon the very threshold of safety, Sanger fired. A trimmer swayed, fell stiffly, locked fingers spinning about his condenser control before they tore free.
The roar of Rexdallians at once became a shriek, that ended abruptly with the crash of opening circuit breakers. Without warning emergency bulbs flickered out. From out of the darkness Elston’s voice rang urgently.
“Half the C.C. shields burnt out, sir. Can’t hold the rest more than thirty seconds.”
“All hands to the engine compartment,” Wythe ordered. “Park, see that your casualty case is brought along. Sanger, you’d better come, too.”
A pale beam of light shot across the C.C. Benson had found a battery lamp. He and another man lifted the paralyzed trimmer. The lamp swung from Benson’s wrist, shot random light upon familiar controls and instruments, which probably none of them would ever see again.
Upon the ceiling plates forward a black spot was spreading rapidly.
“Squeeze!” Wythe announced. “Hurry it.” He counted seven men through the bulkhead door. “Last chance, Sanger!”
Darkness and silence mocked him, then a brittle snapping as a stress-beam gave way before the squeeze. Wythe flashed around the lamp Benson had left him. The C.C. looked ghostly; the black pall of disintegration was spreading swiftly. He entered the engine compartment, dogged the door shut behind him.
Two small bulbs threw huge the shadows of silent blast turbines and alternators. With Elston, Wythe inspected the Rexdallians, one silenced forever when a disintegration wave had struck the gun room shield and fed back. Its armature was half disintegrated. The other two were running hot.
“Think they’d carry a normal trim load now, Elston?” Wythe shouted above the racket.
“Not overheated like they are, sir. That potential warp we had nearly blew them. And they ain’t cooling—we’ve got shorts in the engine room shield, and every one of them takes ten times the juice a good unit would, without carrying any pressure. We can’t shut down one Rex at a time because with all those shorts it takes both to carry the load. They’ll just about hold up until more shields break down.”
There was no more to be said. Those who had listened to Elston’s ultimatum turned away with a fatalistic calm and sat down wherever they could find room. Some closed their eyes, others stared apathetically into space. Wythe could think of nothing to tell them, but he was unable to share their stolid resignation. He felt tinglingly alive now that death seemed close.
Elston had said “until,” not “unless.” It was inevitable that more shield units, some of them probably already damaged, would fail. How long? Should he, Wythe, put to a vote the alternative of opening the shield circuits? It would be over quickly—
He paused before the roaring converters, their hot blast in his face. The atmosphere was stifling, fox-coolers had been shut off to save energy. Like the men, he was sweating profusely.
The ammeters showed a tremendous drain. Obviously current was pouring into short-circuited units, but as the latter were wired in banks, it was impossible to cut out one without cutting out several, which would immediately result in a squeeze. Nor was it possible to tell, from within the ship, just which were the damaged units. Affixed to the outer hull as their purpose required, they were replaceable only from outside the ship.
Wythe beckoned Elston to him. “Break out your spare units. We’ll replace the bad ones.”
“From outside? My God, sir, you can’t ask a man to try that. There’ll be more going any minute.”
“I’m asking no one,” Wythe retorted. “Get me the units.”
Elston hurried off. The quartermaster, Park, arose and approached Wythe. “I’m willing to try it, sir.”
“Thanks, Park. We’ll both go—there’s no time to lose.”
THEIR PREPARATIONS were simple—the spare coils hung about their shoulders, heavy rubber gloves on their hands, a flashlight fastened to one wrist and a terminal wrench to the other. Nobody spoke as the outer hatch was opened. Eardrums snapped with the drop in pressure as air rushed out to fill the space shield. In normal space the opening of the hatch would have been fatal, but here air could escape only to the extent of the static membrane dividing space from subspace, an inflexible “skin,” rigid as subspace itself, impermeable to matter, yet utterly dependent upon the Rexdallian shield for its existence. It was this membrane that prohibited the use of rockets or blast turbines, the exhausts from which would build up an external pressure, crushing the ship.
Along the hand grips Wythe crept up the curved hull. By their own faint glow he could see the shield units, extending in a narrow girdle around the ship—a girdle the width of the engine room. Where their pattern was broken were the burnt-out units. He threw the beam of his lamp along the hull. Fore and aft darkness engulfed the light. The proud length of the W-12 was no more. This maimed midsection was all that remained of the trim subship.
Wythe tore the feed wires free from the nearest dead unit. They came away with a blazing red arc. He ripped out the shorted coil, bolted down a new one, and connected it. Twenty feet away Park was similarly busy.
On his eighth replacement Wythe noticed, from the corner of his eye, a brief upflare in the glow of a neighboring unit. Instantly he flung himself flat as the glow went dead. Gingerly he drew his knees up under him, and found hips and chest were pinned close to the hull by the static membrane, which had formed anew only a few inches above the plates when the nearby unit went dead, and was now maintained by the thin, overlapping field of surrounding units. Had he not fallen flat he would have been decapitated by the sudden collapse of the old field.
Wriggling desperately, he struck his head a solid, mind-shattering blow against the empty blackness above. For a moment he lay quiet, recovering from nausea. The pressure on his chest robbed him of breath. Trying again, he found he could not move an inch.
Then, cursing his stupidity, he realized he could open the vise that held him simply by replacing the defective unit two feet away. Savagely he tore it free, jammed a new one into place. The instant it was connected the relentless pressure upon him lifted.
From then on he lay flat and crawled from unit to unit. Two more winked out while he worked, but at some distance from him. Park had worked his way downward under the battery room, and was out of sight, when four blows rang against the hull from within, Wythe tapped an answering signal with his wrench.
Before crawling back he flashed his lamp over what had been the C.C. bulkhead, now aglow with emergency shield units. There was, of course, no more Central Control. Hull plates ended in smooth edges eighteen inches from the bulkhead.
Wedged down there between a girder and a manifold was the inert body of a man.
Sanger! The first officer must have reached the safety of the bulkhead shield at the last moment, either to make a last bid for life—or to take the others with him to death by wrecking the shield units.
WYTHE crawled down the manifold. Sanger’s eyes were closed; his left arm had been cut off by the collapse of the C.C. field. A slow jetting of blood from severed arteries told Wythe that the man was still alive. He pulled the limp body free, wriggled with it across the narrow ledge that was left of the floor plates, and pounded upon the bulkhead door until Elston opened.
“Park is safe, sir. Glad you’re back—one of the Rex’s is pretty bad—”
The electrician stopped. Others crowded forward to stare tight-lipped at Wythe’s burden.
“Benson, see what you can do for him,” he ordered. “We’ll look at the Rex, Elston.”
In the roar of one converter there was an ominous undertone. Its chrome beryl bearings were a dull red. Smoke wreathed its whirling armature, and the air stank of overheated varnish.
“The other ain’t so bad,” Elston explained, “but this one took most of that potential warp load forward.”
Wythe considered. The shaft would seize any moment; the sudden stoppage might strip the armature clean.
“We’ll shut this one down—at once,” he decided. “Take a chance on the last one carrying us, now that the shorted units are cut out. We’ll let this one cool, then use both, and the rest of our power, to pull back to normal trim—”
He had had to shout to make himself heard above the drone of the machines, and now he saw the eyes of every man upon him, felt the sharp impact of fear-ridden thought. To cut out one converter would leave a shield extending scant inches from the hull—thinner still between units—and anywhere the possibility of a squeeze.
They watched tensely as Elston gripped the switch, and at a nod from Wythe, pulled it. Instantly the hum of the single converter still running settled to a deep-toned roar.
From Elston, whose eyes turned anxiously toward the overloaded machine, came the dread cry: “Squeeze portside!”
All saw it then—a food-wide patch of darkness etching the hull plates beside the last Rexdallian with the stamp of disintegration. Silently the little group watched it swell into a bulging, dead-black semisphere, creeping ever nearer the vital converter.
“More power,” snapped Wythe. “Get that Rex up to speed—quick.”
Deeper swelled the drone of the overloaded machine as Elston stepped up its output. With inward relief Wythe saw that the effect was what he had scarcely dared hope for—the converter’s own eddy field was holding the black semisphere at bay, flattening its rounded inner outline where the force fields clashed.
BENSON broke the silence. “Sanger’s lost a lot of blood, sir. Take a transfusion to save him. He wants to talk to you.”
Wythe knelt on the floor grids beside him. The first officer’s eyes were clear, frank with the conviction of death.
“Benson says you brought me in,” he murmured. “Thanks—but I’ll go this way—rather than court-martial. How are things?”
“Tough,” Wythe told him. “Beginning of a squeeze, but we aren’t licked yet.”
“Sorry, captain—about everything.”
“As much my fault as yours,” said Wythe gruffly. “Shouldn’t have let the W-6 thing get me down.”
“That wasn’t it,” whispered Sanger. “Only my chance . . . to act without making you suspicious. Not your drinking . . . drugs. In your bromo, in food. Just enough to weaken you, knock you out. I didn’t want you cashiered though . . . didn’t want Base to appoint a new captain.”
“I was drugged at the Golden Rocket?”
“Yes. Ethyl alkaloid tablets. Made you feel and act drunk. So I could take over. Sorry . . . good luck.”
Sanger’s eyes closed. Benson, who had been standing by, stooped quickly.
“He’s done, sir.”
Wythe nodded. A great weight had lifted from his mind. He turned back to the roaring converter, which was rapidly heating up. Its current drain, registered on the ammeters, was enormous. The battery indicators stood at twenty percent charge, but it seemed to him that he could see the needles fall. A simple calculation told him that ten minutes more at the present drain would drop the batteries below discharge potential.
Ten minutes! And the second-Rexdallian was still far from cool.
Twenty percent charge—scarcely enough to bring two converters to normal trim output—and that slender reserve falling every moment.
To re-establish the second converter’s field alone would take two percent. Two from twenty left eighteen.
The men were watching him, but he knew he could not keep the truth out of his eyes. It was hopeless; they’d gambled with subspace and lost.
He looked at the drawn, tense faces of his men. There was calm, without bitterness, in the few glances that met his own. Also—and he thrilled at this—no hint of blame for his part in catastrophe.
His thoughts churned rebelliously. This couldn’t be the end; there must be one more thing they could do. But what, with just so much juice in the batteries and no way to get more? If only they could start the blast turbines—
Deep within him an incredible hope expanded. The thing was impossible—but if it could be done they’d live!
“Park, take three men and douse that Rex cool,” he ordered. “Check your blast turbines, Warren. Elston, I want the generators directly connected to the Rexdallians. We’re using the turbines.”
Warren said slowly, reluctantly: “Aren’t you forgetting the back pressure, sir?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” snapped Wythe. “Get busy.”
IT WAS eloquent of his new mastery that they obeyed. He ordered a collision mat broken out and stationed two men beside the squeeze with clamps and jacks.
“You’ll have to work fast,” he told them. “When the other Rex cut in, the overlap from other units should kill the squeeze. Cover the hole, but secure it against outside pressure—”
Three minutes later preparations were complete. Amid a taut silence men faced him.
“This is it,” he said quietly. “It’ll be over—one way or other—in sixty seconds. We’ll cut in both converters, expanding our shield as if for normal trim. We haven’t enough juice to make it, but when Warren sees that squeeze disappear he’ll cut in the turbines. Sure there’ll be back pressure—but the turbines will be feeding the Rexes, the shield will be expanding, and we’ll bet that it expands fast enough to take care of the exhaust. If it doesn’t, we have nothing to lose. Ready?”
“Reckon we’re all with you, captain,” drawled Park.
Wythe nodded, Elston flung up the switches. The second converter took up its burden while ammeters dipped to full drain indication. Warren stood by his ignitors, eyes riveted upon the squeeze. Suddenly a cheer went up. The sphere had vanished; the mat was hurled over the gaping hole it left, and a new roar filled the engine room as Warren lit off the turbines.
This, Wythe knew, was the crucial interval, before the turbines came up to speed and actually delivered current to the laboring Rexdallians. Would the outside exhaust pressure build up against the static membrane meanwhile enough to stall the turbines or crush inward the walls of the engine room?
Somebody coughed as blue exhaust fumes puffed in past the collision mat. The whine of the turbines sank from its normal high pitch as back pressure battled the exploding fuel. Anxiously Wythe watched the plates for signs of bulging.
Abruptly the mighty roar of the Rexdallians broke, thinned to a low hum as they ran free. The drone of the turbines rose suddenly to a scream.
Tense faces broke into grins. Elston cut out the converters. “We’re through, sir—normal!”
A gigantic voice that seemed to rattle off the very hull plates interrupted him.
“W-12! What the devil d’you mean by going normal practically under our keel? Answer up, W-12.”
That would be Bronson of the W-4, talking over a sound beam, Wythe knew.
“Wythe speaking. Can you hear me?”
“Certainly. Want a tow back to Base?”
“Guess we do. We’re slightly damaged.”
A metallic snort rattled the ship. “Slightly damaged? You’re practically annihilated!”
Wythe looked around at his men. His men! This was not the crew he had left port with. He met their eyes squarely.
“Not quite!” he answered Bronson. “But you should have seen the other fellow—”
THE END.
SPACE PIRATE
Cannibal death awaited lovely Lana Wilson and the space-pirate—unless they could turn back Time on Jupiter’s satellite!
THE Errant Knight was a dull silvery shadow against the neon-lighted sky behind. Lana Wilson stepped from her gyro-car and searched until she spied the man slouched against the hull.
“Marshal!” she called softly.
The man snapped erect, approached, saluted in recognition. “Evening, Miss Wilson. Everything’s quiet. Don’t you worry.”
“Good.” She was a little breathless. There was something clandestine and precarious about her trip to the spaceport. She had told herself it was merely to see that the ship was being guarded, but now she knew that she had wanted to see the Errant Knight for herself. The little ship had a broad-shouldered, sturdy look—like Jim Carhill, her mind made unwilling comparison.
She thought of the interview they had had that morning, Jim Carhill’s eager words: “If I can deliver this stuff to Io—that’s one of Jupe’s moons, you know—I can repay the bank with interest and keep my ship. I planned to leave tonight—” Lana had shaken her head decisively. “I wouldn’t trust you,” she said chillingly, “any more than I would a day-old infant. Your relations with this bank have been unsatisfactory from the beginning, and would only continue so if I were foolish enough to permit it. Frankly, Mr. Carhill, I’m already negotiating with Stellar Metals to buy the Errant Knight when the foreclosure is completed. I strongly suggest you find another means of livelihood. And now will you please go?”
“If that’s your last word.”
“It is. Oh, be sure it is!”
He had shrugged again, walked back the way he had come. She watched the unconscious swagger of his broad-shouldered frame, and her lips set in a determined little line . . .
Now, the voice of the watchman broke across her revery.
“Care to go aboard, Miss?” asked the deputy marshal. “I’ve the keys here.”
She gasped. “I thought they’d hold the keys at the office.” The opportunity to go aboard was unexpected, and exciting, although she couldn’t have said why. Stellar Metals had been asking questions about the ship, questions her meager file description couldn’t answer. It was an excellent reason to inspect the ship herself.
