A large anthology of sci.., p.228
A Large Anthology of Science Fiction, page 228
She lifted her hand and drew a right angled triangle on the side of the tube.
I understood. Trella was alive and she would continue to live, but it would be impossible to restore her component halves merely by mending the broken wire.
Trella was linked in time. She was still whole, but half of her body was visible in one Now and the other half in a Now on Proxima Centaur, four light years away.
To join the halves of her body, would mean joining the two Nows and to do that would form a triangle, at least one side of which would be an irrational number. Unless the riddle of time travel were solved, it would be impossible to make Trella whole.
I walked around the half-tube. Her appearance was not what I expected to see. It was not a case of sawing a woman in half. The cross section of her body appeared only as an opaque blankness. When I touched her side I felt something cold and hard. It was as if I had touched eternity.
The laboratory officials were called in for consultation. It was decided that the matter should be hushed, at least until we knew what should be done. There was too much to do now to be bothered with police and reporters. We would not have a warrant issued for Keeshwar. There would be time to deal with him later.
We discovered that Trella could eat and she seemed to be in perfect health. But I knew that she was doomed unless we could restore the parts of her body. Her muscles would atrophy. Inaction is more deadly to the human machine than millions of disease germs.
If it would be possible to locate some day in the future when the wires might be pieced together and the linking of Trella’s two halves might be accomplished without rationalizing irrational numbers, our problem would be solved. But the nearest date in the future when this could be done was three years ahead.[1]
But in three years Trella would be dead. We could not wait for the coordinates to adjust themselves. We had to make the coordinates adjustable to our purposes.
A small chronometer located in the atomic energy machine on the quartz tube gave us the exact time the silver wire had been broken.
Even Blake, my servant, offered a suggestion:
“If you could take the earth half of Miss Trella’s body to Rihlon, or bring the Rihlon half to earth and bring the two Nows together, would that form a rational triangle?”
I took paper and pencil and tried to figure it out.
The line BA represented the time line of Rihlon. The line CD was the time line of the earth. The points E and F were the Nows on Rihlon and earth, respectively, at which the accident occurred. The point G represented the Now at which a space ship would leave the earth for Rihlon carrying Trella’s half body. The point H represented the Now of arrival on Rihlon and the point J the parallel point on earth. We still had a right-angled triangle and we still had to deal with irrational numbers. But hold on—
I gazed at my drawing. Before my eyes was the answer! The whole thing was clearly and completely solved. The secret of time travel was solved. Trella was saved. The invention of the translator had been perfected so that all danger of becoming lost in time was removed![2]
“Blake,” I said to the servant, “bring me my automatic pistol.”
“Wh-what?” Blake stuttered.
“I said bring me my automatic pistol. I’m going to save Trella, or murder somebody.”
“Perhaps I should call your lawyer.”
I threw a book at him and he left hurriedly, to return in a few minutes with my pistol and holster. I strapped the weapon about my waist and slammed my straw hat on my head. In a few minutes I stepped from a taxi in front of the Galaxy building, in which the officers of the Stellar Transport Company are located.
A clerk with thick glasses interviewed me.
“I want to charter a ship for a trip to Proxima Centaur,” I explained. “I want one of your late model cruisers which can go about ten times the speed of light. I want to get there quickly.”
The clerk nodded. I have often wondered about the composure of clerks who never seem to be astonished at anything. “We have a ship available that could get you there in three months, that’s sixteen times the speed of light. But to charter it would cost one million dollars.”
He never batted an eye when he named the price. I doubt if the clerk was receiving more than forty a week.
“I should like to transact the deal directly with Mr. Keeshwar,” I said.
“He will be pleased, I’m sure,” the clerk replied. “What is your name?”
“Andrew J. Colt,” I said, for lack of more originality.
The clerk disappeared into the sanctum. He returned presently with: “Mr. Keeshwar will see you, Mr. Colt.”
I had counted on Keeshwar being—or pretending to be very busy as I entered. I expected him to pay no attention to my entry, and not even to glance in my direction, as if a million dollars were a trifling matter, until we were alone.
I judged Keeshwar right. When at last he glanced at me he was unnerved by the presence of an automatic pistol which was pointed directly at his head.
“I must warn you not to touch any of those buttons on your desk,” I said. “It would give me a great deal of pleasure to drill you and I won’t go out of my way for an opportunity.”
“Wh-what d-d-do you w-w-ant?” he asked, turning pale.
“One day you offered me a million dollars to take Miss Mayo’s life,” I said. “Now I’m asking you to contribute an equal amount to save it. However, I’m willing to take it out in trade. I want you to pilot one of your ships for me to Rihlon.”
“Impossible!” Keeshwar said, regaining some of his composure. “I couldn’t leave my business for a period long enough to make the trip.”
“If you don’t leave your business to make the trip right now you won’t exist any more,” I warned casually. I reached into my pocket and brought out a silencer, which I fitted to the end of the pistol barrel. I unfastened the safety and aimed deliberately.
THE space ship containing the terrestrial half of Trella Mayo, in company with myself, Blake, two other scientists and Gustav Keeshwar, arrived on Rihlon three months later. Keeshwar, who had had a pistol trained on him almost every instant since I had called at his office, was released and permitted to return to earth. He did not know that I had left the instructions on earth for his arrest for felonious assault the minute he landed.
We located Trella’s Rihlon laboratory. It was the matter of a few minutes to make the connection of the broken wire and to finish the translation of her two halves.
Trella stepped out of her quartz prison, swayed unsteadily for a second on her feet, and then collapsed.
“How on earth did you do it?” she asked. “How did you reconcile the irrational number?”
I sketched the figure roughly (Figure 2). “The distance from F to G and the distance from E to H does not enter into the equation,” I said. “The only thing we are interested in is the distances GJ, JH and GH.”
“And GH is an irrational number,” Trella said.
“Quite right, although like most things that appear absurd on the surface, it is not as irrational as it seems. The distance G to J is three months, the time required for the flight from the earth to Rihlon. We will represent this by the unit 1. The distance JH is four light years, the distance in space from earth to Rihlon. This, therefore, would be sixteen units. Using the formula (GJ)2 plus (JH)2 equals (GH)2 we find that GH is the square root of one plus 256, or 257. The square root of 257 is 16.031228, etc., an irrational number.”
“It can’t be expressed in figures!” We do not need figures when we can draw a picture. The triangle GHJ is a picture of an irrational number. We had only to go to Rihlon to complete the equation.”
“Time can be traveled,” Trella said.
“Where would you like to go on our honeymoon?” I asked.
“To the Garden of Eden,” she said.
[1] Three years from the time this accident occurred would make the sides of the triangle between the past event, the present, and the present on Rihlon (four light years away) equal to the units 3, 4 and 5. Three squared, plus four squared equals five squared.
[2] As a mental exercise, I would suggest that the reader look at Figure 2 for a minute or two and figure out the answer. The answer is there and high school mathematics should enable a person to discover how to extract the irrational number.—Dr. Fred Huckins.
1941
LUNAR GUN
John L. Chapman
There was a cannon in the center of Tycho and it was pointing directly at the Earth!
THE RUGGED, crust-like surface of the moon was plainly L visible in the great 300-inch reflector. The numerous mountains and half-shadowed craters seemed but an arm’s length away. The scope was small, showing only a portion of the satellite’s bleak face, though that portion wouldn’t have been a better view from a hovering space ship.
Brad Graham straightened, relaxing momentarily from the cramped position, then manipulated a tiny, delicate adjustment at his side. He bent forward again, and saw Tycho’s jagged shape come into view. He marvelled for a moment at the infinite dearness of the scene. He was proud to be the son of the man who had constructed the 300-inch telescope.
Brad Graham’s pride turned, suddenly, to astonishment, for there in the middle of the huge crater, barely visible in the pale light, was the unmistakable glint of metal! Trembling a little. Brad made further adjustments, and the scope increased, bringing the crater to full view.
Brad looked again—and the metal dot had been bisected, There were two distinguishable objects now, situated on a crisp-looking plain that bore signs of inhabitance.
One of the objects was a tiny, dome-shaped building. All around it the ground was darker than the rest of the plain, proving that the crust undoubtedly was broken under foot. The other object was a black framework, apparently the foundation of a second building. The crust was broken around it also.
Tingling with the thrill of discovery, Brad pressed closer, his unbelieving eyes eagerly studying the bleak lunar scene. It didn’t seem possible—he was gazing at a strange, airless body 240,000 miles from the earth, and he was seeing a segment of alien civilization, a product of some other form of life!
Brad called his father and the other members of the observatory staff. All of them took hurried glances and stepped back in amazement. Questions began to fly.
“Moon life!” exclaimed Arthur Graham. “But how does it survive? And what is the purpose—of these domes?”
“The domes are shelter, of course,” said Brad excitedly, “and those who live there—must be able to survive without air.”
“That’s possible,” said one of the assistants, “but what about the rest of the race? There are no other domes—nothing like this has been sighted before—so that leaves but one conclusion. If this is intelligent life we see, it probably lives underground! It appears on the surface for a reason, The domes, no doubt, have a special purpose.”
“Possibly,” said Arthur Graham, “but it’s the principle of the thing, gentlemen! We’ve made a revolutionary discovery—the moon is inhabited!”
TRUE, the earth’s pale-faced satellite bore animate existence. This was propounded by extensive observation during the months following the initial discovery. While the amazed scientific world looked on, astronomers trained their telescopes on the rugged globe 240,000 miles distant, watching with intense interest the constructive developments of a yet unseen race.
There in the center of Tycho the black framework which at first appeared to be another dome’s foundation grew steadily and took on a strikingly different pattern. As astronomers watched the slow progress, months wore on and soon the framework became a huge metal base. Another building? Observers were certain of it at first, but as work continued on the great black surface, they grew doubtful. The moon people were not constructing another dome, or any other such form of shelter. Their present task involved something much more vast and important. It was important, in view of the slow, precise labor that was administered.
Weeks passed and the metal base acquired a circular cavity in its middle. From the cavity grew a huge, round tube. Another week went by, and the work stopped; no further additions were made to the structure.
Astronomers studied the apparition consistently, and for a number of days no one could offer a sound explanation.
One night when atmospheric conditions were good and visibility was clear, Arthur Graham viewed Tycho for several hours through the 300-inch telescope. No other magnifying instrument would provide a closer view. The two lunar structures seemed but a few miles distant, and to the elder Graham, the purpose in the minds of the moon people suddenly became apparent. The dome was shelter—beyond all doubt. But the other object was distinctly a weapon, a monstrous, sinister gun that was aimed at the earth.
Realization dawned upon the world. Astronomers gazed at Tycho once more and unanimously announced that Graham’s supposition was correct. A shocked and unbelieving humanity accepted the warnings of science. Strange, maddened aliens were aiming a tremendous weapon at the earth!
IT WAS like a fantasy; there had been countless stories of cosmic dangers and invasions. For untold centuries the world existed without interference from other worlds. Skepticism had always dominated the possibilities of “life on other planets,” “runaway stars,” or “invading comets.” Such things might occur in the distant future . . .
There was no mass hysteria. Despite the magnitude of interplanetary hostilities, the situation was received calmly and without furor. The weapon was there on the moon, and if it was intended to send mighty shells at the cities of earth, there was no need for preparation and confusion. The world was defenseless. Humanity waited.
Consequently, as astronomers had anticipated, the massive barrel on Tycho spouted something black and circular. The concussion was tremendous, for even in the satellite’s airless conditions a streamer of flame was visible. Later, there were reports that a wide crack had appeared on Tycho’s sun-baked plains.
Days went by, and the black projectile winged its way earthward. Its velocity as well as its size increased day by day.
As it neared the earth, astronomers calculated desperately in an effort to determine where the great shell would fall. Somewhere along the Atlantic coast, they reported, adding that the reports were mere guesses.
Then Arthur Graham made an astounding announcement.
“The projectile,” he told the world, “has a greater immensity than previous observation has shown. It is more than a shell. It is a huge bomb of destruction that could wipe out a whole city! But I plead with you—there is a way we can fight it. Due to the shell’s size, it’s possible for us to do one of two things: Clock its course and explode it with anti-aircraft guns before it lands, or deflect its course entirely and plunge it into the ocean.”
A small chance, thought the world, but worth a try. The army set to work, and in a few hours numerous gun bases were established along the coast-line and several miles inland. The projectile from the moon swept downward, met the earth’s atmosphere, and plunged for the Carolinas.
Promptly Graham’s method of attack was under way. The bomb became visible to the naked eye, and as it rushed earthward, army guns lashed fire into the sky. To explode it or deflect it, Graham had said. Apparently, to do one would be to do the other, but in the hurried moments of ceaseless army gunfire, the chances for a direct hit were very few, and only one was accomplished. The deflection was ever so slight, yet sufficient to send the sinister shell whining into the Atlantic just a few miles off shore. There was no explosion, no cataclysmic sound. Some hours later, a comparatively small tidal wave rushed over the shoreline, and settled.
THE tiny, green-bodied Lunarian turned from the dome’s lone window, where the immense cannon was visible, and grimly faced a vast gathering of his subjects. The long silence was broken.
“Something has happened to our courageous friends,” said the Lunarian, “something unexpected has occurred during their momentous undertaking. There has been no reply via ether-wave, nor any sign of them for almost a year. Our attempt at space flight has failed; we must go underground—where we belong.” He looked out the window again, at the rising globe of the mother planet, “Three-fourths of it is water,” he murmured. “That must be the answer. Or could it be—that they thought our ship was hostile?”
THE PLANET OF ILLUSION
Millard V. Gordon
“A phantom land and a phantom folk
Come sailing out of the deep unknown
With a soundless roar and a lightless flash
To conquer a void for them alone.”
—ROGER DAINTETTH
“PLANET sighted!” sang out Kendall, eye glued to the electro-telescope.
“Where away?” rang Fred Broster from his place at the controls.
“Five point on ten left from star. Point three seven above the elliptic,” came Kendall’s voice again from the forward observation window.
“You’re daft and dreaming. Snap into it and look again,” Broster yelled, staring hard at the automatically-recording space-chart. “There’s nothing here but a particularly empty species of nothingness.”
The captain’s keen gray eyes stared carefully at the glowing panel before him. On it shone out tiny points of light which revealed each of the different bodies through whose vicinity the Astralite was passing. A remarkable device actuated by delicate gravital detectors which marked out every body they approached.
And according to this chart, there was no such planet recorded in the depths of the device as that which Kendall had sighted.
“I’m not dreaming. Your chart is wrong if you can’t find it there,” Kendall remarked after a pause, still staring through the lens of the instrument.
Broster examined the chart again. No; there positively was no planet circling the star as his observer claimed.
“Come away from there!” he called, straightening up. “Dr. Seaward, will you please take the observer’s place and check.”
