Robert moore wiliams, p.7
Robert Moore Wiliams, page 7
Corless glowed. "A space ship," he said.
"Gabriel has a space ship," Jones said.
"The first one ever built," Corless said.
"The first one—" Jones choked. Then his voice came again, blazing with fury. "Gabe, damn you, don't you start this all over again! I'm a dead monkey, and I'm happy to be that. You let me be a dead monkey, Gabe."
Corless spread his hands in a hopeless gesture. "Please," he whispered. "This is the first ship ever built with the Corless Drive."
"Floppo," Jones said. "The Corless Drive went floppo. I was there."
Corless wiped sweat from his face. "We engineered that flop," he said. "We had to do it, no matter who got hurt—to try to hide the fact that the drive was a success."
"Why?" Jones said.
Pain gouged lines in the face of the scientist. "Because we knew the Federation existed, and because we knew they planned to use bacteriological warfare on us. We knew, also, that if the Federation leaders had reason to believe that we had actually constructed a space ship, their bacteria would be turned loose on us instantly—to stop us from completing what they thought was the most decisive weapon ever invented."
Jones felt the sweat on his face. He wiped it away and tried to think. "I thought the atom bomb was pretty decisive," he said. "I heard that the idea of atom bombs in launching cradles was what held up the Federation for a long time—and is still driving them nuts."
"There isn't an atom bomb in a launching cradle anywhere in the United States," Corless said. "There never was one. The high command started that story. They called it their Threat of the Big Stick. They hoped to use the threat to scare off all attacks until war was outlawed. They were fighting for time, and the Big Stick was their weapon."
The fright in Jones' eyes was a minor echo of the fear inside of him. Corless was telling a story with so much sense in it that it might be true. And Jones was afraid to let himself think it was true until he knew. All he knew for sure was that Corless had been insane, and might be insane still.
"There was the matter of your staff being disbanded, your project dropped, and you under the care of a psychiatrist."
"Every word of it was true. My staff was disbanded; my good men were scattered, to carry out the subterfuge. Believe me, it hurt to let the men who had believed in me think I had failed. But it had to be done. And while it was being done, I recruited a new staff, which was brought here, blindfolded, every man of them, and sworn to secrecy, and put to work building my ship. I had over a thousand men working for me, over there in that cave." Corless pointed off into the distance. "They built the ship."
"And what happened to them?" Jones asked.
"The yellow flu was what happened to them," Corless answered. "They all died, and I lived. And on the day when the last man died, I really went crazy." He passed a hand across his eyes to shut out the memory. "I know," he said. "When you came here last night, I was insane; the people in this cavern all thought me insane. And I was. They would have helped me man the ship, if I could have remembered what it was or what it was for. But I couldn't remember that. And I was afraid to tell them even that it existed. I kept going back to it and trying to remember what it was. But my memory was blocked, until I saw you. You were the link my mind needed. You released my memory."
There was agony in Jones. The grain of sense had grown to a mountain. The whole story fitted together but—how did he know?
"Ill believe, when I see it," he said.
"That's one of the reasons I came for you," Corless said. "I want to take you to it. I need you too. You're the last of my old staff, and I need you desperately."
Jones turned to the girl. "Gabe wants us to come with him," he said.
Machine-gun slugs rattled from the walls. Jake Cross fired a burst in reply. They looked at him. He waved at them. "I heard what he told you," Cross called out. "Go with him, you two, and take your chance on life." He waved at them.
"Jake, come with us," Jones said.
Cross shook his head. "This is my last barricade," he said. "Yours may be somewhere else, but that's the chance you've got to take. The fight is never over until the last barricade goes down. Move on, you two, and set up the next road-block, or take your chance on life, whichever way it turns out."
He had lit a cigarette. They saw it glowing in the dimness long after the man himself was lost, but a little star of hope shining above the last rampart.
They joined the tail end of the procession moving out of the cavem. In the tunnel Corless fought his way to one side, took them in another direction. The tunnel opened into an immense, dark area. "There is stored power, for emergency operation of the lights," Corless called, somewhere in that darkness. "Wait until I turn them on."
High across a vast ceiling the lights came on, revealing the long shining bulk that lay in the cavern—an airship. A murmur came from the watching group. The sound grew and grew until it whispered back from the whole vast cavern. Awe and wonder, the birth-cries of hope being born again, were in the growing sound.
Sam Jones stood with his feet planted wide apart. Corless, glowing, came up to him.
"I still don't see the point," Jones said. "The Federation has so tight a grip on earth that no nation will dare give us refuge. If we take this ship out of here, well just be giving it to the Federation."
"You don't understand," Corless answered. "We're not seeking refuge on earth. The ship is fueled and stocked with food and ready for flight to the planets—to the stars, if necessary."
Sam Jones' chin came up sharply. "Then, Gabriel, lead us on!" he said.
Around the deserted mine, helicopters swarmed. They had flown in from every direction, bringing more search parties. The Federation knew it had found something here; it didn't know what. Search parties covered every inch of ground. Underground, Federation soldiers fought their way into the cavern.
Across the valley a cliff reared a blank face hundreds of feet into the air.
Suddenly the whole front of the cliff was blown away by blasts from hidden explosives. A dark hole was opened there, and the helicopters nosed toward the hole.
The long ship came out of the hole on a slant. It rose and rose, gathering speed. The method of propulsion was not at all apparent, except that it wasn't rockets. From portholes, figures looked out.
The helicopter pilots, driven by frantic orders from below, loosed machine-gun fire at the ship. The slugs bounced from a steel hull. The ship rose, and kept on rising.
Inside the ship, Sam Jones looked from a port. One 'copter was making a tremendous effort to catch up with the ship.
For the first time in years, Jones, watching, laughed. "You will have to settle with the sons of my grandsons," he said. "I'm going to find a chunk of a star somewhere, where I can raise me some kids to tell my story to. You'll settle with them."
It was futile, yes; he knew it. The sons of his grandsons would make their own decisions; and to them, who would inherit planets, the internecine wars of some minor planet by the name of earth might be utterly unimportant.
Beside him, Jean Crane grinned.
On the floor of the cabin, the fat-legged boy-child tumbled. The acceleration puzzled him. He couldn't quite make it out. But he was trying. He tumbled clear across the cabin and got up laughing, to try again, making his adjustment to the new fife that was just beginning.
Sam Jones felt the G's hit him. They were a mighty force lifting him to some last refuge that was not just for the night —but was forever.
"We've lost a continent—and won the stars," he whispered.
It seemed a good bargain.
WITH THE CONVICTION growing in him that trouble was dead ahead but without being able to put his finger on its source, Sam McArdle returned to the ship. He had gone out to the inhabitants of this planet as an ambassador of good will, a not unimportant mission in view of the fact that the Lyrane HI had landed in the exact center of a huge park in the middle of their largest city but also in view of the fact that the ship would certainly be laid up here until the screen generators could be repaired. Until she was repaired, the Lyrane III would be somewhat at the mercy of the Congers. McArdle tried to imagine the meaning of mercy to them, an effort which left him with considerable heaviness in his mind.
In the control room, Ed Vetch, his executive officer and second in command, said, "Well, what about it?"
McArdle eased himself into a chair and shook his head. "I don't like it," he said.
Vetch lifted an eyebrow. "Unfriendly?"
"Un-reacting," Sam answered.
"Huh?"
"They just don't react," Sam explained. "They're not friendly, nor are they unfriendly." He twisted uncomfortably in his chair, seeking the reason for this attitude on the part of the Conger race, spoke what seemed to him to be the astonishing truth. "They weren't even surprised when we landed."
"Huh?" Vetch was astonished too. "Then space travel is an old story to them."
"Nope," Sam said. "This is the first space ship they have ever seen and we are the first inhabitants of any other world who have ever landed here." He looked out through the view port to make certain again that the Lyrane III was not surrounded by an excited mob of exceedingly curious people come to see this marvel, a ship from another world. There wasn't a soul out there in the park.
"My gosh, what's wrong with 'em?" Ed Veatch breathed.
"That's what worries me," Sam answered.
"Maybe they're just morons," Veatch suggested, but with no real conviction in his voice.
Sam nodded toward the view port. Out there, beyond the vast park in which the ship had come to rest, was a magnificent city. Tier on tier, it floated away into the thin air of this planet, the product of a swarming race whose technology in many respects was equal to or better than the technology of earth.
Sam had seen the people too. In many respects, they duplicated the human race. Except that they weren't curious. Art, they had, and an appreciation of beauty which was revealed in the sparkling lakes, the winding walks, the flowered paths of this park, and in an even greater degree in the architecture of the city itself. The people who had constructed this city were not morons.
"Maybe the present bunch came along later, conquered the city builders, and took over," Vetch said.
"No. They built the city. From what I gathered, there is no conquering or being conquered here."
"Uh?" Vetch said. "It almost sounds like heaven."
"Almost," Sam McArdle answered. He was silent, thinking. Back on the Earth from which they came, conquering and being conquered were largely gone too. Except for a few primitive regions where native tribes still made sporadic raids for women or cattle, following a culture pattern that was slowly dying out, the day of the conqueror was gone. Once with his legions and his blitzes and his techniques of economic penetration, he had strutted across the surface of the earth. But no longer.
Earth was peaceful now, a minor, not-worth-fighting-for pawn in a bigger game. The conqueror had not disappeared, he had just grown bigger. His ambition included solar systems, the star cluster off yonder. Knowing something of the destruction, the pain, the denial of decent living, the denial of life itself, that went along with the conqueror,
McArdle thought longingly of a world where there was no conquering or being conquered. He twisted, uncomfortable and uneasy, and looked up into the bright eyes of Vetch.
"There's something wrong with peace," he said.
"Such as?"
"Such as a nervous system that has evolved within the framework of a way of life that included the challenge and the response, the conqueror and the conquered. Take out the challenge and you have taken out the steam that makes the human jigger go. There's something wrong here on this world, something that I don't understand, and maybe don't like." His voice trailed into uneasy silence as he sought a definition for what was wrong.
"Such as?" Vetch said encouragingly. Like a reflex gesture echoing the uneasiness within him, Sam McArdle shrugged expressive shoulders. "Such as I don't know," he said. "But I do know one thing that I want to get this crate away from here. Put every man to work repairing the screen generators and plugging up that hole in the nose."
"Right," Vetch said. Operating within the framework of a discipline that approached the ultimate in avoiding frictional losses resulting from a clash of personalities, the executive officer moved quietly to obey his orders, leaving the captain alone. The officers and the crew of this ship had been so carefully picked, so carefully fitted together into a matrix, that discipline was not needed.
Sam McArdle was technically Captain McArdle, but there wasn't a man on the ship who didn't call him Sam and didn't obey him utterly. If in the background the ghosts of ancient surface navies shook their heads at calling the captain by his first name, swearing that such familiarity would breed contempt and result in a loss of discipline, this ghostly gnashing of teeth did not in the least disturb the functioning of the personnel of the Lyrane III.
Nor had the sharp but short spurt of fighting between this wandering scout vessel and its equivalent from the conqueror now trying to establish himself within the system of
Messier 33 disturbed the functioning of the crew. A part of a much vaster navy, their mission was to scout, to fight if necessary. The first they did with aplomb, the second within the limits of their supply of ammo. If hint, they crawled up somewhere to lick their wounds into shape for flight back to the nearest base. If killed—well, death was nature's greatest invention, wasn't it? And the fight against it was life's greatest and most interesting gamble.
Coming from the nose of the ship, Sam McArdle was aware of bumps and pounding sounds. He didn't like to repair that hole in sight of the inhabitants of this planet—such a repair was an admission that the ship was not spaceworthy—but the hole itself was also such an admission and he could see no way he could hide the hole from anybody who wanted to look. The catch was, nobody wanted to look.
Turning to the port, he saw that the ship had at last gained one curious onlooker. But this one wasn't very curious. All he did was squat in the shade of a tree and stare at the activity going on before him. McArdle let his mind run back over his conference with the Congers.
When he had descended from the ship, three natives had been waiting for him, patiently, as if he were a train running a little behind schedule. They had made signs to him that they were friendly and he had made signs back. Communication had posed no problems. The three Congers had brought two gadgets with them, one a little black box which they consulted constantly but which they did not let him examine, the second a device that made telepathy possible.
He had been fascinated with the telepathy gadget and the three Congers had patiently waited for his enthusiasm to wear off—like adults waiting for a child to tire of a new toy, he had thought. They had brought the telepathy gadget with them as if they had anticipated it would be needed, which had made him a litde uneasy. So far as he could tell, they anticipated too damned much.
They had conducted him direcdy to Mr. Big himself, Valdar, or something like that, had been Mr. Big's name. Valdar had received him graciously and again he had had the impression that he was running right on schedule. He had intended to ask permission to land but this permission had been given before it was asked, leaving him with the feeling that Mr. Big had known what he was going to ask. The entire interview had proceeded with ceremonious dullness and he had gotten the impression that he and Valdar were actors reading a prepared script. As he talked with the human, Valdar had constantly consulted a small black box into which was built some sort of a screen.
The landing of the LyraneIII, marking a new age, with space travel now possible, space commerce, and new ideas by the gross, should have impressed Mr. Big, Sam had thought. But Mr. Big hadn't been impressed. He had been bored. The pages and servants around the throne had been bored. Every man on the whole blasted planet had probably been bored.
To Sam McArdle, this had been galling. Hatred of a stranger, distrust, an effort to kill him, he could have understood, but boredom never. Didn't they understand he had come from a world far out in space?
Yes, they understood it well enough. Valdar had yawned. Sam McArdle had come back to the ship with a feeling of acute discomfort.
Looking from the port, he saw the little Conger still squatting under his tree. Like all the others, he was consulting a little black box, and like them he was apparently bored stiff.
Behind him, the door opened. Vetch entered. "They're setting up scaffolding now," the exec reported. "The best guess is that maybe the job will be done in seventy-two hours. Here is what has to be done." McArdle listened patiently, then stopped hstening as a junior officer began shouting in the passageway outside. "Edl Edl Where are you?"
Ed Vetch jumped to open the door. "Here What's up." "Trouble. We were setting up the scaffolding. Something supped, I don't know what, and the scaffold fell."
"Then set it up again," Vetch said.
"Sure." The junior hesitated. "The trouble is—it fell right on top of a native."
"Huh?"
"He's deader'n a fish."
"Come on, Ed," Sam McArdle said. They went on the double.
The scaffolding was tubular steel. In normal use, the bars were used as hand-holds on the walls of the ship, but they had been designed so that in an emergency, they could be screwed out of place and used to construct a scaffold. The scaffold had gone up about twenty feet, then had fallen. The men working on it had jumped to safety. Under it, his skull crushed, was the native that Sam had seen sitting under a tree. Five crewmen of the LyraneIII were clustered around him. No one else was in sight. Under him, as crushed as his skull, lay the little black box he had been studying.
"We thought we had it anchored all right but the ground turned out to be soft and one of the legs sank," a crewman reported.
"Uh-huh," Sam said. "How'd he happen to be under it when it fell? The last I saw of him, he was sitting under a tree."
"The last time I noticed him, he was sitting there too," the crewman answered. "But just before the scaffold fell, he got up and walked over here. As it started to fall, he started to run—straight toward it."
