Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (18 page)

‘There’s only one A.20,’ I said, trying to be helpful, ‘but rocket test-pilots are – well, if not two a penny, at any rate seven for sixpence.’

David glared back at us from beneath his bushy eyebrows and said something in Welsh.

‘The Druid’s curse,’ Jimmy remarked to me. ‘Any moment now you’ll turn into a leek or a perspex model of Stonehenge.’

You see, we were still pretty lightheaded and it would not do to be serious for a while. Even David’s iron nerve must have taken a terrific beating, yet somehow he seemed the calmest of us all. I could not understand it – then.

The A.20 had come down fifty kilometres from her launching-point. We had followed her by radar for the whole trajectory, so we knew her position to within a few metres – though we did not know at the time that David had landed ten kilometres farther east.

The first warning of disaster had come seventy seconds after take-off. The A.20 had reached fifty kilometres and was following the correct trajectory to within a few per cent. As far as the eye could tell, the luminous track on the radar screen had scarcely deviated from the pre-computed path. David was doing two kilometres a second: not much, but the fastest any man had ever travelled up to then. And ‘Goliath’ was just about to be jettisoned.

The A.20 was a two-step rocket. It had to be, for it was using chemical fuels. The upper component, with its tiny cabin, its folded aerofoils and flaps, weighed just under twenty tons when fully fuelled. It was to be lifted by a lower two-hundred-ton booster which would take it up to fifty kilometres, after which it could carry on quite happily under its own power. The big fellow would then drop back to Earth by parachute: it would not weigh much when its fuel was burnt. Meanwhile the upper step would have built up enough speed to reach the six-hundred-kilometre level before falling back and going into a glide that would take David half-way round the world if he wished.

I do not remember who called the two rockets ‘David’ and ‘Goliath’ but the names caught on at once. Having two Davids around caused a lot of confusion, not all of it accidental.

Well, that was the theory, but as we watched the tiny green spot on the screen fall away from its calculated course, we knew that something had gone wrong. And we guessed what it was.

At fifty kilometres the spot should have divided in two. The brighter echo should have continued to rise as a free projectile, and then fallen back to Earth. But the other should have gone on, still accelerating, drawing swiftly away from the discarded booster.

There had been no separation. The empty ‘Goliath’ had refused to come free and was dragging ‘David’ back to Earth – helplessly, for ‘David’s’ motors could not be used. Their exhausts were blocked by the machine beneath.

We saw all this in about ten seconds. We waited just long enough to calculate the new trajectory, and then we climbed into the ’copters and set off for the target area.

All we expected to find, of course, was a heap of magnesium looking as if a bulldozer had gone over it. We knew that ‘Goliath’ could not eject his parachute while ‘David’ was sitting on top of him, any more than ‘David’ could use his motors while ‘Goliath’ was clinging beneath. I remember wondering who was going to break the news to Mavis, and then realising that she would be listening to the radio and would know all about it as soon as anyone.

We could scarcely believe our eyes when we found the two rockets still coupled together, lying almost undamaged beneath the big parachute. There was no sign of David, but a few minutes later Base called to say that he had been found. The plotters at Number Two Station had picked up the tiny echo from his parachute and sent a ’copter to collect him. He was in hospital twenty minutes later, but we stayed out in the desert for several hours checking over the machines and making arrangements to retrieve them.

When at last we got back to Base, we were pleased to see our best-hated science-reporters among the mob being held at bay. We waved aside their protests and sailed on into the ward.

The shock and the subsequent relief had left us all feeling rather irresponsible and perhaps childish. Only David seemed unaffected: the fact that he had just had one of the most miraculous escapes in human history had not made him turn a hair. He sat there in the bed pretending to be annoyed at our jibes until we had calmed down.

‘Well,’ said Jimmy at last, ‘what went wrong?’

‘That’s for you to discover,’ David replied. ‘“Goliath” went like a dream until fuel cut-off point. I waited then for the five-second pause before the explosive bolts detonated and the springs threw him clear, but nothing happened. So I punched the emergency release. The lights dimmed, but the kick I’d expected never came. I tried a couple more times but somehow I knew it was useless. I guessed that something had shorted in the detonator circuit and was earthing the power supply.

‘Well, I did some rather rapid calculations from the flight charts and abacs in the cabin. At my present speed I’d continue to rise for another two hundred kilometres and would reach the peak of my trajectory in about three minutes. Then I’d start the two-hundred-and-fifty-kilometre fall and should make a nice hole in the desert four minutes later. All told, I seemed to have a good seven minutes of life left – ignoring air resistance, to use your favourite phrase. That might add a couple of minutes to my expectation of life.

‘I knew that I couldn’t get the big parachute out, and “David’s” wings would be useless with the forty-ton mass of “Goliath” on its tail. I’d used up two of my seven minutes before I decided what to do.

‘It’s a good job I made you widen that airlock. Even so, it was a squeeze to get through it in my spacesuit. I tied the end of the safety rope to a locking lever and crawled along the hull until I reached the junction of the two steps.

‘The parachute compartment couldn’t be opened from the outside, but I’d taken the emergency axe from the pilot’s cabin. It didn’t take long to get through the magnesium skin: once it had been punctured I could almost tear it apart with my hands. A few seconds later I’d released the ’chute. The silk floated aimlessly around me: I had expected some trace of air resistance at this speed but there wasn’t a sign of it. The canopy simply stayed where it was put. I could only hope that when we re-entered atmosphere it would spread itself without fouling the rocket.

‘I thought I had a fairly good chance of getting away with it. The additional weight of “David” would increase the loading of the parachute by less than twenty per cent but there was always the chance that the shrouds would chafe against the broken metal and be worn through before I could reach Earth. In addition the canopy would be distorted when it did open, owing to the unequal lengths of the cords. There was nothing I could do about that.

‘When I’d finished, I looked about me for the first time. I couldn’t see very well, for perspiration had misted over the glass of my suit. (Someone had better look into that: it can be dangerous.) I was still rising, though very slowly now. To the north-east I could see the whole of Sicily and some of the Italian mainland: farther south I could follow the Libyan coast as far as Benghazi. Spread out beneath me was all the land over which Alexander and Montgomery and Rommel had fought when I was a boy. It seemed rather surprising that anyone had ever made such a fuss about it.

‘I didn’t stay long: in three minutes I would be entering the atmosphere. I took a last look at the flaccid parachute, straightened some of the shrouds, and climbed back into the cabin. Then I jettisoned “David’s” fuel – first the oxygen, and then, as soon as it had had time to disperse, the alcohol.

‘That three minutes seemed an awfully long time. I was just over twenty-five kilometres high when I heard the first sound. It was a very high-pitched whistle, so faint that I could scarcely hear it. Glancing through the portholes, I saw that the parachute shrouds were becoming taut and the canopy was beginning to billow above me. At the same time I felt weight returning and knew that the rocket was beginning to decelerate.

‘The calculation wasn’t very encouraging. I’d fallen free for over two hundred kilometres and if I was to stop in time I’d need an
average
deceleration of ten gravities. The peaks might be twice that, but I’d stood fifteen
g
before now in a lesser cause. So I gave myself a double shot of dynocaine and uncaged the gimbals of my seat. I remember wondering whether I should let out “David’s” little wings, and decided that it wouldn’t help. Then I must have blacked out.

‘When I came round again it was very hot, and I had normal weight. I felt very stiff and sore, and to make matters worse the cabin was oscillating violently. I struggled to the port and saw that the desert was uncomfortably close. The big parachute had done its work, but I thought that the impact was going to be rather too violent for comfort. So I jumped.

‘From what you tell me I’d have done better to have stayed in the ship. But I don’t suppose I can grumble.’

We sat in silence for a while. Then Jimmy remarked casually:

‘The accelerometer shows that you touched twenty-one gravities on the way down. Only for three seconds, though. Most of the time it was between twelve and fifteen.’

David did not seem to hear and presently I said:

‘Well, we can’t hold the reporters off much longer. Do you feel like seeing them?’

David hesitated.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘Not now.’

He read our faces and shook his head violently.

‘No,’ he said with emphasis, ‘it’s not that at all. I’d be willing to take off again right now. But I want to sit and think things over for a while.’

His voice sank, and when he spoke again it was to show the real David behind the perpetual mask of extroversion.

‘You think I haven’t any nerves,’ he said, ‘and that I take risks without bothering about the consequences. Well, that isn’t quite true and I’d like you to know why. I’ve never told anyone this, not even Mavis.

‘You know I’m not superstitious,’ he began, a little apologetically, ‘but most materialists have some secret reservations, even if they won’t admit them.

‘Many years ago I had a peculiarly vivid dream. By itself, it wouldn’t have meant much, but later I discovered that two other men had put almost identical experiences on record. One you’ve probably read, for the man was J. W. Dunne.

‘In his first book,
An Experiment with Time
, Dunne tells how he once dreamed that he was sitting at the controls of a curious flying-machine with swept-back wings, and years later the whole experience came true when he was testing his inherent stability airplane. Remembering my own dream, which I’d had
before
reading Dunne’s book, this made a considerable impression on me. But the second incident I found even more striking.

‘You’ve heard of Igor Sikorsky: he designed some of the first commercial long-distance flying boats – “Clippers”, they were called. In his autobiography,
The Story of the Flying S
, he tells us how he had a dream very similar to Dunne’s.

‘He was walking along a corridor with doors opening on either side and electric lights glowing overhead. There was a slight vibration underfoot and somehow he knew that he was in a flying machine. Yet at that time there were no airplanes in the world, and few people believed there ever would be.

‘Sikorsky’s dream, like Dunne’s, came true many years later. He was on the maiden flight of his first Clipper when he found himself walking along that familiar corridor.’

David laughed, a little self-consciously.

‘You’ve probably guessed what my dream was about,’ he continued. ‘Remember, it would have made no permanent impression if I hadn’t come across these parallel cases.

‘I was in a small, bare room with no windows. There were two other men with me, and we were all wearing what I thought at the time were diving-suits. I had a curious control panel in front of me, with a circular screen built into it. There was a picture on the screen, but it didn’t mean anything to me and I can’t recall it now, though I’ve tried many times since. All I remember is turning to the other two men and saying: “Five minutes to go, boys” – though I’m not sure if those were the exact words. And then, of course, I woke up.

‘That dream has haunted me ever since I became a test pilot. No – haunted isn’t the right word. It’s given me confidence that in the long run everything would be all right – at least until I’m in that cabin with those other two men. What happens after that I don’t know. But now you understand why I felt quite safe when I brought down the A.20, and when I crashlanded the A.15 off Pantelleria.

‘So now you know. You can laugh if you please: I sometimes do myself. But even if there’s nothing in it, that dream’s given my subconscious a boost that’s been pretty useful.’

We didn’t laugh, and presently Jimmy said:

‘Those other men – did you recognise them?’

David looked doubtful.

‘I’ve never made up my mind,’ he answered. ‘Remember, they were wearing spacesuits and I didn’t see their faces clearly. But one of them looked rather like you, though he seemed a good deal older than you are now. I’m afraid you weren’t there, Arthur. Sorry.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘As I’ve told you before, I’ll have to stay behind to explain what went wrong. I’m quite content to wait until the passenger service starts.’