Futures Past (36 page)

  
Craig turned, beaming widely, but with concern and sympathy in his eyes. The crowd and the royal trumpeters were making it impossible for his voice to be heard; he mouthed, "You'll be told officially later. Two Helgachians have successfully undergone the Immortality Treatment!"

  
Somehow Tate endured an hour of congratulations and renewed vows of loyalty, but his mind was far away. If two non-humans could become immortal, he told himself, then everyone could do it. He must live on now, because the news meant two things: he was no longer alone, and the dream he had had for centuries looked like it was coming about. He sighed and had to blink his eyes.

  
The trappings of royalty and empire that were necessary to hold the variegated and often quarrelsome children of the galaxy together would soon become superfluous. The children were slowly growing up. One day their ethical standards would be so high that they would have nothing to fear from the Treatment, and the galaxy would at last be populated with truly civilized beings. Meanwhile, if Tate expected to see that day, he would have to live the life of a saint, and be very very careful not to do any of the petty little things which could so easily kill him during treatment. He had to live now.

  
He came fully out of his daydream only as he was leaving the great audience chamber. The trumpeters—live on this occasion instead of being recorded—were having a wonderful time, and almost drowning out the din of whistling, chirping, and cheering from the beings in the room. Somewhere, someone began to chant. Quickly others took it up. It became thunderous, ground-shaking. The last great fanfare paled into insignificance.

  
"Long live the King!"

  
Tate, the Wise, Merciful, Just, and well-loved Father whose benevolent tyranny forced a galaxy to live together in peace, nodded once gravely in acknowledgment. "You bet," he swore silently to himself, "You bet I will."

  
IN a glide that was only a few degrees off level flight the ship slid into the tenuous upper reaches of the atmosphere. The thin, practically nonexistent air, made an almost solid thing by its tremendous speed of passage, tore at the gaping holes and ragged-edged projections in the once-streamlined hull, shaking the whole ship with a continuous, bone-jarring vibration. Rapidly the dull red glow of air friction grew along the leading edges of its gliding wings, on its blunted nose, and patchily about the torn and buckled plates that had once concealed the ship's radio, radar, and direct vision periscopic installations. Fearfully, like a great silver fish forced into exploring the depths of some strange and deadly ocean, it lowered itself cautiously into the Earth's atmosphere.

  
It had to land, and quickly. But its fear and hesitancy was understandable—the ship was deaf, dumb, and blind...

  
Gregg awoke with the dying echoes of one mighty gonglike note ringing in his ears, and to the sight of the ceiling rushing at him. The ceiling, after approaching to within six inches of his face, receded just as quickly, and the echo was abruptly drowned by sharp, urgent blasts of the multiple puncture signal. For an instant he lay too shocked to move, while the spring cables of his acceleration hammock—super efficient in the absence of gravity —flung him backwards and forwards across the compartment with a violence that made him sick and dizzy.

  
This, he thought crazily, is what the business end of a yo-yo feels like. Then the meaning of the signal registered.

  
Spacesuit!

  
Frantically he unzipped himself from the madly-oscillating hammock and kicked free. He skidded off one wall and stopped—violently—against another. The compartment's entrance where the spacesuit hung seemed to be miles away.

  
Five seconds later, as he was struggling with the top half of his suit and sweating because of the time it was taking, the alarm siren changed to the long-short-long pattern that meant No Immediate Danger. An indicator light above the door—placed there in case there should be no air to carry the sound of the hooter—flickered out the same information. Infinitely relieved, Gregg did the suiting-up operation with less haste, biting his lip several times at the pain shooting through his arm and shoulder.

  
Good thing the ship wasn't losing air fast, Gregg thought, or he'd be a very dead duck by this time. When his hammock had catapulted him against the wall he'd taken a bad crack on the elbow. It had slowed him down at a time when every second might have counted.

  
Only when he was encased in the suit and at least temporarily safe did he begin to wonder what exactly had happened to the ship. Gregg had an overwhelming urge to head for the control room and find out the worst direct from Captain Ferguson. But doing that, he knew, wouldn't be very bright. In an emergency like this, ship's personnel were required to remain at their posts and report conditions in their vicinity so that the captain could get the overall picture. If Gregg went barging into the control room now, asking questions and offering assistance when the duty officers were up to their ears checking damage reports, he'd no doubt be told where to go—his assistance and himself both. He'd better obey the rules.

  
Carefully avoiding the still-vibrating hammock, Gregg kicked himself toward the intercom set on the wall. He plugged in his helmet lead and tried to keep his voice steady as he said: "This is Gregg, in Storage Compartment 2, to Control..."

  
He stopped then, aware by the absence of crackle in his headphones that the set was dead.

  
Gregg forced down the surge of panic which rose in him. A dead communications set, he told himself reassuringly, didn't necessarily mean that the control room was wrecked; the collision may merely have loosened an already faulty connection in the wiring somewhere, or some other simple explanation like that. . . . With an effort, Gregg made himself stop his wild and senseless speculations, and tried to take stock.

  
He was traveling on the express passenger liner Wallaby enroute from Mars to Earth. But not for him was the main saloon with its tasteful decor, its soft music, and its almost-constant film shows. As a company employee traveling at a fraction of the fare paid by ordinary passengers, an acceleration hammock rigged in an empty storage compartment was good enough for him. He'd been left to the contemplation of the beautiful symmetry of a rivet-studded bulkhead, and to try, if the constant two and a half G's acceleration would allow him, to sleep."

  
But there was no acceleration now. The ship was in free fall, weightless, its drive having cut off automatically in the instant of the collision. That was one of the many safety devices built into the ship, Gregg knew; the Wallaby was so crammed with automatic controls and safety devices that one of the station officials had told him that her crew were taking money under false pretences by claiming to operate her. The ship ran herself, he'd been told almost seriously, and the only difference between crewmen and passengers was that the latter were heavily charged for the ride. Gregg, floating beside the dead intercom set, thought that servomechanisms were all very well until something unforeseen happened; then, of course, it was the fragile and inefficient thinking machines of flesh and blood who had to solve the problem.

  
But where were the crew anyway? Surely one of them should have come around to inspect this section by now?

  
For all Gregg knew they might be dead. Everybody might be dead, but him. He shivered involuntarily; that was very unlikely. He'd better look around and keep his mind busy or he'd scare himself to death with thoughts like that.

  
The corridor outside was deserted but well lit. As Gregg pulled himself along the ladder and net arrangement covering one of its walls in the direction of the nearest cabin, the alarm siren shut off suddenly. Small scraping sounds —made probably by men moving about—grew out of the ensuing silence, and from somewhere came a continuous, insistent clicking noise. Gregg pushed open a door lettered "Engineer—A-Drive" and floated inside. A gauge on the wall had already told him that air pressure was normal so he opened his face-plate to make talking easier;

  
Peterson, the Wallaby's second engineer, was still wrestling with the bottom half of his spacesuit. There was a large bump growing on his forehead, a lot of blood on his right temple and jaw, and he was muttering steadily to himself. The things he was repeating weren't nursery rhymes. From the way he kept blinking and shaking his head Gregg suspected a touch of concussion.

  
"Er, Mr. Peterson," Gregg said. "What happened?"

  
"How the . . ." Peterson didn't know what had happened—his language while telling Gregg so was vivid. Gregg, who tried to keep a one-track mind in important matters, disregarded him as he caught sight of the compartment's intercom. He pushed himself over to it and plugged in.

  
"Peterson!" a voice crackled at him before he could get out two words. "I thought you were dead or something. Give me the picture down there man, quick!"
  
•

  
Stammering a little, Gregg told the voice that there was light and air, and no outward sign of damage. He added, ". . . But this isn't Peterson, Captain. Peterson is hurt, though not badly, I think. This is Gregg. Is there anything I can do?"

  
"Gregg?" There was silence for a moment, then: "Oh yes, the passenger in Storage Two." The voice became hurried. "You can give Mr.- Peterson whatever first aid you can, then tell him to report on the condition of the A-Drive to me as soon as possible. After that you'd better just stay out of the way for a while. We appreciate your offer to help, Mr. Gregg, but you must realize that we require skilled, technical assistance. Anyone without a thorough knowledge of ship operation and construction would only get in the way. Sorry, but thanks anyway."

  
"Captain," Gregg said quickly. "I've some experience of mining and construction in weightless conditions. I could help patch the hull for you maybe. And . . ." He caught himself just in time. He'd almost told the other that he'd once served on a ship as well—which would, of course, lead to him naming the ship. He didn't want that. He was trying desperately to forget that he'd once been Gregg of the Allendyne.

  
The set made a hissing sound that might have been a great sigh of relief, then: "In that case we can certainly use your help, Mr. Gregg. Can you put on Mr. Peterson now—and Gregg," the voice added, "you can stop calling me Captain. This is Second Pilot Allerton speaking. The captain is ... ill."

  
The engineer had joined Gregg and had already plugged in while Allerton was talking. He said: "Peterson here. What happened, or can't you tell yet?"

  
No, Allerton couldn't tell him anything for sure yet. The second pilot wanted Peterson to check the A-Drive unit and the chemically-fueled landing motors. The panel in the control room said they were O.K., but he wanted an on-the-spot check to make sure. First of all, though, Gregg heard him tell the engineer, he'd better see to the passengers. Nobody else could be spared to do this, it seemed.

  
But Peterson had an objection, a good one. I banged my face getting off the hammock," the engineer said quickly. "Nothing serious—just bloodied it up a bit—but it isn't what you'd call a sight to inspire confidence in a nervous passenger. Maybe Mr. Gregg here could..."

  
"Oh, all right," Allerton interrupted testily. "What does he look like?"

  
"Superficially undamaged," Peterson replied, giving Gregg a careful scrutiny. Dryly he added: "A bit green around the gills, of course, but with" his helmet on they don't show."

  
"Right." Allerton had no time for levity. "Mr. Gregg will you make that your first job, please. Go to the saloon, help any passengers needing it, and calm them down generally. If anyone is injured call for the medic, but only if you have to, because he's very busy at the moment. Above all, keep them out of the control room until we've sorted this mess out. Understood?"

  
"Yes sir," Gregg said. "But can you tell me what has happened? They'll want to know—that and what their chances of survival are." He stopped, holding his breath unconsciously. He badly wanted to know the answers to those questions himself.