Prelude to Space (17 page)

“Can I take that as a promise, Prof?”

“It isn’t mine to make, confound you.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is. But I see your argument—if I miss the boat this time I
won’t be too upset. Now I think I’ll go to sleep.”

The spectacle of the Director-General carefully carrying a wastepaper basket into
Professor Maxton’s office might normally have caused some amusement, but everyone
regarded him solemnly as he entered. There were no bowler hats, it seemed, in the
whole of Luna City: the wastepaper basket would have to act as a less dignified substitute.

Apart from the five members of the crew, who were painstakingly showing their nonchalance
in the background, the only other people in the room were Maxton, McAndrews, two members
of the administrative staff—and Alexson. Dirk had no particular reason to be there
but McAndrews had invited him in. The Director of Public Relations was always doing
helpful things like this, but Dirk strongly suspected that he was trying to secure
his foothold in the official history.

Professor Maxton picked up a dozen small strips of paper from his desk and flicked
them between his fingers.

“Right—are we all ready?” he said. “Here’s a slip for each of you to put your name
on. If anyone’s too nervous to write, he can make a cross and we’ll get it witnessed.”

This little sally did much to relieve the tension and there were some good-natured
jibes as the slips were signed and handed back, already folded.

“Good; now I’ll mix them up with the blanks—so. Who’d like to do the draw?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, acting on some unanimous impulse, the four
other crew members pushed Hassell to the front. He looked rather sheepish as Professor
Maxton held the basket out toward him.

“No cheating, Vic!” he said. “And only one at a time! Close your eyes and dip.”

Hassell plunged his hand into the basket and pulled out one of the slips. He handed
it to Sir Robert, who quickly unfolded it.

“Blank,” he said.

There was a little sigh of annoyance—or relief?

Another slip. Again—

“Blank.”

“Hey, is everyone using invisible ink?” asked Maxton. “Try again, Vic.”

This time he was lucky.

“P. Leduc.”

Pierre said something very quickly in French and looked extremely pleased with himself.
Everyone congratulated him hastily and turned at once back to Hassell.

He immediately scored a second bull’s-eye.

“J. Richards.”

Tension was now at its highest. Looking carefully, Dirk saw that Hassell’s hand was
trembling very slightly as he pulled out the fifth strip.

“Blank.”

“Here we go again!” groaned someone. He was right.

“Blank.”

And yet a third time—

“Blank.”

Someone who had forgotten to breathe lately gave a long, deep suspiration.

Hassell handed the eighth slip to the Director-General.

“Lewis Taine.”

The tension broke. Everyone crowded around the three chosen men. For a moment Hassell
stood perfectly still; then he turned toward the others. His face showed absolutely
no emotion of any kind. Then Professor Maxton clapped him on the shoulder and said
something that Dirk could not hear. Hassell’s face relaxed and he answered with a
wry smile. Dirk distinctly caught the word “Mars”; then, looking quite cheerful, Hassell
joined the others in congratulating his friends.

“That’ll do!” boomed the Director-General, grinning all over his face. “Come across
to my office—I may have a few unopened bottles around the place.”

The company trooped next door, only McAndrews excusing himself on the grounds that
he had to get hold of the press. For the next quarter of an hour several sedate toasts
were drunk in some excellent Australian wines which the Director-General had obviously
obtained for this occasion. Then the little party broke up with a general air of relieved
satisfaction. Leduc, Richards and Taine were dragged off to face the cameras, while
Hassell and Clinton remained for a while in conference with Sir Robert. No one ever
knew exactly what he said to them, but they both seemed quite cheerful when they emerged.

When the little ceremony was over, Dirk attached himself to Professor Maxton, who
also seemed very pleased with himself and was whistling tunelessly.

“I bet you’re glad that’s over,” said Dirk.

“I certainly am. Now we all know where we stand.”

They walked together for a few yards without saying anything. Then Dirk remarked,
very innocently: “Have I ever told you about my particular hobby?”

Professor Maxton looked somewhat taken aback.

“No; what is it?”

Dirk gave an apologetic cough.

“I’m supposed to be quite a good amateur conjurer.”

Professor Maxton stopped his whistling, very abruptly. A profound silence fell. Then
Dirk said reassuringly: “There’s no need to worry. I’m quite sure that no one else
noticed anything—particularly Hassell.”

“You,” said Professor Maxton firmly, “are a confounded nuisance. I suppose you’ll
want to put this down in your infernal history?”

Dirk chuckled.

“Perhaps, though I’m not a gossip writer. I noticed that you only palmed Hassell’s
slip, so presumably the others
were
chosen by chance. Or had you already arranged what names the D.-G. would call out?
Were all those blanks genuine, for instance?”

“You are a suspicious blighter! No, the others really were chosen by fair ballot.”

“What do you think Hassell will do now?”

“He’ll stay for the take-off, and still be home with time to spare.”

“And Clinton—how will he take it?”

“He’s a phlegmatic individual; it won’t worry him. We’re getting the pair of them
working right away on the plans for the next trip. That should keep them from fretting
and moping.”

He turned anxiously to Dirk.

“You’ll promise never to say anything about this?”

Dirk gave a grin.

“‘Never’ is a heck of a long time. Shall we settle for the year 2000?”

“Always thinking about posterity, aren’t you? Very well then—the year 2000 it is.
But on one condition!”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll expect a
de luxe
, autographed copy of your report to read through in my old age!”

Dirk was making a tentative draft of his preface when the telephone rang noisily.
The fact that he had a telephone at all was somewhat surprising, for many much more
important people lacked one and were always coming in to borrow his. But it had fallen
out that way during the allocation of offices, and although he expected to lose it
at any moment no one had yet arrived to remove the instrument.

“That you, Dirk? Ray Collins here. We’ve got the screens off the ‘Prometheus’ so you
can see the whole ship at last. And you remember asking me how we serviced the motors?”

“Yes.”

“Come along and you can watch. It’s worth seeing.”

Dirk sighed and put away his notes. One day he would really get started, and then
the history would materialize at a terrific rate. He was not at all worried, for he
now knew his methods of working. It was no good starting before he had marshaled all
the facts, and as yet he had not finished indexing his notes and references.

It was a very cold day, and he wrapped himself up thoroughly as he walked toward “Oxford
Circus.” Most of Luna City’s traffic converged upon this intersection, and he should
be able to get a lift to the launching site. Transport was precious at the base and
there was a continual battle between the various departments for the possession of
the few available trucks and cars.

He stamped around in the cold for about ten minutes before a jeep loaded with journalists
on the same mission came roaring by. It looked somewhat like a traveling optician’s
shop, since it bristled with cameras, telescopes and binoculars. Nevertheless Dirk
managed to find room for himself among the window display.

The jeep swirled into the parking area and everyone clambered out, lugging his equipment.
Dirk gave a hand to a very small reporter with a very large telescope and tripod—partly
out of good nature but partly because he hoped he’d be able to have a look through
it himself.

The two great ships now lay bare of all coverings and screens; for the first time
one could fully appreciate their size and proportions. “Beta” might, at a casual glance,
have been taken for a conventional airliner of fairly normal design. Dirk, who knew
very little about aircraft, would not have given her a second glance had he seen her
taking off from his local field.

“Alpha” no longer seemed quite so much like a giant shell. The spaceship’s radio and
navigational equipment had now been extended, and its lines were completely spoiled
by a small forest of masts and outriggers of various kinds. Someone inside must have
been operating the controls, for occasionally a mast would retract or extend itself
farther.

Dirk followed the crowd around to the rear of the ship. A roughly triangular area
had been roped off, so that the “Prometheus” was at one apex and they were at the
base. The nearest they could get to the machine’s driving units was about a hundred
yards. Looking into those gaping nozzles, Dirk felt no particular desire to come any
closer.

Cameras and binoculars were being brought into action, and presently Dirk managed
to get his look through the telescope. The rocket motors seemed only a few yards away,
but he could see nothing except a metal pit full of darkness and mystery. Out of that
nozzle would soon be coming hundreds of tons of radioactive gas at fifteen thousand
miles an hour. Beyond it, hidden in shadow, were the pile elements that no human being
could ever again approach.

Someone was coming toward them through the forbidden area—but keeping very close to
the rope barrier. As he approached Dirk saw that it was Dr. Collins. The engineer
grinned at him and said: “Thought I’d find you here. We’re just waiting for the servicing
staff to arrive. That’s a nice telescope you’ve got—can I have a look?”

“It isn’t mine,” explained Dirk. “It belongs to this gentleman here.”

The little journalist would be delighted if the Professor cared to have a look—and
still more so if he’d explain what there was to see, anyway.

Collins stared intently for some seconds. Then he straightened up and said: “I’m afraid
there’s not a lot to see at present—we should have a spotlight shining up the jet
to illuminate the interior. But you’ll be glad of that telescope in a minute.”

He gave a wry little smile.

“It’s rather a queer feeling, you know,” he said to Dirk, “looking at a machine you’ve
helped build yourself—and which you can never go near again without committing suicide.”

While he spoke, an extraordinary vehicle was approaching across the concrete. It was
a very large truck, not unlike those which television companies use for outside broadcasts,
and it was towing a machine at which Dirk could only stare in baffled amazement. As
it went past, he had a confused impression of jointed levers, small electric motors,
chain drives and worm-wheels, and other devices he could not identify.

The two vehicles came to a halt just inside the danger area. A door opened in the
big truck, and half a dozen men clambered out. They uncoupled the trailer, and began
connecting it up to three large armored cables which they unwound from drums at the
front of the van.

The strange machine suddenly came to life. It rolled forward on its little balloon
tires, as though testing its mobility. The jointed levers began to flex and unflex,
giving a weird impression of mechanical life. A moment later it started to roll purposefully
toward the “Prometheus,” the larger machine following behind it at the same speed.

Collins was grinning hugely at Dirk’s amazement and the obvious surprise of the journalists
around him.

“That’s Tin Lizzie,” he said, by way of introduction. “She’s not really a true robot,
as every movement she makes is controlled directly by the men in the van. It takes
a crew of three to run her, and it’s one of the most highly skilled jobs in the world.”

Lizzie was now within a few yards of “Alpha’s” jets, and after some precise foot-work
with her bogies she came to a gentle halt. A long, thin arm carrying several obscure
pieces of machinery disappeared down that ominous tunnel.

“Remote servicing machinery,” explained Collins to his interested audience, “has always
been one of the most important side-lines of atomic engineering. It was first developed
on a large scale for the Manhattan Project during the War. Since then it’s become
quite an industry in itself. Lizzie is just one of the more spectacular products.
She could almost repair a watch—or at least an alarm clock!”

“Just how does the crew control her?” asked Dirk.

“There’s a television camera on that arm, so they can see the work just as if they
were watching it directly. All movements are carried out by servo motors controlled
through those cables.”

No one could see what Lizzie was now doing, and it was a long time before she slowly
backed away from the rocket. She was carrying, Dirk saw, a curiously shaped bar about
three feet long which she held firmly in her metal claws. The two vehicles withdrew
three-quarters of the way to the barrier, and as they approached the journalists hastily
retreated from that drab gray object in the robot’s claws. Collins, however, stood
his ground, so Dirk decided it must be safe to remain.

There was a sudden, raucous buzzing from the engineer’s coat-pocket, and Dirk jumped
a foot in the air. Collins held up his hand and the robot came to a halt about forty
feet away. Its controllers, Dirk guessed, must be watching them through the television
eyes.

Collins waved his arms, and the bar slowly rotated in the robot’s claws. The buzzing
of the radiation alarm ceased abruptly and Dirk breathed again.

“There’s usually some sort of beaming effect from an irregular object like that,”
explained Collins. “We’re still in its radiation field, of course, but it’s too weak
to be dangerous.”