Prelude to Space (4 page)

“From the first, Interplanetary was a world-wide organization and it’s largely an
historical accident that its H.Q. is actually in London. It might very well have been
in America, and a lot of our compatriots are still annoyed that it isn’t. But for
some reason, you Americans have always been a bit conservative about space flight,
and didn’t take it seriously until several years after us. Never mind: the Germans
beat us both.

“Also, you must remember that the United States is much too small a country for astronautical
research. Yes, I know that sounds odd—but if you look at a population map you’ll see
what I mean. There are only two places in the world that are really suitable for long-range
rocket research. One’s the Sahara desert, and even that is a little too near the great
cities of Europe. The other is the West Australian desert, where the British Government
started building its great rocket range in 1947. It’s more than a thousand miles long,
and there’s another two thousand miles of ocean beyond it—giving a grand total of
over three thousand miles. You won’t find any place in the United States where you
can safely fire a rocket even five hundred miles. So it’s partly a geographical accident
that things have turned out this way.

“Where was I? Oh yes, up to 1960 or so. It was about then that we began to get really
important, for two reasons which aren’t widely known. By that time a whole section
of nuclear physics had come to a full stop. The scientists of the Atomic Development
Authority thought they could start the hydrogen-helium reaction—and I don’t mean the
tritium reaction of the old H-bomb—but the crucial experiments had been very wisely
banned. There’s rather a lot of hydrogen in the sea! So the nuclear physicists were
all sitting around chewing their fingernails until we could build them laboratories
out in space. It wouldn’t matter, then, if something went wrong. The solar system
would merely acquire a second and rather temporary sun. ADA also wanted us to dump
the dangerous fission products from the piles, which were too radioactive to keep
on Earth but which might be useful some day.

“The second reason wasn’t so spectacular, but was perhaps even more immediately important.
The great radio and telegraph companies
had
to get out into space—it was the only way they could broadcast television over the
whole world and provide a universal communication service. As you know, the very short
waves of radar and television won’t bend around the Earth—they travel in practically
straight lines, so that one station can send signals only as far as the horizon. Airborne
relays had been built to get over this difficulty, but it was realized that the final
solution would be reached only when repeater stations could be built thousands of
miles above the Earth—artificial moons, probably traveling in twenty-four-hour orbits
so that they’d appear stationary in the sky. No doubt you’ve read all about these
ideas, so I won’t go into them now.

“So by about 1970 we had the support of some of the world’s biggest technical organizations,
with virtually unlimited funds. They
had
to come to us, since we had all the experts. In the early days, I’m afraid there
was a certain amount of bickering and the Service Departments have never quite forgiven
us for stealing back all their best scientists. But on the whole we get along well
enough with ADA, Westinghouse, General Electric, Rolls-Royce, Lockheeds, de Havillands,
and the rest of them. They’ve all got offices here, as you’ve probably noticed. Although
they make us very substantial grants, the technical services they provide are really
beyond price. Without their help, I don’t suppose we’d have reached this stage for
another twenty years.”

There was a brief pause, and Dirk emerged from the torrent of words like a spaniel
clambering out of a mountain stream. McAndrews talked much too quickly, obviously
repeating phrases and whole paragraphs which he had been using for years. Dirk got
the impression that almost everything he had said had probably come from other sources,
and wasn’t original at all.

“I’d no idea,” he replied, “just how extensive your ramifications were.”

“Believe me, that’s nothing!” McAndrews exclaimed. “I don’t think there are many big
industrial firms who haven’t been convinced that we can help them in some way. The
cable companies will save hundreds of millions when they can replace their ground
stations and land-lines by a few repeaters in space; the chemical industry will—”

“Oh, I’ll take your word for it! I was wondering where all the money came from, and
now I see just how big a thing this is.”

“Don’t forget,” interjected Matthews, who had hitherto been sitting in resigned silence,
“our most important contribution to industry.”

“What’s that?”

“The import of high-grade vacuums for filling electric-light bulbs and electronics
tubes.”

“Ignoring Alfred’s usual facetiousness,” said Mc-Andrews severely, “it’s perfectly
true that physics in general will make tremendous strides when we can build laboratories
in space. And you can guess how the astronomers are looking forward to observatories
which will never be bothered by clouds.”

“I know now,” said Dirk, ticking off the points on his fingers, “just
how
Interplanetary happened, and also what it hopes to do. But I still find it very hard
to define exactly what it is.”

“Legally, it’s a non-profit-making (“And how!” interjected Matthews,
sotto voce
) organization devoted, as its charter says, ‘to research into the problems of space
flight.’ It originally obtained its funds from
Spacewards
, but that hasn’t any official connection with us now that it’s linked up with
National Geographic
—though it has plenty of unofficial ones. Today most of our money comes from government
grants and from industrial concerns. When interplanetary travel is fully established
on a commercial basis, as aviation is today, we’ll probably evolve into something
different. There are a lot of political angles to the whole thing and no one can say
just what will happen when the planets start to be colonized.”

McAndrews gave a little laugh, half apologetic and half defensive.

“There are a lot of pipe-dreams floating around this place, as you’ll probably discover.
Some people have ideas of starting scientific Utopias on suitable worlds, and all
that sort of thing. But the immediate aim is purely technical: we must find out what
the planets are like before we decide how to use them.”

The office became quiet; for a moment no one seemed inclined to speak. For the first
time Dirk realized the true importance of the goal toward which these men were working.
He felt overwhelmed and more than a little frightened. Was humanity ready to be pitchforked
out into space, ready to face the challenge of barren and inhospitable worlds never
meant for Man? He could not be sure, and in the depths of his mind he felt profoundly
disturbed.

From the street, 53 Rochdale Avenue, S.W.5, appeared to be one of those neo-Georgian
residences which the more successful stockbrokers of the early twentieth century had
erected as shelters for their declining years. It was set well back from the road,
with tastefully laid out but somewhat neglected lawns and flower beds. When the weather
was fine, as it occasionally was in the spring of 1978, five young men might sometimes
be seen performing desultory gardening operations with inadequate tools. It was clear
that they were doing this merely as a relaxation, and that their minds were very far
away. Just how far, a casual passer-by could hardly have guessed.

It had been a very well kept secret, largely because the security organizers themselves
were ex-newspapermen. As far as the world knew, the crew of the “Prometheus” had not
been chosen, whereas in actuality its training had begun more than a year ago. It
had continued with quiet efficiency, not five miles from Fleet Street, yet altogether
free from the fierce limelight of public interest.

At any time, there were not likely to be more than a handful of men in the world who
would be capable of piloting a spaceship. No other work had ever demanded such a unique
combination of physical and mental characteristics. The perfect pilot had not only
to be a first-class astronomer, an expert engineer and a specialist in electronics,
but must be capable of operating efficiently both when he was “weightless” and when
the rocket’s acceleration made him weigh a quarter of a ton.

No single individual could meet these requirements, and many years ago it had been
decided that the crew of a spaceship must consist of at least three men, any two of
whom could take over the duties of a third in an emergency. Interplanetary was training
five; two were reserves in case of last-minute illness. As yet, no one knew who the
two reserves would be.

Few doubted that Victor Hassell would be the ship’s captain. At twenty-eight, he was
the only man in the world who had logged over a hundred hours in free fall. The record
had been entirely accidental. Two years before, Hassell had taken an experimental
rocket up into an orbit and circled the world thirty times before he could repair
a fault which had developed in the firing circuits, and so reduce his velocity enough
to fall back to Earth. His nearest rival, Pierre Leduc, had a mere twenty hours of
orbital flight to his credit.

The three remaining men were not professional pilots at all. Arnold Clinton, the Australian,
was an electronic engineer and a specialist in computers and automatic controls. Astronomy
was represented by the brilliant young American Lewis Taine, whose prolonged absence
from Mount Palomar Observatory was now requiring elaborate explanations. The Atomic
Development Authority had contributed James Richards, expert on nuclear propulsion
systems. Being a ripe old thirty-five, he was usually called “Grandpop” by his colleagues.

Life at the “Nursery,” as it was always referred to by those sharing the secret, combined
the characteristics of college, monastery and operational bomber station. It was colored
by the personalities of the five “pupils,” and by the visiting scientists who came
in an endless stream to impart their knowledge or, sometimes, to get it back with
interest. It was an intensely busy but a happy life, for it had a purpose and a goal.

There was only one shadow, and that was inevitable. When the time for the decision
came, no one knew who was to be left behind on the desert sands, watching the “Prometheus”
shrink into the sky until the thunder of its jets could be heard no more.

An astrogation lecture was in full swing when Dirk and Matthews tiptoed into the back
of the room. The speaker gave them an unfriendly look, but the five men seated around
him never even glanced at the intruders. As unobtrusively as possible, Dirk studied
them while his guide indicated their names in hoarse whispers.

Hassell he recognized from newspaper photographs, but the others were unknown to him.
Rather to Dirk’s surprise, they conformed to no particular type. Their only obvious
points in common were age, intelligence, and alertness. From time to time they shot
questions at the lecturer, and Dirk gathered that they were discussing the landing
maneuvers on the Moon. All the conversation was so much above his head that he quickly
grew tired of listening and was glad when Matthews gave an interrogatory nod toward
the door.

Out in the corridor, they relaxed and lit cigarettes.

“Well,” said Matthews, “now that you’ve seen our guinea pigs, what do you think of
them?”

“I can hardly judge. What I’d like to do is meet them informally and just talk with
them by themselves.”

Matthews blew a smoke-ring and watched it thoughtfully as it dispersed.

“That wouldn’t be easy. As you can guess, they haven’t much spare time. When they’ve
finished here, they usually disappear in a cloud of dust back to their families.”

“How many of them are married?”

“Leduc’s got two children; so has Richards. Vic Hassell was married about a year ago.
The others are still single.”

Dirk wondered what the wives thought about the whole business. Somehow it didn’t seem
altogether fair to them. He wondered, too, whether the men regarded this as simply
another job of work, or if they felt the exaltation—there was no other word for it—which
had obviously inspired the founders of Interplanetary.

They had now come to a door labeled “KEEP OUT—TECHNICAL STAFF ONLY!” Matthews pushed
tentatively against it and it swung open.

“Careless!” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, either. Let’s go in—I
think this is one of the most interesting places I know, even though I’m not a scientist.”

That was one of Matthews’ favorite phrases, which probably concealed a well-buried
inferiority complex. Actually both he and McAndrews knew far more about science than
they pretended.

Dirk followed him into the semi-gloom, then gasped with amazement as Matthews found
the switch and the place was flooded with light. He was standing in a control room,
surrounded by banks of switches and meters. The only furniture consisted of three
luxurious seats suspended in a complex gimbal system. He reached out to touch one
of them and it began to rock gently to and fro.

“Don’t touch anything,” warned Matthews quickly. “We’re not really supposed to be
in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Dirk examined the array of controls and switches from a respectful distance. He could
guess the purpose of some from the labels they bore, but others were quite incomprehensible.
The words “Manual” and “Auto” occurred over and over again. Almost as popular were
“Fuel,” “Drive Temperature,” “Pressure,” and “Earth Range.” Others, such as “Emergency
Cut-out,” “Air Warning,” and “Pile Jettison” had a distinctly ominous flavor. A third
and still more enigmatic group provided grounds for endless speculation. “Alt. Trig.
Sync.,” “Neut. Count,” and “Video Mix” were perhaps the choicest specimens in this
category.