Prelude to Space (12 page)

Beyond Mars the giant outer worlds lay in a frozen twilight which grew ever dimmer
and colder as the Sun dwindled to a distant star. Jupiter and Saturn were crushed
beneath atmospheres thousands of miles deep—atmospheres of methane and ammonia, torn
by hurricanes which we could observe across half a billion miles or more of space.
If there was life on those strange outer planets, and the still colder worlds beyond,
it would be more weird than anything we could imagine. Only in the temperate zone
of the Solar System, the narrow belt in which floated Venus, Earth and Mars, could
there be life as we knew it.

Life as we knew it! And how little we knew! What right had
we
on our puny world to assume that it set the pattern for all the Universe? Could conceit
go farther?

The Universe was not hostile to life, but merely indifferent. Its strangeness was
an opportunity and a challenge—a challenge which intelligence would accept. Shaw had
spoken the truth, half a century ago, when he put these words into the mouth of Lilith,
who came before Adam and Eve:

“Of Life only there is no end; and though of its million starry mansions many are
empty and many still unbuilt, and though its vast domain is as yet unbearably desert,
my seed shall one day fill it and master it to its uttermost confines.”

The clear, cultured voice died away, and Dirk became once more conscious of his surroundings.
It had been a remarkable performance: he would like to know more about the speaker,
who was now quietly dismantling his little platform and preparing to wheel it away
in a dilapidated handcart. The crowd was dispersing around him, looking for fresh
attractions. From time to time half-heard phrases borne down the wind told Dirk that
the other speakers were still operating at full blast.

Dirk turned to leave, and as he did so caught sight of a face which he recognized.
For a moment he was taken completely by surprise: the coincidence seemed too improbable
to be true.

Standing in the crowd, only a few feet away from him, was Victor Hassell.

Maude Hassell had needed no elaborate explanations when her husband had said, rather
abruptly, that he was “going for a stroll around the Park.” She understood perfectly,
and merely expressed a hope that he wouldn’t be recognized, and would be back in time
for tea. Both of these wishes were doomed to disappointment, as she was fairly sure
they would be.

Victor Hassell had lived in London for almost half his life, but his earliest impressions
of the city were still the most vivid and still held the strongest place in his affections.
As a young engineering student he had lodged in the Paddington area and had walked
to college every day across Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. When he thought of London,
he did not picture busy streets and world-famous buildings, but quiet avenues of trees
and open fields, and the wide sands of Rotten Row along which the Sunday morning riders
would still be cantering on their fine horses when humanity’s first ships were turning
homeward from the stars. And there was no need for him to remind Maude of their first
encounter beside the Serpentine, only two years ago, but a lifetime away. From all
these places he must now take his leave.

He spent a little time in South Kensington, wandering past the old colleges which
formed so large a part of his memories. They had not changed: the students with their
folders and T-squares and slide-rules were just the same. It was strange to think
that almost a century ago the young H. G. Wells had been one of that eager, restless
throng.

Acting upon impulse, Hassell walked into the Science Museum and came, as he had so
often done before, to the replica of the Wright biplane. Thirty years earlier the
original machine had been hanging here in the great gallery, but it had long since
gone back to the United States and few now remembered Orville Wright’s protracted
battle with the Smithsonian Institution which had been the cause of its exile.

Seventy-five years—a long lifetime, no more—lay between the flimsy wooden framework
that had skimmed a few yards across the ground at Kitty Hawk, and the great projectile
that might soon be taking him to the Moon. And he did not doubt that in another lifetime,
the “Prometheus” would look as quaint and as primitive as the little biplane suspended
above his head.

Hassell came out into Exhibition Road to find the sun shining brightly. He might have
stayed longer in the Science Museum, but a number of people had been staring at him
a little too intently. His chances of remaining unrecognized were, he imagined, probably
lower inside this building than almost anywhere on Earth.

He walked slowly across the Park along the paths he knew so well, pausing once or
twice to admire views he might never see again. There was nothing morbid in his realization
of this: indeed, he could appreciate with some detachment the increased intensity
it gave to his emotions. Like most men, Victor Hassell was afraid of death; but there
were occasions when it was a justifiable risk. That, at least, had been true when
there was merely himself to consider. He only wished he could prove it was still true,
but in that he had so far failed.

There was a bench not far from Marble Arch where he and Maude had often sat together
in the days before their marriage. He had proposed to her here a good many times,
and she had turned him down almost—but not quite—as frequently. He was glad to see
that it was unoccupied at the moment, and he dropped into it with a little sigh of
satisfaction.

His contentment was short-lived, for less than five minutes later he was joined by
an elderly gentleman who settled himself down behind a pipe and the
Manchester Guardian
. (That anyone should wish to guard Manchester had always struck Hassell as baffling
in the extreme.) He decided to move, after a sufficient interval, but before he could
do this without obvious rudeness there was a further interruption. Two small boys
who had been strolling along the pathway did a sudden turn to starboard and walked
up to the bench. They looked at him steadily in the uninhibited way that small boys
have, then the elder said accusingly: “Hey, Mister, are you Vic Hassell?”

Hassell gave them a critical examination. They were clearly brothers, and as unattractive
a pair as one would meet in a day’s march. He shuddered slightly as he realized what
a hazardous business parenthood was.

In normal circumstances, Hassell would have carefully confessed to the charge, since
he had not forgotten many of his own schoolboy enthusiasms. He would probably have
done so even now had he been approached more politely, but these urchins appeared
to be playing truant from Dr. Fagin’s Academy for Young Delinquents.

He looked at them fixedly and said, in his best Mayfair
circa
1920 voice, “It’s half-pass three, and I
haven’t
any change for a sixpence.”

At this masterly
non sequitur
the younger boy turned to his brother and said heatedly: “Garn, George—I told you
he weren’t!”

The other slowly strangled him by twisting his tie and continued as if nothing had
happened.

“You’re Vic Hassell, the rocket bloke.”

“Do I look like Mr. Hassell?” said Mr. Hassell in tones of indignant surprise.

“Yes.”

“That’s odd—no one’s ever told me so.”

This statement might be misleading, but it was the literal truth. The two boys looked
at him thoughtfully: Junior had now been granted the luxury of respiration. Suddenly
George appealed to the
Manchester Guardian
, though there was now a welcome note of uncertainty in his voice.

“He’s kidding us, Mister, ain’t he?”

A pair of spectacles reared themselves over the paper, and stared at them owlishly.
Then they focused on Hassell, who began to feel uncomfortable. There was a long, brooding
silence.

Then the stranger tapped his paper and said severely: “There’s a photo of Mr. Hassell
in here. The nose is quite different. Now please go away.”

The paper barricade was re-erected. Hassell looked into the distance, ignoring his
inquisitors, who continued to stare disbelievingly at him for another minute. Finally,
to his relief, they began to move away, still arguing with each other.

Hassell was wondering if he should thank his unknown supporter when the other folded
his newspaper and removed his glasses.

“You know,” he said, with a slight cough, “there
is
a striking resemblance.”

Hassell gave a shrug. He wondered if he should own up, but decided not to do so.

“To tell the truth,” he said, “it has caused me some annoyance before.”

The stranger looked at him thoughtfully, though his eyes had a misty, faraway look.

“They’re leaving for Australia tomorrow, aren’t they?” he said rhetorically. “I suppose
they’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of coming back from the Moon?”

“I should say it’s a lot better than that.”

“Still, it
is
a chance, and I suppose at this very moment young Hassell’s wondering if he’ll ever
see London again. It would be interesting to know what he’s doing—you could learn
a lot about him from that.”

“I guess you could,” said Hassell, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and wondering
how he could get away. The stranger, however, seemed in a talkative mood.

“There’s an editorial here,” he said, waving his crumpled paper, “all about the implications
of space flight and the effect it’s going to have on everyday life. That sort of thing’s
all very well, but when are we going to
settle down?
Eh?”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said Hassell, not altogether truthfully.

“There’s room for everyone on this world, and if we run it properly we’ll not find
a better, even if we go gallivanting right around the Universe.”

“Perhaps,” said Hassell mildly, “we’ll only appreciate Earth when we have done just
that.”

“Humph! Then more fools us. Aren’t we ever going to rest and have some peace?”

Hassell, who had met this argument before, gave a little smile.

“The dream of the Lotus Eaters,” he said, “is a pleasant fantasy for the individual—but
it would be death for the race.”

Sir Robert Derwent had once made that remark and it had become one of Hassell’s favorite
quotations.

“The Lotus Eaters? Let’s see—what did Tennyson say about them—nobody reads him nowadays.
‘There is sweet music here that softer falls…’ No, it isn’t that bit. Ah, I have it!

Well, young man,
is
there?”

“For some people—yes,” said Hassell. “And perhaps when space flight arrives they’ll
all rush off to the planets and leave the Lotus Eaters to their dreams. That should
satisfy everybody.”

“And the meek shall inherit the Earth, eh?” said his companion, who seemed to have
a very literary turn of mind.

“You could put it that way,” smiled Hassell. He looked automatically at his watch,
determined not to become involved in an argument which could have only one result.

“Dear me, I must be going. Thanks for the talk.”

He rose to leave, thinking he’d preserved his incognito rather well. The stranger
gave him a curious little smile and said quietly: “Good-bye.” He waited until Hassell
had gone twenty feet, then called after him in a louder voice: “And good luck—Ulysses!”

Hassell stopped dead, then swiveled round in his tracks—but the other was already
walking briskly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. He watched the tall, spare figure
lose itself in the crowd; and only then did he say to himself explosively: “Well I’ll
be damned!”

Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked on towards Marble Arch, intending to listen
once again to the soapbox orators who had given him so much amusement in his youth.

It did not take Dirk long to realize that the coincidence was hardly so surprising
after all. Hassell, he remembered, lived in the West London area. What was more natural
than that he, too, should be taking his last look at the city? It might well be his
last in a far more final sense than Dirk’s.

Their eyes met across the crowd. Hassell gave a little start of recognition, but Dirk
did not suppose he would remember him by name. He pushed his way toward the young
pilot and introduced himself somewhat awkwardly. Hassell would probably prefer to
be left alone, but he could scarcely turn aside without speaking. Moreover, he had
always wanted to meet the Englishman and this seemed far too good an opportunity to
miss.

“Did you hear that last talk?” asked Dirk, by way of starting the conversation.

“Yes,” replied Hassell. “I happened to be passing and overheard what the old chap
was saying. I’ve often seen him here before; he’s one of the saner specimens. It’s
rather a mixed bag, isn’t it?” He laughed and waved in the general direction of the
crowd.

“Very,” said Dirk. “But I’m glad I’ve seen the place in action. It’s quite an experience.”

As he spoke, he studied Hassell carefully. It was not easy to judge his age, which
might have been anything from twenty-five to thirty-five. He was slightly built, with
clearcut features and unruly brown hair. A scar from an early rocket crash ran diagonally
across his left cheek, but was only visible now and then when the skin became taut.

“After listening to that talk,” said Dirk, “I must say that the Universe doesn’t sound
a very attractive place. It’s not surprising that a lot of people would prefer to
stay at home.”

Hassell laughed.

“It’s funny you should say that; I’ve just been talking to an old fellow who was making
the same point. He knew who I was, but pretended he didn’t. The argument I brought
forward was that there are two kinds of mind—the adventurous, inquisitive types and
the stay-at-homes who’re quite happy to sit in their own back-gardens. I think they’re
both necessary, and it’s silly to pretend that one’s right and the other isn’t.”