Prelude to Space (16 page)

“Yes, there will be limited opportunities for doing that. We hope to arrange a general
broadcast once a day. And, of course, we’ll be exchanging fixes and technical information
continuously, so the ship will always be in contact with ground stations somewhere
on Earth.”

“What about the actual landing on the Moon—how’s that being broadcast?”

“The crew will be much too busy to give running commentaries for our benefits. But
the microphones will be live, so we’ll have a good idea of what’s happening. Also
the observatories will be able to see the jet when it’s firing. It will probably create
quite a disturbance when it hits the Moon.”

“What’s the program after the landing, sir?”

“The crew will decide it in the light of circumstances. Before they leave the ship,
they’ll broadcast a description of everything they see, and the television camera
will be set panning. So we should have some really good pictures—it’s a full color
system, by the way.

“That will take about an hour, and will give time for any dust and radiation products
to disperse. Then two members of the crew will put on spacesuits and start exploring.
They will radio back their impressions to the ship, and these will be relayed directly
to Earth.

“We hope it will be possible to make a fair survey of a region about ten kilometers
across, but we’re taking no risks at all. Thanks to the television link, anything
that’s discovered can be shown immediately to us back on Earth. What we’re particularly
anxious to find, of course, are mineral deposits from which we can manufacture fuel
on the Moon. We’ll naturally be looking for signs of life as well, but no one will
be more surprised than us if we find any.”

“If you catch a Selenite,” said someone facetiously, “will you bring him back for
the zoo?”

“Certainly not!” said Sir Robert firmly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “If we start
that sort of thing, we’re likely to end up in zoos ourselves.”

“When will the ship be coming back?” asked another voice.

“It will land in the early morning, and take off again in the late afternoon, lunar
time. That means a stay of about eight of our days. The return trip lasts four and
a half days, so the total absence will be sixteen to seventeen days.

“No more questions? Right, then I’ll leave it at that. But there’s one other thing.
To make sure that everyone has a clear idea of the technical background, we’ve arranged
three talks in the next few days. They’ll be given by Taine, Richards and Clinton,
and each will cover his special line of territory—but in non-technical language. I
strongly advise you not to miss them. Thank you!”

The ending of the address could not have been more perfectly timed. As the Director-General
stepped down from the dais, a sudden, tremendous thunder came rolling up across the
desert, setting the steel hangar reverberating like a drum.

Three miles away, “Alpha” was testing its motors at perhaps a tenth of their full
power. It was a sound that tore at the ear drums and set the teeth on edge; what it
would be like at full thrust was beyond imagination.

Beyond imagination, and beyond knowledge, for no one would ever hear it. When “Alpha’s”
rockets fired again, the ship would be in the eternal silence between the worlds,
where the explosion of an atomic bomb is as soundless as the clash of snowflakes beneath
a winter moon.

Professor Maxton looked rather tired as he arranged the maintenance sheets carefully
on his desk in a neat pile. Everything had been checked; everything was working perfectly—almost
too perfectly, it seemed. The motors would have their final inspection tomorrow; meanwhile
the stores could be moved into the two ships. It was a pity, he meditated, that one
had to leave a stand-by crew aboard “Beta” while she circled the Earth. But it could
not be avoided, since the instruments and the refrigeration plant for the fuel had
to be looked after, and both machines would have to be fully maneuverable in order
to make contact again. One school of thought considered that “Beta” should land and
take off once more a fortnight later to meet the returning “Alpha.” There had been
much argument over this, but the orbital view had finally been accepted. It would
be introducing fewer additional hazards to leave “Beta” where she was, already in
position just outside the atmosphere.

The machines were ready; but what, thought Maxton, of the men? He wondered if the
Director-General had yet made his decision, and abruptly decided to go to see him.

He was not surprised to find the chief psychologist already with Sir Robert. Dr. Groves
gave him a friendly nod as he entered.

“Hello, Rupert. I suppose you’re afraid I’ve called the whole thing off?”

“If you
did
,” said Maxton grimly, “I think I’d get up a scratch crew from my staff and go myself.
We’d probably manage pretty well, at that. But, seriously, how are the boys?”

“They’re fine. It won’t be easy to choose your three men—but I hope you can do it
soon, as the waiting puts an unfair strain on them. There’s no further reason for
delay, is there?”

“No; they’ve all been reaction-tested on the controls and are fully familiar with
the ship. We’re all set to go.”

“In that case,” said the Director-General, “we’ll settle it first thing tomorrow.”

“How?”

“By ballot, as we promised. It’s the only way to prevent bad feeling.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Maxton. He turned to the psychologist again.

“Are you
quite
sure about Hassell?”

“I was coming to him. He’ll go all right, and he really wants to go. He’s not worrying
so much now that the last-minute excitement has got hold of him. But there’s still
one snag.”

“What’s that?”

“I think this is
very
unlikely, but suppose anything goes wrong at this end while he’s on the Moon? The
baby’s due just around mid-voyage, you know.”

“I see. If his wife died, to take the worst case, what effect would it have on him?”

“It isn’t easy to answer that, as he’ll already be under conditions quite unlike any
which a human being has experienced before. He may take it calmly, or he may crack
up. I think it’s a vanishingly small risk, but it’s there.”

“We could, of course, lie to him,” said Sir Robert thoughtfully, “but I’ve always
been rather particular about ends and means. I’d hate to have a trick like that on
my conscience.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Then the Director-General continued:

“Well, thanks very much, Doctor. Rupert and I will talk it over. If we decide it’s
absolutely necessary, we might ask Hassell to step down.”

The psychologist paused at the door.

“You
might
,” he said, “but I’d hate to try it myself.”

The night was ablaze with stars when Professor Maxton left the Director-General’s
office and walked wearily across to the living-quarters. It gave him a guilty feeling
to realize that he didn’t know the names of half the constellations he could see.
One night he’d get Taine to identify them for him. But he would have to hurry; Taine
might have only three more nights on Earth.

Over to the left he could see the crew’s quarters, blazing with lights. He hesitated
for a moment, then walked swiftly toward the low building.

The first room, Leduc’s, was empty, though the lights were on and it had only just
been vacated. Its occupant had already stamped his personality upon it and piles of
books lay around the place—far more than there seemed any point in bringing on such
a short visit. Maxton glanced at the titles—mostly French—and once or twice his eyebrows
rose slightly. He filed away one or two words to await his next contact with a really
comprehensive French dictionary.

A charming photograph of Pierre’s two children, sitting happily in a model rocket,
was in a place of honor upon the desk. A portrait of his very beautiful wife was standing
on the dressing-table, but the effect of domesticity was somewhat spoiled by the half-dozen
photographs of other young ladies pinned on the wall.

Maxton moved to the next room, which happened to be Taine’s. Here he found Leduc and
the young astronomer deeply engrossed in a game of chess. He watched their tactics
critically for a time, with the usual result that they accused him of ruining their
play. At this he challenged the winner; Leduc won and Maxton polished him off in about
thirty moves.

“That,” he said, as the board was put away, “should stop you getting over-confident,
Dr. Groves says it’s a common failing of yours.”

“Has Dr. Groves said anything else?” asked Leduc with elaborate casualness.

“Well, I’m giving away no medical confidences when I say that you’ve all passed your
tests and can go on to High School. So first thing tomorrow we’re going to have a
sweepstake to select the three guinea pigs.”

Expressions of relief came over his listeners’ faces. They had been almost promised,
it was true, that the final choice would be by ballot. But until now they had not
been sure, and the feeling that they were all potential rivals had sometimes strained
their relationships.

“Are the rest of the boys in?” asked Maxton. “I think I’ll go and tell them.”

“Jimmy’s probably asleep,” said Taine, “but Arnold and Vic are still awake.”

“Good. Be seeing you in the morning.”

Strange noises emerging from Richards’ room showed that the Canadian was very much
asleep. Maxton went on down the passage and knocked at Clinton’s door.

The scene that confronted him almost took his breath away: it might have been a film
set showing a mad scientist’s laboratory. Lying on the floor in a tangle of radio
tubes and wiring, Clinton seemed to be hypnotized by a cathode-ray oscilloscope, the
screen of which was filled with fantastic geometrical figures, continually shifting
and changing. In the background a radio was softly playing Rachmaninoff’s rightly
little-known Fourth Piano Concerto, and Maxton slowly realized that the figures on
the screen were synchronized with the music.

He clambered on to the bed, which seemed the safest place to be, and watched until
Clinton finally pried himself off the floor.

“Assuming that you know yourself,” he said at last, “can you tell me what the heck
you’re trying to do?”

Clinton tiptoed gingerly over the confusion and sat down beside him.

“It’s an idea I’ve been working on for some years,” he explained apologetically.

“Well, I hope you remember what happened to the late Mr. Frankenstein.”

Clinton, who was a serious individual, failed to respond.

“I call it a kaleidophone,” he said. “The idea is that it will convert any rhythmical
sound, such as music, into pleasing and symmetrical, but always changing, visual patterns.”

“That would make an amusing toy. But would the average nursery run to that number
of radio tubes?”

“It’s
not
a toy,” said Clinton, slightly hurt. “The television people, and the cartoon film
industry, would find it very useful. It would be ideal for providing interludes during
long musical broadcasts, which always get boring. In fact, I was hoping to make a
bit of money out of it.”

“My dear fellow,” grinned Maxton, “if you’re one of the first men to get to the Moon,
I don’t think you’ll ever be in any real danger of starving in the gutter in your
old age.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“The real reason why I stopped in was to tell you that we’ve having a ballot for the
crew first thing tomorrow. Don’t electrocute yourself before then. I’m going to see
Hassell now—so good night.”

Hassell was lying in bed reading when Professor Maxton knocked and entered.

“Hello, Prof,” he said. “What are you doing around at this ungodly hour?”

Maxton came straight to the point.

“We’re having the draw for the crew tomorrow morning. Thought you’d like to know.”

Hassell was silent for a moment.

“That means,” he said, in a slightly thick voice, “that we’ve all got through.”

“Good heavens, Vic,” protested Maxton heartily, “surely
you
never had any doubts!”

Hassell’s eyes seemed to avoid him. They also avoided, Maxton noticed, the photograph
of his wife on the dressing-table.

“As you all know,” Hassell said presently, “I’ve been rather worried about—Maude.”

“That’s natural enough, but I gather that everything is O.K. What are you going to
call the boy, by the way?”

“Victor William.”

“Well, I guess that when he arrives Vic Junior will be about the most famous baby
in the world. Too bad the television system’s one-way. You’ll have to wait until you
get back before you can see him.”

“When and if,” muttered Hassell.

“Look here, Vic,” said Maxton firmly. “You
do
want to go, don’t you?”

Hassell looked up in half-ashamed defiance.

“Of course I do,” he snapped.

“Very well then. You’ve got three chances in five of being chosen, like everyone else.
But if you don’t come out of the hat this time, then you’ll be on the second trip,
which in some ways will be even more important, since by then we’ll be making our
first attempt to establish a base. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

Hassell was silent for a moment. Then he said somewhat despondently:

“The first voyage will be the one that History will remember. After that, they’ll
all merge together.”

Now was the moment, Professor Maxton decided, to lose his temper. He could do this
with great skill and accuracy when the occasion demanded it.

“Listen to me, Vic,” he stormed. “What about the people who
built
the blasted ship? How do you think
we
like having to wait until the tenth or the twentieth or the hundredth crossing before
we have our chance? And if you’re such a damn fool as to want fame—then good God,
man, have you forgotten—
someone’s got to pilot the first ship to Mars!
”

The explosion died away. Then Hassell grinned across at him and gave him a little
laugh.