Raf Kurbi, flitter pilot and techneer, lay on the padded shock cushion
of his assigned bunk and stared with wide, disillusioned eyes at the
stretch of stark, gray metal directly overhead. He tried to close his
ears to the mutter of meaningless words coming from across the narrow
cabin. Raf had known from the moment his name had been drawn as crew
member that the whole trip would be a gamble, a wild gamble with the
odds all against them. _RS 10_--those very numbers on the nose of the
ship told part of the story. Ten exploring fingers thrust in turn out
into the blackness of space. _RS 3_'s fate was known--she had
blossomed into a pinpoint of flame within the orbit of Mars. And _RS
7_ had clearly gone out of control while instruments on Terra could
still pick up her broadcasts. Of the rest--well, none had returned.
But the ships were built, manned by lot from the trainees, and sent
out, one every five years, with all that had been learned from the
previous job, each refinement the engineers could discover
incorporated into the latest to rise from the launching cradle.
_RS 10_--Raf closed his eyes with weary distaste. After months of
being trapped inside her ever-vibrating shell, he felt that he knew
each and every rivet, seam, and plate in her only too well. And there
was no reason yet to believe that the voyage would ever end. They
would just go on and on through empty space until dead men manned a
drifting hulk--
There--to picture that was a danger signal. Whenever his thoughts
reached that particular point, Raf tried to think of something else,
to break the chain of dismal foreboding. How? By joining in Wonstead's
monologue of complaint and regret? Raf had heard the same words over
and over so often that they no longer had any meaning--except as a
series of sounds he might miss if the man who shared this pocket were
suddenly stricken dumb.
"Should never have put in for training--" Wonstead's whine went up the
scale.
That was unoriginal enough. They had all had that idea the minute
after the sorter had plucked their names for crew inclusion. No matter
what motive had led them into the stiff course of training--the
fabulous pay, a real interest in the project, the exploring fever--Raf
did not believe that there was a single man whose heart had not sunk
when he had been selected for flight. Even he, who had dreamed all his
life of the stars and the wonders which might lie just beyond the big
jump, had been honestly sick on the day he had shouldered his bag
aboard and had first taken his place on this mat and waited, dry
mouthed and shivering, for blast-off.
One lost all sense of time out here. They ate sparingly, slept when
they could, tried to while away the endless hours artificially divided
into set periods. But still weeks might be months, or months weeks.
They could have been years in space--or only days. All they knew was
the unending monotony which dragged upon a man until he either lapsed
into a dreamy rejection of his surroundings, as had Hamp and Floy, or
flew into murderous rages, such as kept Morris in solitary confinement
at present. And no foreseeable end to the flight--
Raf breathed shallowly. The air was stale, he could almost taste it.
It was difficult now to remember being in the open air under a sky,
with fresh winds blowing about one. He tried to picture on that dull
strip of metal overhead a stretch of green grass, a tree, even the
blue sky and floating white clouds. But the patch remained stubbornly
gray, the murmur of Wonstead went on and on, a drone in his aching
ears, the throb of the ship's life beat through his own thin body.
What had it been like on those legendary early flights, when the
secret of the overdrive had not yet been discovered, when any who
dared the path between star and star had surrendered to sleep, perhaps
to wake again generations later, perhaps never to rouse again? He had
seen the few documents discovered four or five hundred years ago in
the raided headquarters of the scientific outlaws who had fled the
regimented world government of Pax and dared space on the single hope
of surviving such a journey in cold sleep, the secret of which had
been lost. At least, Raf thought, they had escaped the actual
discomfort of the voyage.
Had they found their new world or worlds? The end of their ventures
had been debated thousands of times since those documents had been
made public, after the downfall of Pax and the coming into power of
the Federation of Free Men.
In fact it was the publication of the papers which had given the
additional spur to the building of the _RS_ armada. What man had dared
once he could dare anew. And the pursuit of knowledge which had been
so long forbidden under Pax was heady excitement for the world.
Research and discovery became feverish avenues of endeavor. Even the
slim hope of a successful star voyage and the return to Terra with
such rich spoils of information was enough to harness three quarters
of the planet's energy for close to a hundred years. And if the _RS
10_ was not successful, there would be _11_, _12_, more--flaming into
the sky and out into the void, unless some newer and more intriguing
experiment developed to center public imagination in another
direction.
Raf's eyes closed wearily. Soon the gong would sound and this period
of rest would be officially ended. But it was hardly worth rising. He
was not in the least hungry for the concentrated food. He could repeat
the information tapes they carried dull word for dull word.
"Nothing to see--nothing but these blasted walls!" Again Wonstead's
voice arose in querulous protest.
Yes, while in overdrive there was nothing to see. The ports of the
ship would be sealed until they were in normal space once more. That
is, if it worked and they were not caught up forever within this thick
trap where there was no time, light, or distance.
The gong sounded, but Raf made no move to rise. He heard Wonstead
move, saw from the corner of his eye the other's bulk heave up
obediently from the pad.
"Hey--mess gong!" He pointed out the obvious to Raf.
With a sigh the other levered himself up on his elbows. If he did not
move, Wonstead was capable of reporting him to the captain for strange
behavior, and they were all too alert to a divagation which might mean
trouble. He had no desire to end in confinement with Morris.
"I'm coming," Raf said sullenly. But he remained sitting on the edge
of the pad until Wonstead left the cabin, and he followed as slowly as
he could.
So he was not with the others when a new sound tore through the
constant vibrating hum which filled the narrow corridors of the ship.
Raf stiffened, the icy touch of fear tensing his muscles. Was that the
red alarm of disaster?
His eyes went to the light at the end of the short passage. But no
blink of warning red shown there. Not danger--then what--?
It took him a full moment to realize what he had heard, not the signal
of doom, but the sound which was to herald the accomplishment of their
mission--the sound which unconsciously they had all given up any hope
of ever hearing. They had made it!
The pilot leaned weakly against the wall, and his eyes smarted, his
hands were trembling. In that moment he knew that he had never really,
honestly, believed that they would succeed. But they had! _RS 10_ had
reached the stars!
"Strap down for turnout--strap down for turnout--!" The disembodied
voice screaming through the ship's speecher was that of Captain
Hobart, but it was almost unrecognizable with emotion. Raf turned and
stumbled back to his cabin, staggered to throw himself once more on
his pad as he fumbled with the straps he must buckle over him.
He heard rather than saw Wonstead blunder in to follow his example,
and for the first time in months the other was dumb, not uttering a
word as he stowed away for the breakthrough which should take them
back into normal space and the star worlds. Raf tore a nail on a
fastening, muttered.
"Condition red--condition red--Strap down for breakthrough--" Hobart
chanted at them from the walls. "One, two, three"--the count swung on
numeral by numeral; then--"ten--Stand by--"
Raf had forgotten what breakthrough was like. He had gone through it
the first time when still under take-off sedation. But this was worse
than he remembered, so much worse. He tried to scream out his protest
against the torture which twisted mind and body, but he could not
utter even a weak cry. This, this was unbearable--a man could go mad
or die--die--die....
He aroused with the flat sweetness of blood on his tongue, a splitting
pain behind the eyes he tried to focus on the too familiar scrap of
wall. A voice boomed, receded, and boomed again, filling the air and
at last making sense, in it a ring of wild triumph!
"Made it! This is it, men, we've made it; Sol-class sun--three
planets. We'll set an orbit in--"
Raf licked his lips. It was still too much to swallow in one mental
gulp. So, they had made it--half of their venture was accomplished.
They had broken out of their own solar system, made the big jump, and
before them lay the unknown. Now it was within their reach.
"D'you hear that, kid?" demanded Wonstead, his voice no longer an
accusing whine, more steady than Raf ever remembered hearing it. "We
got through! We'll hit dirt again! Dirt--" his words trailed away as
if he were sinking into some blissful daydream.
There was a different feeling to the ship herself. The steady drone
which had ached in their ears, their bones, as she bored her way
through the alien hyper-space had changed to a purr as if she, too,
were rejoicing at the success of their desperate try. For the first
time in weary weeks Raf remembered his own duties which would begin
when the _RS 10_ came in to a flame-cushioned landing on a new world.
He was to assemble and ready the small exploration flyer, to man its
controls and take it up and out. Frowning, he began to run over in his
mind each step in the preparations he must make as soon as they
planeted.
Information came down from control, where now the ports were open on
normal space and the engines were under control of the spacer's pilot.
Their goal was to be the third planet, one which showed signs of
atmosphere, of water and earth ready and waiting.
Those who were not on flight duty crowded into the tiny central cabin,
where they elbowed each other before the viewer. The ball of alien
earth grew from a pinpoint to the size of an orange. They forgot time
in the wonder which none had ever thought in his heart he would see on
the screen. Raf knew that in control every second of this was being
recorded as they began to establish a braking orbit, which with luck
would bring them down on the surface of the new world.
"Cities--those must be cities!" Those in the cabin studied the plate
with awe as the information filtered through the crew. Lablet, their
xenobiologist, sat with his fingers rigid on the lower bar of the visa
plate, so intent that nothing could break his vigil, while the rest
speculated wildly. Had they really seen cities?
Raf went down the corridor to the door of the sealed compartment that
held the machine and the supplies for which he was responsible. These
last hours of waiting were worse with their nagging suspense than all
the time which had gone before. If they could only set down!
He had, on training trips which now seemed very far in the past, trod
the rust-red desert country of Mars, waddled in a bulky protective
suit across the peaked ranges of the dead Moon, known something of the
larger asteroids. But how would it feel to tread ground warmed by the
rays of another sun? Imagination with which his superiors did not
credit him began to stir. Traits inherited from a mixture of races
were there to be summoned. Raf retreated once more into his cabin and
sat on his bunk pad, staring down at his own capable mechanic's hands
without seeing them, picturing instead all the wonders which might lie
just beyond the next few hours' imprisonment in this metallic shell he
had grown to hate with a dull but abiding hatred.
Although he knew that Hobart must be fully as eager as any of them to
land, it seemed to Raf, and the other impatient crew members, that
they were very long in entering the atmosphere of the chosen world. It
was only when the order came to strap down for deceleration that they
were in a measure satisfied. Pull of gravity, ship beaming in at an
angle which swept it from night to day or night again as it encircled
that unknown globe. They could not watch their objective any longer.
The future depended entirely upon the skill of the three men in
control--and last of all upon Hobart's judgment and skill.
The captain brought them down, riding the flaming counter-blasts from
the ship's tail to set her on her fins in an expert point landing, so
that the _RS 10_ was a finger of light into the sky, amid wisps of
smoke from brush ignited by her landing.
There was another wait which seemed endless to the restless men
within, a wait until the air was analyzed, the countryside surveyed.
But when the go-ahead signal was given and the ramp swung out, those
first at the hatch still hesitated for an instant or so, though the
way before them was open.
Beyond the burnt ground about the ship was a rolling plain covered
with tall grass which rippled under the wind. And the freshness of
that wind cleansed their lungs of the taint of the ship.
Raf pulled off his helmet, held his head high in that breeze. It was
like bathing in air, washing away the smog of those long days of
imprisonment. He ran down the ramp, past the little group of those who
had preceded him, and fell on his knees in the grass, catching at it
with his hands, a little over-awed at the wonder of it all.
The wide sweep of sky above them was not entirely blue, he noted.
There was the faintest suggestion of green, and across it moved clouds
of silver. But, save for the grass, they might be in a dead and empty
world. Where were the cities? Or had those been born of imagination?
After a while, when the wonder of this landing had somewhat worn away,
Hobart summoned them back to the prosaic business of setting up base.
And Raf went to work at his own task. The sealed storeroom was opened,
the supplies slung by crane down from the ship. The compact assembly,
streamlined for this purpose, was all ready for the morrow.
They spent the night within the ship, much against their will. After
the taste of freedom they had been given, the cramped interior weighed
upon them, closing like a prison. Raf lay on his pad unable to sleep.
It seemed to him that he could hear, even through the heavy plates,
the sigh of that refreshing wind, the call of the open world lying
ready for them. Step by step in his mind, he went through the process
for which he would be responsible the next day. The uncrating of the
small flyer, the assembling of frame and motor. And sometime in the
midst of that survey he did fall asleep, so deeply that Wonstead had
to shake him awake in the morning.
He bolted his food and was out at his job before it was far past dawn.
But eager as he was to get to work, he paused just to look at the
earth scuffed up by his boots, to stare for a long moment at a stalk
of tough grass and remember with a thrill which never lessened that
this was not native earth or grass, that he stood where none of his
race, or even of his kind, had stood before--on a new planet in a new
solar system.
Raf's expert training and instruction paid off. By evening he had the
flitter assembled save for the motor which still reposed on the
turning block. One party had gone questing out into the grass and
returned with the story of a stream hidden in a gash in the plain, and
Wonstead carried the limp body of a rabbit-sized furred creature he
had knocked over at the waterside.
"Acted tame." Wonstead was proud of his kill. "Stupid thing just stood
and watched me while I let fly with a stone."
Raf picked up the little body. Its fur was red-brown, plush-thick, and
very soft to the touch. The breast was creamy white and the forepaws
curiously short with an uncanny resemblance to his own hands. Suddenly
he wished that Wonstead had not killed it, though he supposed that
Chou, their biologist, would be grateful. But the animal looked
particularly defenseless. It would have been better not to mark their
first day on this new world with a killing--even if it were the
knocking over of a stupid rabbit thing. The pilot was glad when Chou
bore it off and he no longer had to look at it.
It was after the evening meal that Raf was called into consultation by
the officers to receive his orders. When he reported that the flitter,
barring unexpected accidents, would be air-borne by the following
afternoon, he was shown an enlarged picture from the records made
during the descent of the _RS 10_.
There was a city, right enough--showing up well from the air. Hobart
stabbed a finger down into the heart of it.
"This lies south from here. We'll cruise in that direction."
Raf would have liked to ask some questions of his own. The city
photographed was a sizable one. Why then this deserted land here? Why
hadn't the inhabitants been out to investigate the puzzle of the space
ship's landing? He said slowly, "I've mounted one gun, sir. Do you
want the other installed? It will mean that the flitter can only carry
three instead of four--"
Hobart pulled his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. He
glanced at his lieutenant then to Lablet, sitting quietly to one side.
It was the latter who spoke first.
"I'd say this shows definite traces of retrogression." He touched the
photograph. "The place may even be only a ruin."
"Very well. Leave off the other gun," Hobart ordered crisply. "And be
ready to fly at dawn day after tomorrow with full field kit. You're
sure she'll have at least a thousand-mile cruising radius?"
Raf suppressed a shrug. How could you tell what any machine would do
under new conditions? The flitter had been put through every possible
test in his home world. Whether she would perform as perfectly here
was another matter.
"They thought she would, sir," he replied. "I'll take her up for a
shakedown run tomorrow after the motor is installed."
Captain Hobart dismissed him with a nod, and Raf was glad to clatter
down ladders into the cool of the evening once more. Flying high in a
formation of two lanes were some distant birds, at least he supposed
they were birds. But he did not call attention to them. Instead he
watched them out of sight, lingering alone with no desire to join
those crew members who had built a campfire a little distance from the
ship. The flames were familiar and cheerful, a portion, somehow, of
their native world transported to the new.
Raf could hear the murmur of voices. But he turned and went to the
flitter. Taking his hand torch, he checked the work he had done during
the day. Tomorrow--tomorrow he could take her up into the blue-green
sky, circle out over the sea of grass for a short testing flight. That
much he wanted to do.
But the thought of the cruise south, of venturing toward that
sprawling splotch Hobart and Lablet identified as a city was somehow
distasteful, and he was reluctant to think about it.
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