"Ah. So you can answer. Then if you can match our orbit, come beneath
the hub. The smallest landing net will fit the nose of your taxi, if
our records are correct. You did bring the mercury, didn't you?"
"We brought it," Peal assured her.
"Then in the name of science and humanity, I thank you. And--and I'm so
glad to see you, I'll be there to kiss you welcome!"
"There are two of us," Peal started to answer, but she had clicked off.
He watched as Blane began jockeying into position, cranking furiously
at the little weighted wheel that controlled the angle of the ferry.
"Pretty sure we'd come wasn't she?"
"Edwards had a beam antenna on his ship. He could have tipped the
_Sulky_ off on his way down," Blane said. The little ship was finally
lined up and he blasted forward gently against the small landing net.
The nose settled firmly into a silicone doughnut that formed a perfect
airtight seal. They wouldn't even need to wear spacesuits.
* * * * *
There were three girls and four men waiting for them inside the
enormous hub. Six moved forward promptly to begin transferring the cans
of mercury, but one girl, shorter, darker and prettier than the others,
stepped forward. She kissed both of them--solemnly on both cheeks after
the Russian formal fashion. Then she held out her hand.
"I'm Dr. Sonya Vartanian."
Peal introduced Blane and himself. After the handshaking, Blane
gestured toward the main station, eager to see it and looking for an
excuse. "I'm delighted to know you. But I think I'd better see your
commanding officer."
"I'm in command." She said it quite simply. Then at their surprise she
chuckled. "We don't have the male chauvinism of America. Besides, all
the military officers were below when--when everything was destroyed.
But perhaps you'd like to see our station?"
* * * * *
There was a great deal that was crude, and some that seemed to be
handmade where American products were smoothly machine made. But
generally, it was something to arouse envy in Blane. Obviously, there
had been no effort made to save on costs here, and the great Russian
boosters had lifted fantastic weights where American engineers had
been limited to what ships of lesser thrust would carry. With no
restrictions on cost or size, the Russian engineers had simply designed
for what they felt desirable, rather than what was possible. The
command suite was even equipped with a bar that contained a private
refrigerator, though that was now off, due to the need to save power.
The quarters of the staff were spacious, and many showed signs of never
having been occupied. The laboratories were beautifully equipped, and
again less than a third had ever been used.
"We had great plans--but now we are limited. The threat of war makes
even our leaders hesitate to begin so many long-range plans," she
explained.
Peal nodded. "You see, Jerry? It's the same here. Waste and
inefficiency. This place could make ten times the profit of any other
comparable investment, but it's wasted under government control."
Sonya darted him a sudden piercing gaze and stopped in her tracks.
Then she laughed uncertainly. "You'll forgive me, Dr. Peal. But those
words--they were just what I was going to say."
"You?" Blane stared at her doubtfully. "Isn't capitalistic talk
deviationist, at least?"
"Not to an American, and sometimes now not at all." She laughed, as if
relaxing from some strain. "We study American economics in our schools,
just as we learn your language. Sometimes capitalism seems romantic to
us--selling stocks, floating loans, such things. But sometimes I think
about what could be done if this were all to be a separate nation, free
for all time."
They crossed a great empty section of the station, and Blane recognized
that they had already been through there twice before. He saw that
Sonya was staring at him intently again as he glanced about more
carefully. He moved closer to her, his eyes moving from her face to
scratches on the floor and back. She shook her head faintly, and he let
the question die unasked.
They ended the grand tour in her office. The power was already on, and
the refrigerator was humming. There was no ice, but there was cold
water for the drinks she offered them. "You might stay for dinner," she
suggested.
Peal seemed embarrassed. "You'll need your supplies ..." he began.
"Supplies?" She laughed at that. "Dr. Peal, here we have supplies to
last twice our number for a year, even without a ship. You will stay?"
Blane shook his head. They'd spent too much time already. She accepted
the refusal and accompanied them to the waiting taxi, holding out her
hand in farewell.
"Sometime, when you need help, remember we are here," she told them.
"If there should be any danger or trouble, we are anxious to offer you
what we can give."
It was delivered in an almost formal tone, as if now she were
rephrasing from her own language.
* * * * *
The trip back was simpler than the first trip, since the ferry now
carried no cargo and only half as much fuel. It responded more readily.
Peal was silent until they were well away from the _Sulky_. Then he
shook his head as if coming out of a brown study.
"Jerry, where do they keep their bombs? We covered every single inch
of that station--we went into every room and cranny. I watched to make
sure she wasn't just doubling back. She did, sometimes, but she showed
us the whole thing, all the same. And there were no bombs or missiles
big enough to dump warheads on Earth. There was one place where they
should have been, with what could have been outside release chutes. But
it was empty, though there were scratches on the floor where missiles
might have stood."
Blane nodded, remembering the place they'd been led across three times.
"I know, I saw it. They don't have bombs. They had them, but they're
gone. And Sonya Vartanian meant us to see it, too. She didn't quit
leading us across the place until she knew I'd guessed."
* * * * *
"Why let us know? So we could report that they've been pulling a
colossal bluff at those disarmament meetings? That doesn't make sense."
"No." Blane had been doing his own thinking. "Nobody would believe
us--it's incredible, and they'd be sure we'd been duped neatly. They
wouldn't dare believe us. And it isn't because Russia is too civilized
to use bombs, either; that station was better designed for war than
ours, and policies don't change that fast. My guess is that they've
been gone from the station two years now."
Peal considered it. "That would be when we spotted the first mass of
all their ships together--probably carrying the missiles back to Earth
in emergency action. Then that flight that blew up must have been set
to carry new missiles up, right?"
Blane nodded. It wasn't a happy idea. It would have taken some very
good reason for Russia to remove her missiles during a period of rising
tension and hold off for two years before further pressures forced her
to resume the idea of stockpiling weapons in space.
* * * * *
He studied the distant _Goddard_ through his telescope as they began to
draw near. "Maybe I'm wrong, Austin. But they first put warheads out
in space a couple of years before we could. And maybe those warheads
began to go through a rapid increase in radioactivity a couple of years
before Manners noticed that ours were doing the same. If so, it must
have been a pretty serious warning to make the officials disarm the
station secretly."
"The girl wanted us to see that the bombs were gone, and she couldn't
talk about it. Then she put too much emphasis on that business of
offering help if we were in danger." Peal grimaced. "It all adds up."
"How much longer will we have?" Blane asked.
The scientist shook his head. "I don't know, Jerry, and I'm not good
enough a physicist to find out."
V
The return was a letdown, after the tension they had been building
between them. Blane put the ferry away, leaving no traces of the trip
in it, and slipped quietly back into the hub. Things looked miserable
now, cramped and forced together, after the spaciousness and richness
of equipment on the other station. But he forced that bitterness from
his mind.
A Congressman had stated the official policy years before. "Sure, they
got something bigger and stronger. But we got the old American spirit.
Didn't our boys conquer the whole British navy with nothing but little
wooden sailing ships once?" And hence, of course, it didn't matter how
badly matched the stations might be. Nobody bothered to comment that
the American fleet had grown strong by freebooting, that both sides
were using little wooden ships, and that there was never more than a
small fraction of the British navy along the American coast. Facts
merely got in the way of good sentiment. The Congressman had been
elected three times since then and still fought hard to keep any money
from getting into space, though he yelled loud and often for the need
of teaching the enemy a good lesson.
Blane went to his little room, to bathe in water that was at least
hot and clean, and to change into fresh shorts. He had been gone for
nearly nine hours, and fatigue had made him look older, but it wasn't
too much different from his looks after a sound sleep. He went into the
office, yawning. The secretary glanced up, shoved a new mountain of
complaints and thunder-scripts at him, and went on answering the phone.
Apparently, he hadn't been too much missed. It wasn't flattering, but
he'd expected it.
Routine held him for hours, while he listened to the news from Earth.
The Russians were announcing that they had never asked for help from
the American supply ships, that the _Tsiolkovsky_ was quite safe,
and that under no conditions would any political deals be made under
threats and pressure. It was done with a nastiness that lent a ring of
sincerity to it.
And somewhere, the rumors seemed to indicate, America had modified her
stand, and was now making overtures toward helpfulness, which were
brusquely refused. There had been an obvious loss of support from some
of the smaller nations in the UN, and that must have hurt.
Peal came in, looking more haggard than Blane. The scientist shook his
head wearily. "The count is up in the bomb bay. I've been trying to
sound some of the chemists out about ways to test, but I don't think we
can do it. We don't know what to do or to look for. But I'm convinced
now that something is going on inside those casings. It must be some
new isotope being created from the uranium by the action of cosmic
radiation. Those energies are high enough to cause transmutation.
Whatever isotope it is, it must be a neutron emitter, and it's stirring
up the uranium, just as increasing the mass does. The temperature
around the casings is rising."
"Still no idea of how much margin we have?"
"Not exactly. But I can get some idea from watching how the temperature
rises. Maybe a few days, maybe a couple of months." Peal dropped to a
couch, rubbing his eyes. "It's getting too hot in there to work without
a protective screen, so we can only make short tests. But Manners and I
will take turns."
* * * * *
Headquarters was not greatly impressed by the rise in temperature that
had been noted, though the reply was longer in coming this time. It
simply suggested he stand by for later orders.
That night, a large meteorite fell in Arkansas. It was metallic, and
big enough so that several hundred pounds managed to survive the
burning friction of Earth's atmosphere. A large area saw the bright
streak across the sky and traced it to where it fell. There its impact
had knocked over trees, destroyed a house and the inhabitants, and
killed a cow. There was a large hole in the ground where it had hit,
and still a trace of metallic fragments around the cup.
Blane picked up the news accounts almost at once on the radio in his
office. He switched the circuits around to connect all the speakers in
the station and threw the master switch, giving everyone a chance to
hear.
It took almost no time for the first reports to come babbling in
hysterically, claiming an atomic missile had been sent down from the
_Tsiolkovsky_.
The official signal from Headquarters flashed out at Blane, and he
listened. They were declaring a general alert, but it wasn't red and
there was still a delay. Once it went red, it would mean putting one
of the plans already prepared into operation, demanding that he send
his few men down into the bomb bay to set the automatic chutes into
operation. Then missiles would rain down on Russian cities and bases.
Peal and Manners came in. Manners would have to carry out the orders.
Blane glanced at him, and saw doubt and worry etched across the
forehead. Could any man start the holocaust going? Or, believing that
the _Sulky_ would be throwing bombs, as Manners must still believe,
could any man refuse such an order?
Blane shook his head faintly as he met Peal's look. There were no bombs
on the _Sulky_. And no bombs must fall from the _Goddard_. But in the
long run, would it make any difference. There were more than enough
land-based missiles to wipe out both countries. And if Blane saw them
on his screens, getting set to wipe out _his_ nation, could he refuse
to order the bombs here into operation?
* * * * *
He threw the side door of the office open and heard the mad action
going on outside as men were beaming down the full power of their radio
signals, giving the true nature and path of the meteorite, trying to
override the frantic chaos already filling the atmosphere.
Then the light winked out. A voice that was weak and shaken came from
all the speakers. "Attention. This is official! The object that fell
from space has been determined to be a natural meteorite. No attack has
been initiated. There is no cause for alarm...."
Blane cut off his speakers and went back into his cabin, shaking with
reaction.
This time, there had been no holocaust. This time the alert had never
gone red, and sane minds had somehow prevailed. But how long would
sanity hold sway in a world where every unnatural accident was a
potential trigger for a rain of bombs, a storm that might destroy most
of the life on Earth and would certainly end man's adventure into
space. It wouldn't really matter whether the stations managed to get
off without retaliatory missiles from Earth; once the ships and supply
bases were gone, there would be no possibility of continuing life here.
The men who fired the missiles from these floating arsenals would be
committing a long and horrible suicide. Yet he might have to order
it--might reach a stage where he would even want to order it!
Peal was waiting for him with the report on the temperature of the
casings when he came into the office the next day. There had been an
increase of nearly two degrees, and it began to look as if the rise
were an asymptotic one, that might get out of hand so quickly that
there would be little warning.
"It's not much of a secret, either," the scientist stated. "I don't
think Manners said anything, and I've kept it as tight as I could. But
there are indirect ways of noting things going on, and the temperature
gages in the hull show signs already. The men who service the bomb bay
aren't all fools, either. They can guess there's trouble when they're
sent in for only minutes at a time. So rumors are spreading."
Blane nodded. If the rumors got out of hand, things would go to pot
in ways that might make it impossible for them to meet an emergency
later. He threw the master switch for general summons again, and began
speaking slowly, choosing his words with care. He wasn't going to lie,
but he couldn't give them full information. He was already violating
security to an extent that could bring full official wrath on him.
He told them that there was evidence that radioactivity was leaking
from the warheads, though not in any measure to endanger the station
at present. He said simply that there had been some related increase
in temperature noted, and that the situation was being studied and
reported to Earth, where fuller analysis was possible. It was all true,
so far as it went--and the impression was as false as he could make it.
* * * * *
By the time the station was over Denver, where he could contact
headquarters on his tightest beam, most of the rumors had died, and the
men were discussing the situation without much excitement.
Surprisingly, headquarters took his report and switched him directly to
a human, instead of the tape receiver he usually had to deal with. He
gave the basic facts, and reported precisely on the fact that he had
been forced to inform the crew of the station.
The voice from below sighed wearily across the thousand miles of space.
"Quite right, Blane. Panic would be the worst thing you could have.
Forget about the violation--we all have to cut that at times. Now, in
regard to your basic situation, I'm going to do the best I can for you.
But I wouldn't worry about your boiler trouble yet. It will be at least
three days before repairs are really necessary, and before then Devlin
will be back with you. He has a full grasp of what must be done. And
good luck."
The voice cut off.
Blane sat staring at the wall. Three days--it could only mean that
there were three days still to go before the runaway radiation inside
the casings built up too high for something to be done--whether to dump
the bombs or what, he couldn't guess. But that was shaving it pretty
thin.
And how sure could he be that they knew what was going on? They had
only his coded figures to go by. Yet he had to trust them. For once,
he'd be glad when Devlin was back.
He called Manners and Peal in. "Seal off the bomb bay," he told them.
"Just stick up a sign making it off limits and spread the word that
nobody's to go in until Devlin gets back here--which will be in a
couple of days." He grinned at their protests, and shook his head. "And
that means off limits to you, too. Earth says we're safe until Devlin
gets here, and he'll have orders. Until then, we can't do anything, so
forget the warheads."
It would be a lot easier for the crew of the station to accept than
would the sight of Peal and Manners going in and out in constant
efforts to check. And there was nothing that their tests could show,
anyhow; nobody here knew enough to interpret what the readings meant.
For a change, a sort of lucky accident helped him. One of the pipes in
the circulating system got clogged with something that should never
have reached the water and burst. It made a mess of most of one deck,
and took a full day's cleaning and repairing. That type of misfortune
was something the _Goddard_ had long since grown used to, and the
sight of great scientists working with cooks and power men was always
a relief from the routine. Maybe stations should be built to fail in
minor ways. If ever a ship was built to cross the vast gulf to another
star, it should be as imperfect as safety permitted.
On the surface, everything was routine by the time Devlin's ship came
up the next day. Devlin must have more pull on Earth, Blane decided;
something had boosted his stock. The ship had taken off from Cape
Canaveral--the same ship that had taken him down--in a tricky but
successful maneuver. Edwards, of course, had been called in for the job.
Blane had only a few words with the pilot, but he gathered the ship
would be standing by to take Devlin off again at some undecided later
time.
* * * * *
General Devlin came into the office with brisk, precise steps, and
stood looking at Blane with a perfect picture of a military man
regarding an inferior. His short body was as straight as a rod, and his
head was at precisely the right posture. But his face looked grey, and
a muscle under one eye twitched. He motioned sharply as Blane stood up
to relinquish the seat behind the desk.
"At ease. Stay where you are. I've been cramped in a hammock for hours,
I prefer to stand. I'm not taking over your command this time, anyhow.
I'm merely here to execute one order before I have to report back down
there. How's the trouble here?"
He listened to Blane's report, but hardly seemed to hear it. He
was apparently fully aware of everything that Blane could tell him.
When it was done, he nodded. "I was told to fill you in. I'll make
it brief. Dr. Peal's theory that ultra hard radiation has caused the
transmutation of some of the uranium to a more dangerous isotope is
correct. This effects the same results as raising the mass of each
segment of the uranium trigger to critical level eventually. But there
is still time to save the station, and the level of radiation will not
make it dangerous for the squad to handle the missiles; they will be
exposed too short a time. I would appreciate it if you would instruct
Captain Manners and his men to assemble in the hub in fifteen minutes.
I'll join you there."
It wasn't a lot to work on, Blane decided. But he nodded as Devlin
went out, pacing toward the coffee in the rec hall. He put through the
orders and shortly moved out to join the eight men and Manners. In the
hub were stacked a number of boxes. He counted them, and nodded. There
was one for each of the missiles.
"Looks like we dump the missiles," Manners suggested, relief heavy in
his voice. "Those must be program tapes for the guidance computers on
the missiles."
Devlin's voice sounded sharply behind them, bringing them to attention.
If he had heard Manners, he gave no sign of it.
"In those boxes are tapes for the missiles. You are all familiar with
their installation and the operation of loading the missiles into the
outer chutes. Each of you will take one pile of the tapes and repair to
the bomb bay. You are to enter there at precisely nine hundred. The bay
is hot, but not dangerous for the length of time required to complete
this operation. Captain, how long should the operation of moving all
bombs into chutes require?"
"About twenty minutes, sir." There were motorized winches that did the
work, and the chutes were one of the few pieces of mechanism on the
_Goddard_ that had not been made shoddily.
"Very good. Then at nine twenty, I shall expect you to emerge from
the bomb bay and seal it again. You will then report to Mr. Blane for
further instructions."
* * * * *
The orders could have been given just as easily outside the bomb bay,
or to Manners alone, Blane realized. The whole affair was too precise,
too much by the book. He frowned as he watched Manners and the men pick
up the little boxes and move toward the elevators. They were in no
great hurry, since they still had fifteen minutes before they were to
enter the bomb bay. Then they were gone. And Devlin shuddered faintly
and began wiping his face with a kerchief. Something cold shot up from
Blane's throat to the roof of his mouth.
"What's the destination on the tapes?" he asked sharply.
Devlin stared at him or through him. Then the stiff body bent a
trifle in a faint bow. "I suspect you've guessed it, Blane. They are
all set to take an elliptical orbit that will bring them against the
_Tsiolkovsky_ in mid-Pacific."
"They can't!" But Blane knew that they could be set for just that--they
had to be set for such an orbit. With their bomb stock about to become
useless in a matter of a few days, and with too little time to replace
them after the realization of what was happening, the military mind
could decide that the only hope was to eliminate the danger from the
other station. It would mean a stalemate in space, and might possibly
still leave Russia doubtful enough about the striking power left on the
_Goddard_ to intimidate her out of retaliating.
"It would wipe men out of space!" he protested. "You've got to cancel
the order."
Again Devlin gave the faint bow. "Unfortunately, I have no authority to
cancel that order, Mr. Blane. I cannot do so."
Blane felt his fist move from his hip before he realized what he
planned. It was an awkward blow, as all activity in nearly zero
gravity must be, but it connected. Devlin was lifted from his weak
contact with the floor and his head banged savagely against the roof.
He drifted back toward the deck, unconscious. Blane caught himself and
dashed for the elevator. There was still time to broadcast the facts to
the station and to stop the men from entering the bomb bay. After that,
he no longer cared what happened to him.