_By Boyd Ellanby_
[Illustration]
To some passengers a maiden voyage was a pleasure cruise; to others
it meant a hope for new life. Only the Captain knew of its danger!
The _Star Lord_ waited, poised for her maiden voyage. The gigantic
silvery spindle, still cradled in its scaffoldings, towered upwards
against the artificial sky of Satellite Y.
[Illustration]
The passengers were beginning to come on board before Captain Josiah
Evans had finished checking the reports of his responsible officers. The
ship was ready for space, now, and there was nothing more he could do
until takeoff. With long, deliberate steps he walked to his cabin,
closed the door, and in the privacy he had come to regard as the
greatest luxury life had to offer him, he sank into his chair and
reached for the post-bag which had been delivered by the morning's
rocket ferry from earth.
There were no personal letters for him. He rarely received any and never
really expected any, for his career had always been more important to
him than personal ties. Shoving aside the official documents, he picked
up the small brown parcel, slit the pliofilm covering with his pocket
knife, and inspected the red leather cover with its simple title: _Ley's
Rockets and Space Ships._ At the bottom of the cover was a date: May 1,
2421, Volume 456. In the nearly five hundred years since the publication
of Volume one, which listed all the earth's rocket ships on half of one
page, the annual edition of this book, regularly edited and brought up
to date, had become the spaceman's bible.
Captain Evans was annoyed to find that his hands were shaking as he
leafed through the pages, and he paused a few seconds, trying to control
his excitement. His black hair had begun to turn gray above his ears,
and there were a few white hairs in his bushy eyebrows. But a healthy
pink glowed under the skin of his well-fleshed cheeks, and the jut of
his chin showed the confidence of one used to receiving immediate,
unquestioning obedience. When his long fingers had stopped their
trembling, he found the entry he had been looking for, and a triumphant
smile lighted his heavy features as he settled deeper in his chair and
read the first paragraph.
"_Star Lord: newest model in space-ships of the famed Star Line. Vital
Statistics: Construction begun February 2418, on Satellite Y.
Christened, October, 2420. Maiden voyage to Almazin III scheduled
spring, 2421._"
He looked up at the diagram of the ship which hung on the wall at his
right, then glanced at the zodiometer on his desk. May 3, late spring.
"_Powered by twenty-four total conversion Piles. Passenger capacity
1250. Crew and maintenance 250. Six life boats, capacity 1500. Captain.
Josiah Evans._"
His throat swelling, he was almost choked with pride as he read the
final Statistic. This, he thought was the climax of his career, the
place he had been working towards all his life. It had been a long road
from his lonely boyhood in a Kansas orphanage, to Captain of the earth's
finest spaceship.
The _Star Lord_ was the perfection of modern space craft, the creation
of the earth's most skilled designers and builders, the largest ship
ever launched. Protected by every safety device the ingenuity of man had
been able to contrive, she was a palace to glide among the stars.
His heart beat more rapidly as he read the next section.
"_Prediction: her maiden voyage will break all previous speed records,
and regain for her backers the coveted Blue Ribbon, lost ten years ago
to the Light Lines._"
No question of that, he thought. No faster ship had ever been built. But
he frowned as he read the final paragraph:
"_Sidelights: Reviving a long obsolete custom, certain astrologers in
London have cast the horoscope of the Star Lord and pronounced the
auguries to be unfavorable. This verdict, plus the incident at the
christening, has caused some head-shaking among the superstitious
fringe, and some twittering about 'cosmic arrogance'. But few of the
lords of the earth, we imagine, will therefore feel impelled to cancel
their passages on this veritable Lord of the Stars._"
* * * * *
Evans remembered that christening. High in the scaffolding he had stood
on the platform with the christening party: the Secretary of
Interstellar Commerce, the Ambassador from Almazin III, the Governor of
Satellite Y, and President and Mrs. Laurier of Earth.
Swaying gently in the still air, the traditional bottle of champagne
hung before them, suspended at the end of a long ribbon. Mrs. Laurier's
eyes were shining, her cheeks flushed, as she looked at her husband for
a signal. At his smile and nod she had said in a high clear voice, "I
christen thee _Star Lord_!" and then reached out to grasp the bottle.
Before she could touch it, somewhere above them the slender ribbon
broke.
The bottle fell like a stone, plummeted straight down and crashed into a
million fragments on the floor of the satellite.
An instant's shocked silence, and then a roar of voices surged up from
the crowds watching below. Mrs. Laurier had put her hand to her mouth,
and shivered.
"What a dreadful thing!" she whispered. "Does that mean bad luck?"
President Laurier had frowned at her, but the Secretary of Interstellar
Commerce had laughed.
"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Laurier. There is no such thing as luck. Even
without a bath of champagne, this magnificent vessel will prove that man
is certainly master of the universe. She begins her life well and truly
named."
The Star Line ought to abandon that silly custom of christening a new
ship, thought Captain Evans. It was an archaic ceremony, utterly
irrational, a foolish relic of a primitive world in which people had
been so uncertain of their machines that they had had to depend on luck,
and to beg good fortune of unpredictable gods.
Taking up _Ley's Space Ships_ again, he began fondly to reread the page,
when there was a knock at the door and a crewman entered.
"Mr. Jasperson to see you, sir."
The Captain stared, a tiny muscle in his cheek quivering.
"You know I'm not to be disturbed until after takeoff, Stacey."
"Yes, sir. But Mr. Jasperson insisted. He says he knows those rules
don't apply to _him_."
Evans closed the book, laid it on his desk, and stood up. He leaned
forward and spoke softly.
"Tell Mr. Jasperson--"
"Tell him what, Josiah?" boomed a voice from the opening door. "You can
tell me yourself now."
Burl Jasperson was a portly little man with legs too short for his
bulging body, and clothes that were too tight. His head was bald except
for a fringe above the ears, and he might have been a comical figure but
for the icy blue eyes that probed from under the dome of his forehead.
"What have you got to tell me? You're quite right not to let the ragtag
and bobtail bother you at a time like this, but I know your old friend
Burl Jasperson is always welcome."
With scarcely a pause, the Captain extended his hand.
"How are you, Burl? Won't you come in? I hope the Purser has taken care
of you properly?"
"I'm comfortable enough, thanks, and I'm looking forward to the trip.
It's odd, come to think of it, that though I've been Chairman of the
board of directors, and have spent some thirty years managing a fleet of
space liners, yet I've never before made a trip myself. I don't like
crowds of people, for one thing, and then I've been busy."
"What made you decide to go along on this one?"
* * * * *
Reaching across the table, Jasperson picked up the silver carafe and
poured himself a glass of water.
"Ah! Nothing like a drink of cold water! The fact is, I wanted to check
up on things, make notes of possible improvements in the Star Line's
service, and sample passenger reactions. Then too, I'll have the
satisfaction of being present on the trip which will establish the
Line's supremacy, once and for all. This crossing will make history. It
means everything to us, Josiah. You know we're counting on you to break
the record. We want to win back the Blue Ribbon, and we expect you to
manage it for us."
"I shall do my best."
"That's the spirit I like to see. Full speed ahead!"
"Certainly--consistent with safety."
"Consistent with _reasonable_ safety, of course. I know you won't let
yourself be taken in by all this nonsense about the imaginary dangers of
hyperspace."
"What do you mean?"
"All this nonsense about the Thakura Ripples! But then, of course
you're a sensible man or we wouldn't have hired you, and I'm sure you
agree with me that the _Star Lord_ can deal with anything that
hyperspace has to offer."
Jasperson adjusted the set of his jacket over his plump stomach while he
waited for an answer, and Captain Evans stared at him.
"Is that why you're wearing a pistol?" he said dryly. "To help the ship
fight her battles?"
"This?" His face reddened as he patted his bulging pockets. "Oh, it's
just a habit. I don't like being without protection; I always wear a gun
in one pocket and my recorder in the other."
"You'll scarcely be in any danger on the ship, Burl. Better leave it in
your cabin."
"All right. But about the Ripples--you aren't going to take them
seriously, are you?"
"I wish you'd be a little more frank, Mr. Chairman. Has the Star Line
suddenly lost confidence in me?"
"No, no, nothing of the sort! We've every confidence in you, of course.
But I've been hearing rumors, hints that we may have to make a slow
crossing, and I've been wondering. But then, I'm sure that a man of your
intelligence doesn't take the Ripples any more seriously than I do."
"I don't know what gossip you have been hearing," said the Captain,
hesitantly. "'Ripples' is probably a very inaccurate and inadequate name
for the phenomenon. Thakura might equally well have called them rapids,
falls, bumps, spaces, holes, or discontinuities."
"Then why did he choose to call them Ripples?"
"Probably because he didn't know exactly what they are. The whole
problem is a very complicated one."
"Complicated nonsense, I call it. Well, we won't quarrel, my dear
Josiah, but don't let them hold us back. Remember, we're out to break
all records!"
* * * * *
Under the artificial sky, crowds of people streamed into the
administration building of Satellite Y. The jumping-off place for all
rockets and ships going to and from the stars, Y-port was a world of its
own, dedicated to only one purpose, the launching and berthing of ships.
It was a quiet and orderly place as a rule, and its small permanent
colony of workmen and officials lived a spartan existence except for
their yearly vacations on Earth. But today it seemed as if half the
earth's people, friends and relatives of the passengers, had chosen to
make the port a holiday spot of their own, to help celebrate the
launching of the _Star Lord_ on her maiden voyage. The rocket ferry
between Y-port and Earth had had to triple its number of runs in the
past week, and this morning's rocket had brought in the last of the
passengers for Almazin III.
Alan Chase trudged wearily along with the crowd entering the building,
trying to close his ears to the hundreds of chattering voices. He was
tall and very thin, and his white skin clothed his bones like brittle
paper. Walking was an effort, and he tried to move with an even step so
he would not have to gasp for breath as he moved slowly forward with the
line before the Customs desk. In his weakness, the gaiety around him
seemed artificial, and the noise of voices was unendurable.
Just ahead of him in line was a young man in an obviously new suit; the
pretty girl holding to his arm still had a few grains of rice shining in
her hair.
"That will be all," said the Inspector. "I hope you and Mrs. Hall have a
very happy honeymoon. Next!"
He gritted his teeth to stop his trembling as the Inspector reached for
the passport, glanced at a notation, then looked up.
"I'll have to ask you to step in and see Dr. Willoughby, our ship's
doctor. It will only take a moment, Dr. Chase."
"But I'm not infectious!"
"But there seems to be some question of fitness. In cases like yours the
Star Line likes to have a final check, just to make sure you'll be able
to stand the trip. We're responsible, after all. Last door on my right."
Close to exhaustion, Alan walked down the hall to the last door and
stepped inside. A healthy, rugged man with prominent black eyes looked
at him with a speculative glance.
"And what can I do for you?"
Holding out his passport, Alan sank down into a chair, glad of a chance
to rest, while Dr. Willoughby studied the document, then looked up, the
routine smile wiped off his face.
"Well! So you're Dr. Alan Chase. I've been much interested in the papers
you've been publishing recently. But this is bad news, Dr. Chase. I
suppose you had an independent check on the diagnosis?"
"Not even one of our freshmen could have missed it, but I had it
confirmed by Simmons and von Kramm."
"Then there's no question. How did you pick it up, doctor? Neosarcoma is
still rather a rare disease, and it's not supposed to be very
infectious."
Alan tried to speak casually, although just looking at the rugged good
health of the man opposite him made him feel weaker.
"No, it's not very infectious. But after medical school, I went into
research instead of practice, and I worked on neosarcoma for nearly five
years, trying to devise a competitive chemical antagonist. Then, as used
to happen so often in the old days, I finally picked it up myself--a lab
infection."
* * * * *
The older man nodded. "Well, you're doing the right thing now in going
to Almazin III. I've made some study of the disease myself, as you may
know, and I entirely agree with your theory that it is caused by a
virus, and kept active by radiation. Since the atomic wars, the
increased radioactivity of the earth undoubtedly stimulates mitosis of
the malignant cells. It feeds the disease, and kills the man. But on a
planet like Almazin III where the radiation index is close to zero, the
mitosis of the sarcoma cells stops abruptly, virus or no virus."
"I'm glad to hear that," said Alan. "I've read some of your papers on
the subject, and the evidence sounds pretty convincing."
"It's conclusive. If you arrive in time you've nothing to worry about.
I've seen men as badly off as you, with malignant growths well advanced,
who migrated to Almazin III and recovered within a year. Without
radioactivity to maintain it, the disease seems to be arrested
immediately, and if the tissue damage has not gone too far, the tumor
regresses and eventually disappears. Once you're cured, you can come
back to earth and take up your work where you left off. Well, let's
check you over."
The examination was brief. Dr. Willoughby initialed the passport, and
offered his hand.
"You should stand the trip all right. But I'm glad you didn't put it off
any longer than you did. Another two months of earth's emanations, and
I'm afraid I couldn't have certified you. It's lucky for you that the
_Star Lord_ is the fastest ship in space. That's all, Dr. Chase. I'll be
seeing you on board."
In the swiftly moving elevator cage Alan ascended the slender pylon to
the boarding platform, crowded by a group of quarreling children in
charge of an indifferent nursemaid.
The Chief Steward, rustling in starched whites, stepped forward at the
port, clicked his heels, and curved his thin lips into a smile.
"How do you do, sir. The Star Line wishes you a happy voyage. Will you
be kind enough to choose?"
Following his nod, Alan looked down at the silver tray extended for his
inspection, and then stepped back as a heavy perfume assaulted his
nostrils.
"What are those?"
"Carnations, sir, for the gentlemen's coats, and rose corsages for the
ladies' gowns. Compliments of the Star Line."
"But they're white!"
"Yes, sir. The white flowers, the only kind we are able to grow in
Y-port, are symbols of the white light of the stars, we like to think."
"What idiot gave the Star Line that idea?" said Dr. Chase. "You know
stars are all colors--white, green, yellow, blue, and even red. But
white carnations are a symbol of death."