VIII

Dusty carried Scyth to the salon and dropped him on a divan. He left

Barbara to take care of the Marandanian while he went aloft into the

control room to take over.

Once inside the room Dusty stopped short.

He was a Hottentot in a powerhouse, a savage in a Plutonium refining

plant, a tone-deaf idiot standing before a four-console organ. There

were meters and switches and levers and toggles, neatly mounted on

gleaming black panels and clearly lettered in shining white. He stared

at a pilot lamp labeled :æ:*œæ;œ*œ and wondered foolishly whether the

gleam of red meant that the spaceport was still open or whether it

signaled that smoking was forbidden for the time being.

[Illustration: He was a Hottentot in a power house, a savage in a

Plutonium refining plant.]

And Dusty was supposed to drive this.

Stunned, Dusty dropped into the pilot's chair and looked around him

in a completely dazed manner. Below his feet were pedals and just

below the surface of the slanting panel were a pair of knee-flappers

that could be pressed without losing the thrust on a foot pedal. The

desk-thing was studded with large levers mounted in curve-segments all

carefully marked in the calibrations of the Marandanian language. To

his left was a panel filled with push-buttons from the floor to the

level above his head where his long arm could reach without standing

up. To his right was a similar panel. Dead ahead was a flat plate that

looked like frosted glass and seemed to Dusty about as useful. It

neither glowed, nor showed a spot of color other than the very logical

reticule-lines which were to be used for aiming the ship. Above the

plate of glass was a line of meters and another line of them below.

Dusty shivered. No matter in which way he reached he could touch

buttons, or thumb levers or turn dials.

Doubtless the competent Marandanian pilot played this console like a

pianist--strictly from practise. A mere matter of training; when the

concert master calls for 'A' the musician automatically reaches for the

right position and drops his forefinger.

This was no instrument to play by ear.

Or--was it?

"Barb!"

"Yes, Dusty?"

"Barb, find that damned menslator and bring it up here. It might--"

A moment later she came up the stairs with the small instrument in

her hands. She gasped as she saw the array of controls and asked, "I

thought he said it was easy?"

"To him," growled Dusty. He fitted the menslator on his shoulder by

its strap and fiddled with the controls. He hit one setting that made

Barbara cry out inexplicably (which irritated him) and then he found

another setting that made him feel like a hundred and seventy pounds of

toothache (then he forgave Barbara) and after some more fiddling with

the tuning and the gain Dusty hit the right setting.

Everything became clear to him.

Directly in front of him was a meter that read "Rhenic Doubler Current"

and to one side was a lever labelled "Phanoband Isolator" and some

push-buttons marked "Polylateral Overload Reset" and "Primary Exchange

Test." The rest, too, were very logical but equally meaningless. "Drive

Pulse Synchronizer" must have some definite function because it was a

large lever almost in the middle of the desk-panel and what one did

with it was undoubtedly taught in the first grade of spaceman's school.

There was a large and interesting handwheel labelled "Drive Angle Trim"

which Dusty gathered to be the gizmo used to equalize the drivers so

the ship wouldn't yaw in flight, but he was not quite sure. There was

another called the "Pre-flight Check Sequence" which probably checked

the multitudinous functions of the instruments as it was turned from

position to position, but what it did or what it told the pilot made no

never-mind to Dusty Britton of The Space Patrol.

* * * * *

There was one that he recognized instantly. It said, reading from left

to right "Off, Warm-up, Stand-by, Operate." It was a big four-position

hand-lever and it was a good idea, excepting what did Dusty do next?

"Can Scyth help?" pleaded Dusty.

"He's out cold like a Northern Light. Lost blood and--"

"But how'm I to run this godawful thing?"

"I don't know," said Barbara doubtfully. "Try something."

"What?" he asked.

She pointed to a small button high on the front panel beside the glazed

plate. It said, "SC/WBN-3 Phanoband 22".

Dusty looked at the nameplate and the menslator helped him translate

the nameplate into "Space, Commercial/Non-adjustable, High-power,

Emergency--Model Three. Phanoband Twenty-Two."

Dusty looked at Barbara and shrugged. This was an emergency, so Dusty

put out a forefinger and pressed the button.

A pilot lamp winked from blue to red and a meter on the forepanel rose.

There was a momentary whirring from far below in the big star ship and

then along the bottom of the ground-glass looking window in front of

him, a small circle began to grow luminous. A man's face appeared.

He was obviously in some sort of uniform; it had that air. The collar

was high and the effect was uncomfortable. A pair of gold diagrams

glistened on one shoulder. The man looked human enough to be the local

desk-sergeant in costume dress. As soon as the little circle was

completely clear he said tersely:

"Distress Call received. Identify yourself, state your position, define

your danger, and estimate the time remaining in which you have a factor

of safety."

Dusty blinked and then looked at Barbara. She shrugged. Dusty shrugged

back and said, "Are you Marandis?"

"This is Marandis Emergency. Identify yourself, state your pos--"

"Stop talking like a robot--or are you a robot?"

"I am not! What is the meaning of this? Using a distress-call band

for--"

"This is a distress call," snapped Dusty. "And part of the distress is

that I can't identify myself because I don't know the language."

"You'll have--"

"The other part of the distress is that the man who knows all about

this is likely to die of a bad accident if he is not given medical

attention. So now you know, tell me what to do next."

"Who are you?"

"I am Dusty Britton, if that means anything."

"I don't know you."

"Of course not. I've never been to Marandis. I'm not a Marandanian,

just a character of the race your play-mates term 'Backward,' and/or

'Primitive.' But you better do something fast."

"What is the name of the injured party?"

"Scyth Radnor."

"Then your identity is Exploration License K-221-Y. I know Radnor.

I must get you off the distress band. Please switch to Space

Communications, Band Forty-Five. I--"

"Wait," said Dusty quickly. "As a member of another solar culture you

must be aware of the fact that I am not familiar with your equipment.

Which knob do I twist and how far?"

The Marandanian gave Dusty instructions and waited for a second small

circle to appear beside the first, with a different face in it. This

face was older and not in uniform. The man said, "Please explain the

nature of your difficulty. I am Gant Nerley."

As well as he could, under the circumstances, Dusty explained his

predicament.

"I see," said Gant Nerley thoughtfully. "This is a rather complex

problem to solve. Can you state your location?"

"Hardly."

"I suppose not. If we don't know where you are from here, the chance

that a non-galactic culture would know where we are from there is

indeed remote."

"Haven't you a filed plan of operations?" demanded Dusty, using a tone

of voice that indicated that he thought that any culture above the

level of the ape wouldn't let people go galloping all over the galaxy,

tearing up stars and ruining scenery without first having filed a

program and had such program approved by twenty-seven signatures.

"There is a filed plan," said Nerley defensively. "But naturally it is

sealed as a matter of protection for the company."

"And no provision for emergency?"

"Only by the consent of the licensed company."

"Then you'd better call a conference at once. Scyth isn't going to last

long enough for you to comb the galaxy for us."

"That's why it might be better to let the barytrine field run to

completion."

* * * * *

Dusty's voice grew hard. "I wish you birds would stop tossing off a

thousand years of our life with the flick of a finger," he said.

"What difference does it make? You'd not notice it, and--"

"Who says so?" snapped Dusty, his irritation mounting.

"Time is of importance only when its passage can be measured in

reference to outside events. You have no contact with outside events.

Therefore it makes no difference whether you come in contact with us

now or a thousand years from now, so long as the same people of your

culture are involved."

"Now see here--"

"Permit me to present an example. If the barytrine field went on at

this instant, one thousand years from now my successor would pick up

the thread of the conversation from the recording we are making, and

take on from here. As far as you are concerned the only difference

would be a sudden flick of the viewscreen and a rather abrupt change

in the facial characteristics of your conferee." Gant Nerley waited

a moment to let the point sink in. "Now, since you and I have very

little in common, it should make little difference to you whether you

spoke to me or to someone else. And as far as I am concerned, I feel

the same. I have long since ceased feeling regretful that I cannot

retain friendship with the hundreds of thousands of people with whom I

must converse. I have almost stopped being regretful of the fact that

there are so many worlds that no single lifetime would permit a visit

to more than a fraction. I suggest that you try to take a more lasting

attitude. You sound as though the troubles of a world you never saw

were of prime importance to you."

"Look," said Dusty testily, "A lot of what you claim may be true. But

we have a couple of thousand years of observational data on the planets

and the nearby stars. You may take a thousand years out of our lives in

the twinkle of a second, but then we spend another five hundred on top

of that finding out where we are."

"You have time."

"We have not!" roared Dusty. "Move us to a new system and I'll tell you

what'll happen. Before we can make a move into space we have to chart

the new system completely, because we admit that our reaction motors

are not efficient enough to take off without a well precharted course.

We must know the orbits of the planets to a fine degree before we dare.

Then, before we can make a try for the stars, we've got to spend years

and years in observation before we can chart the nearest stars and

observe whether or not they might have planets, our astronomy will be

put back. Now--"

"Pardon me, but the information I have regarding your system is before

me. Your space travel is primitive and any form of real commerce is as

yet impossible. This I get from the license application for barytrine

operations. Now, how can you justify your statements about interstellar

travel?"

Dusty Britton, no matter what else, was a good actor any time he

could sit in with a large Virginia Ham to carve. Dusty would never

play Hamlet or Julius Caesar; a custard pie in the face was closer to

Dusty's art than John Barrymore. This fact provided for Dusty a rather

interesting background for the present argument. A student of science

could not have faced Gant Nerley without paying deference to the

Marandanian's obviously superior knowledge, position and experience.

The learned man makes no flat-footed statements; this leads to the odd

belief that most learned men are not entirely sure of themselves. It is

the bird who is ignorant of all the myriad things that he does not know

that can afford to stand up on his hind feet and reel off chapter and

verse as though there could be no rebuttal.

* * * * *

So Dusty Britton, who could portray a reasonably convincing role of a

wounded hero while mentally contemplating how long it would be before

the first preprandial martini, plus being the flamboyant type who never

lets a few facts stop his flow of words, was not abashed to let on that

he knew a lot more than the Marandanian suspected. Furthermore, Dusty

felt that he had Gant Nerley on the defensive, and if he could put the

Marandanian off balance long enough to accomplish something, Dusty did

not care if Nerley accused him of being a four-flusher at some later

date.

Keeping this in mind, Dusty braced himself with little effort and tried

to reduce to bafflegab what he recalled of Scyth Radnor's previous

statements.

"Interstellar travel is, of course, based upon obvious errors in the

theoretical mathematics of general relativity," said Dusty, as though

he were reciting some of the science-double-talk usually included in

Dusty Britton And The Space Patrol. "Of the many schools of thought

which have their own theories on how to explain these obvious errors,

the group-velocity field seems to be the most successful. But all

of them are seeking some evidence to support their theories, and a

couple of them, namely the gravitic and the magnetic-field proponents

claim that such evidence has already supported their claim. Now, if

such is the case, you know it will not be long before some practical

experiment will disprove the illogic of providing a finite limit to an

infinite system. Once this has been established it seems obvious that

star-travel is the next step."

"Hmmm--I see. This is a situation that must be considered more

carefully. May I ask, Dusty Britton, what is your position in your

society?"

"I am Dusty Britton of The Space Patrol," said Dusty with the proper

tone of respect. "Commander in Chief of the Junior Division."

"Indeed! A real Space Patrol!"

Dusty nodded at the viewscreen. "It may be a bit ambitious," he

remarked with even more deference, carefully studied. "But we feel

that there is small point in using a conservative name and then having

to change it every couple of years."

"Quite a sensible attitude."

Dusty nodded again. "Fact is," he said deprecatingly, "we would

probably be quite a bit more advanced in our space operations if our

sister planets were not so inimical to human life. As it is, our

extra-planetary operations are limited and will be limited until we can

provide the necessary conversions to terrestrial conditions."

Gant Nerley nodded back. "Man is not an adaptable animal," he observed.

"He does not change himself to suit his environment; he changes his

environment to suit himself."

"That's what I mean."

"Then why do you object so much to this barytrine field?" asked Gant

Nerley. "We can always pick you a stellar group less inimical to human

life and thus advance you faster."

Dusty grunted under his breath. He had talked too much. "Buster," he

said angrily, "logic like that will only get you a fat lip."

Gant Nerley blinked. "Tell me, Dusty, was Scyth Radnor hurt in some

altercation over this beacon?"

* * * * *

By this time Dusty figured that he might as well let Gant Nerley have

it cold and hard. It would show Gant that the mighty Marandanian was no

more distant from the lusty chimpanzee than the terrestrian.

"No," he said flatly, "Scyth was plugged for monkeying around another

man's woman."

Gant said, "Deplorable," in a tone of voice that indicated an amused

disgust, but not easily identified as to whether over the act itself or

the business of being caught at it. "What happened?"

"The other guy shot first," said Dusty, feeling that this was no time

to point out that it was he that pulled the trigger.

"I'm not surprised. Most primitives are inclined to be both hot-headed

and impulsive."

"Tell me," asked Dusty in a cooing voice, "did Scyth confine his amours

to primitives, or is it the custom among Marandanians to consider your

mate unattractive unless she can prove it by bedding down with an

impressive list of lovers?"

"I don't understand," replied Gant Nerley stiffly.

"Against primitives I can understand Scyth carrying a weapon to his

assignation, for protection against the irate cuckold. Tell me, Gant

Nerley, has your emotional balance become so stable that you can take a

more scholarly view of promiscuity? Or," added Dusty sharply, "do you

have big black headlines about triangle slayings and love-nest scandals

just like the rest of humanity?"

"Well, now, we--"

"Then don't blame us primitive souls for slugging a guy that's caught

off base!" snapped Dusty. "Now, what are we going to do about Scyth?"

"Regardless of his depredations against propriety, he must be given

medical attention."

"This I will go along with. How shall we start? I can always take him

to one of our hospitals."

"No. No! You must not."

"Why not? We're quite competent on gunshot wounds. We're probably more

used to them than you are, as primitives with impulse and hot blood."

"Please. Let's not be facetious over any man's misfortune."

"In blunt words, the life of a character caught in an awkward situation

is more important than someone else losing their familiar stellar

scenery and a couple of thousand years of climb up from the swamp of

ignorance?"

"That is another question which I'm sure we can solve. Now--"

"Look," said Dusty firmly, "you agree to take measures for our safety

and we'll agree to take measures for Scyth's. Do you understand exactly

what I mean or shall I explain in very blunt words?"

"That is blackmail."

"It's worse than that. But we're primitive, and therefore lacking in

refinement. As far as I am concerned, Transgalactic can keep their

secret of our position locked in their sealed file. Scyth can die, and

Bren and Chat can spend the rest of their lives marooned on Mercury."

"No. That wouldn't be right. You must bring Scyth back home."

"That's a fine idea! May I suggest that your ship is not as familiar as

mine?" Dusty did not mention that the only control room he was familiar

with was the one on the Gramer Production Lot, which was an aggregation

of fantastic levers and flashing lights and futuristic three-phase

busbars which had a most profound effect upon the imagination of the

youth of the land but no effect upon space whatsoever.

"This can be taken care of. As a spaceman, you can understand the

principles. They are simple. You can follow directions for flight."

"Yes? And which way do I go from here?"

"Not so fast. First, Dusty Britton, tell me the present condition of

Scyth Radnor."

"Wait."

* * * * *

Dusty went below. Scyth was in a state of shock. His temperature "taken

with the flat of Dusty's hand" was chill--and there was a film of

perspiration wetting Scyth's body. The breathing was shallow and the

face was pale. Scyth's pulse was weak and the heartbeat thin.

Dusty turned a light blanket over the Marandanian and then went back to

report.

Gant Nerley said, "In the salon you will find a medicine cabinet. The

instructions are simple, any intelligent being with a menslator should

be able to follow them concisely. How is the bleeding?"

"Stopped. Clotted by now."

"Take care of Scyth, Dusty Britton. We'll figure out something for you."

"How about this barytrine field that's running away with itself?"

"We'll stop it. Behind you on the auxiliary panel you will see a knob

and a pilot lamp, probably orange colored. Turn the knob to the left."

Dusty did, and the lamp went out.

"That's it. I see that Scyth has the usual sloppy habits of his kind.

No label. According to space regulations the operator is supposed to

slip a label into the frame above the auxiliary control whenever he has

anything extra set up. I'll mark that oversight down on Scyth Radnor's

record. Now--"

"What about Chat and Bren and that variable-star maker?"

Gant Nerley grunted. "If they're not keeping a close eye on the

barytrine field detector, so they can shut off their own equipment

when it fails, I'll revoke their licenses! They must be looking at the

temporal field, or at least keeping watch."

"We hope."

Gant nodded thoughtfully. "Now," he said, "this being an emergency,

I'll open their course-plan so that I can direct you through space.

Don't turn off the viewpanel, Dusty. I'll be back in a few minutes."