The function lights on the "tree" in front of Lance shone green. Gyros
were caged; the tapes were set to roll. Lance's big hands hovered
lightly near the manual over-rides. He was ready to fly, and the
autopilot lights were already winking out in count-down. But you never
could be sure until the last moment.
What had Carolyn been trying to tell him?
Before he could pursue the thought, he felt the pressure of the rising
ship take hold; gently at first as she cleared the ground; then heavier
and heavier, until his face felt like a rubber mask under the
acceleration and his heart commenced pounding.
It didn't take long these days for any ship to build up a tremendous
velocity in space. Lance cleared the ecliptic by a hundred million
miles; then with the Solar System spread out flat below him, he opened
up his flight orders. His destination, he discovered, was Groombridge
34, a visual double star. Right ascension: zero hours, thirteen minutes.
Declination: forty-three and four-tenths degrees. Nearly twelve
light-years distant.
Since the star's apparent location was nearly halfway up the sky from
the celestial equator, Lance could begin the jump any time and not worry
on his way about skewing too near the gravitational field of any
large-massed body in his own immediate vicinity.
He permitted himself one brief glance at the blazing universe that hung
all about him: the bright fixed lights that were innumerable suns
against an eternal blackness, and the luminous dust in between that was
even farther-flung. Confusion and chaos seemed to dwell here; if a man
gazed too long, he could quietly go mad. But even more insane, he
anticipated, would be the thick, writhing nothingness of hyperspace.
Lance Cooper made one final check of all the ship's operating
components; then crossed his fingers and cut in the hype-drive.
Instantly, his teeth crashed together and clenched; his strapped-in body
was jerked back in its cushioned seat; sweat beaded his brow. A thousand
needles prickling his skin couldn't have been worse. He had been told
once that the switching-out from this known universe into an unknown one
would feel just like a ten-thousand volt jolt in an old-fashioned
electric chair; and now he could believe it. Every cell in his body had
begun tingling; his stomach pitched under a racking nausea; and an
involuntary trickle of saliva dripped from his mouth the moment he got
his jaws working again.
But Lance fought the nausea, fought the sickness, and gradually as his
flesh accommodated to the change, he felt better.
It was then that the most disturbing phenomenon of all took place. He
felt for a moment as if he had been split into two persons. No, four
persons, eight, sixteen, an infinity of other selves. They were all
beside him, in him and out of him. His eyes ached. He shut them.
When he opened them again, everything was almost back to normal. The
other selves had vanished. Only the constant throbbing vibration of the
ship remained; yet it was a discomfort that had to be endured for four
solid straight weeks now. There was no other means known, by which a
man-made vessel could travel faster than light.
Funny about that four weeks, too, thought Lance. All distances in
hyperspace were the same, no matter where you wished to go; it required
no more than fourteen days and no less, regardless of whether you jumped
one light-year or fifty. Lance had always understood there were
equations on file at HQ, which explained the paradox. But not being a
math expert, he had never missed not being allowed to see them.
He flicked a switch and opened up his viewports again. The starry
universe had vanished. The _Cosmos XII_ was riding through a gray void.
Alone and--
No, it wasn't alone!
Again, Lance's vision suffered a wrenching sickness. Out there in the
colorless vacuum, hundreds of replicas of the _Cosmos XII_ rode along
beside him, above him, below him, stretched out in all directions.
There had been nothing in the manuals about this.
Lance stared at the meaningless phenomenon for a long time despite the
fact it made his brain ill. At last, he decided it was harmless,
whatever was causing it. He shook his head slowly and closed the ports
down. He hoped Groombridge 34 would be less taxing.
* * * * *
The system was.
After the ship reverted to normal space in the vicinity of Groombridge
34, Lance hovered about it exactly twelve hours, following all the
instructions in his manual to the letter. He started up the cameras and
other recording instruments. All went well, there were no incidents, no
vessels disturbed him; though had the two components of the binary been
at periastron, it would have simplified the work with the position
micrometer. If anything else of interest had been detected, it would
have to be deciphered from the film and tapes later. You can get as
close as four billion miles to an Earth-sized planet in space--and it'll
still show up fainter than a fourteenth magnitude star.
Somewhere in the galaxy, Lance supposed, there must be other races
building spaceships and guiding them from sun to sun. But thus far, the
scout ships from Terra--for all their magnified caution--had never run
into signs of any.
The old veteran hype-pilots had the best philosophy after all. Earth was
the choicest hunk of mud you were going to find. _Enjoy it, brethren._
Well, he would certainly live it up when he got back, Lance swore. He
would have his wedding; import Casey from the Club to spike the punch;
and, perhaps after he'd gotten in his required number of scout-missions,
he might even settle for a chair-borne exec's billet, himself.
Exactly twenty-eight days and twelve hours from the time of his
departure from Earth, Lance Cooper was back home again. The _Cosmos XII_
re-materialized out of hyperspace in the neighborhood of the Solar
System with its fuel tanks scarcely a third depleted, but its pilot a
drained man. Lance, truthfully, not only felt weary and torpid, but a
great deal disappointed.
He contacted Traffic, asked for and got a landing trajectory. A few
hours later, he had coasted home and the trip was over.
He scrambled down out of the ship, hungry for Carolyn.
The base hadn't changed any in a month, that he could see. A couple of
new floodlights put in, perhaps. Some brass were emerging from the
control bunker. Colonel Sagen, several others. He recognized them all.
Two were SSP's--Space Service Police.
* * * * *
When the colonel got close, Lance tossed off a salute and an insouciant
grin: "Well, the Prodigal made it back home, sir. Hope that pessimistic
daughter of yours is stashed around somewhere. Otherwise--"
"Otherwise, what?" returned the colonel, unsmiling.
"Why I'm liable to go busting right through that fence," said Lance.
"And say, if anybody's worrying about the _Cosmos XII_, she flew like a
dream, colonel. Matter of fact, she--"
Colonel Sagen's jaws snapped together. Wheeling, he barked at the two
SSP's: "Spacemen, arrest this officer! Immediately!"
Lance couldn't believe his ears.
"Hey, wait a minute!" he protested. "What have I done?"
Nobody answered. Not at first.
"Well?" Lance asked again, a little more uneasy this time.
"I have no daughter, major," Hard-Head Sagen growled, standing with his
legs braced apart and his ramrod shoulders looking businesslike. "I
never have had."
The space cops sprang forward. One drew a pistol, held it on the
returned pilot, while the other quickly moved behind Lance and pinioned
his arms back.
"Is this a joke, colonel?" Lance demanded, struggling. "If it is, I
don't appreciate it. You know you've got a daughter, and I'm going to
marry her!"
The colonel's jaws clamped tight; and he shook his head from side to
side, as if he were dealing with a person suddenly out of his mind. Then
he acted.
"Put this man under close confinement," he ordered Lance's guards.
"Allow no visitors of any kind." The colonel's tone was harsh and
worried. "I've got to buck this matter to HQ. We can't have it blow up
right now, God knows."