"No-o-oo."
Mike was stumped. Then he figured a literalness in his phrasing.
"Is Hot Rod pushing or in any other way giving motion to Space Lab
One?" he asked.
"No-o-oo," came the answer.
Now Mike _was_ stumped.
"Is Space Lab One under acceleration?" he asked.
"Ye-es," said the Cow.
"Then where in hell is that acceleration coming from?" Mike was
exasperated.
"We a-are uunder no-o-o acceleration fro-om he-ell," the literal mind
told him.
* * * * *
Mike laughed ruefully. No acceleration from hell--well, that was
debatable. But no thrust from the hellmaker was not a debatable point.
The Cow wasn't likely to be wrong, though her appalling literalness
was such that an improperly phrased question might make her seem to
be.
Computers, he thought, would eventually be the salvation of the human
race, whetting their inventors' brains to higher and higher efforts
towards the understanding of communications.
Very carefully now he rephrased his question. "From what, and from
what point is the acceleration of Space Lab One originating?"
"From the co-ontinu-ous thrust o-originating at a po-oint thirteen
fe-et from the a-axial center of the whe-el, in hu-ub section five
no-orth, one hundred twelve degrees fro-om reference ze-ero of the
engine-eering lo-ongitude references sta-ation assigned in the
con-struction ma-anual dealing with relative po-ositions o-of ma-asses
lo-ocated o-on Spa-ace La-ab O-one."
Mike glanced up at the tube overhead, which represented the axial
passageway down the hub of the wheel. Thirteen feet from the imaginary
center of that tube, and in his own engineering compartment.
Then his gaze traveled on around the oddly built, circular room with
its thirty-two-foot diameter. The reference to hub section five north
meant this compartment. The degrees reference referred to the
balancing co-ordinates by which the Cow kept the big wheel statically
balanced during rotation. There was a bright stripe of red paint
across the floor which indicated zero degrees; and degrees were
counted counterclockwise from the north pole of the wheel.
His eyes strayed across the various panels and racks and came to rest
in the one hundred twelve degree area. A number of vacant racks, some
holding the testing equipment he had moved there not too many hours
before--and churkling quietly in its rack near the floor, Ishie's
Confusor of Confusion.
Mike contemplated the device with awed respect, then phrased another
question for the Cow.
"Exactly how much thrust is being exerted on that point?" he asked.
The computer reeled off a string of numbers so fast that he missed
them, and was still going into the far decimal places when Mike said:
"Whoa! Approximate number of pounds, please."
"A-approximately six hundred forty. You-u didn't specify the limits
o-of a-accuracy tha-at you-u wanted." The burred tone was still
complacent.
"Just what acceleration has that given us?" asked Mike, still looking
at the Confusor. "Approximately," he added quickly.
"Present a-acceleration is a-approximately eight point nine five
ti-imes te-en to the mi-inus third ce-entimeters per se-econd per
se-econd. I ca-an ca-arry that to-o-o several mo-ore de-ecimal
pla-aces if you-u wi-ish."
"No, thanks, I think you've told me enough."
Mike stood up.
This, he thought, needs Ishie. And coffee, he told himself as a second
thought.
And then as a third thought, he turned back to his secret vocoder
panel, and said: "The information you have just given me is to be
regarded as top secret and not to be discussed except over this
channel and by my direct order. Absolutely nothing that would give any
one a clue to the fact that there is a method of acceleration aboard.
Understood?"
"Ye-es, Mah-ike."
"O.K."
Mike switched off the vocoder, flipped his intercom to the temporary
galley in the morgue, and ordered two breakfasts readied. Then he set
off for the morgue.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Mike Blackhawk located Dr. Y. Chi Tung's hammock, and nudged the
scientist unceremoniously. The small physicist awoke and attempted to
sit up in one gesture; bumped his head on the hammock above, and laid
back down just as suddenly.
"Come on down to engineering will you Ishie?" The request was spoken
softly.
"Hokey, dokey," said Ishie and crawled out of the narrow aperture with
the agility of a monkey.
Gesturing to the other to follow him, Mike led the way to the galley
first, where the two picked up the readied breakfast and took them to
Mike's quarters.
The "cups" of coffee were squeeze bottles; the trays were soft
plastic packages, similar to the boil-in-the-bag containers of frozen
food that had been common on Earth for some time.
Mike hesitated at the entrance to his engineering quarters,
considering whether to shut the bulkhead, but discarded the idea as
being more of an attention-getter than a seal for secrecy. He gestured
Ishie to the bunk, and parked himself at his console.
"We're in trouble," he said. "You and I together are responsible for
the first space attack on Earth."
He stopped and waited, owl-eyed, but the small physicist simply
tackled his breakfast with no further comment than a raised eyebrow.
"We," said Mike solemnly, "wiped out Thule Base last night."
"As Confusion would say, there's no Thule like a dead Thule. What are
you getting at Mike? You sound serious."
"You mean you slept through ... you didn't know we ... you didn't hear
the ... yes, I guess you slept! Well...."
Rapidly Mike sketched the events of the past nine hours, bringing his
story completely up to date, including the information he'd gleaned
from the Cow, but making no reference to his access to the computer's
knowledge. Instead, he attributed the conclusions to himself.
The physicist sat so still when he had finished that Mike became
seriously concerned. "Thule...." he began, but Ishie started to speak.
"Mike, it did? It couldn't ... but ... of course, it must have ... the
fields ... six hundred forty pounds of thrust! Only six hundred forty,
yet ... yes, it could, if the thrust were exactly aligned ... thrust ...
Mike, thrust! _Mike, thrust!_ Real thrust! Mike do you know what this
means?" His eyes were alight. His voice was reverent. He sprang from
the bunk and knelt before the rack that held the churkling Confusor.
"My pretty," he said. "My delicate pretty. What you have done! Mike,
we've got a space drive!"
"Ishie. Don't you realize? We wiped out Thule!"
"Thule, schmule--Mike, we've got a space drive!"
Mike grinned to himself. He needn't have worried. Not about Ishie, any
how.
But now Ishie was gesturing him over.
"Mike," he said, "you must show me in detail. In exact detail. What
did you do? What was your procedure?"
Mike came over and casually reached towards the churkling device,
saying "Why, I--" but Ishie reacted with catlike swiftness, blocking
the man before he could even touch the rack.
"No, don't touch it! Just _tell_ me what you did!"
Carefully now, Mike began outlining in detail his inspection of the
device and each step he had taken as he added to its complexities.
When he had finished, the two sat back on their heels thinking.
Finally, Mike spoke.
"Ishie, will you please tell me just how does this thing ... this
Confusor ... _get_ that thrust? Just exactly what is involved here?"
Ishie took his time answering, and when he did his words come slowly.
"Ah, yes. Confusor it is. I was attempting to confound Heisenberg's
statement; but instead I think between us we have confused the issue.
"Heisenberg said that there was no certainty in our measurement of the
exact orbit of an electron. That the instrument used to measure the
position of the electron must inevitably move the electron; and
the greater the attempt at precise measurements, the greater the error
produced by the measurements.
"It was my hope," he went on, "to provide greater accuracy of
measurement, by use of statistics over the vast number of electrons in
orbit around the hydrogen atoms within the test mass. But this,
apparently, will not be.
"Now to see what it is we have done.
"First, let us make a re-expression of the laws of math-physics. You
understand that I am feeling my way here, for what we have done and
what I thought I was doing are quite different, and I am looking with
hindsight now at math-physics from the point of reality of this
thrust.
"As I understand it, there's a mutual exclusiveness of particles,
generally expressed by the statement that two particles may not occupy
the same space at the same time.
"But as I would put it, this means each particle owns its own place.
Now, inertia says that each particle not only owns its own place, but
owns its own temporal memory of where it's going to be unless
something interferes with it.
"Now let me not confuse you with semantics. When I say 'memory' and
'knowing' I am not implying a sentient condition. I am speaking of the
type of memory and knowing that is a strain in the structure of the
proton or atom. This is ... well, anyhow, not sentient. You will have
to translate for yourself.
"So to continue, inertia, the way I would put it, says that each
particle not only owns its own place, but owns its own temporal memory
of where it is going unless it is interfered with.
"In other words, the particle arriving here, now, got here by
remembering in this other sense that it was going from there to there
to there with some inherent sort of memory. This memory can't be
classified as being in relation to anything but the particle itself.
No matter how you move the things around it, as long as the things
around it don't exert an influence on the particle, the particle's
memory of where it's been and where it's going form a continuous
straight line through space and must, therefore, have spatial
co-ordinates against which to form a 'memory' pattern of former and
future action.
"Now as I understand gravity, it's simply the statement that all
particles in space are covetous, in this same non-sentient sense, of
the position in space of all their neighboring particles. In other
words, it's a contravention or the attempted contravention of the
statement that two particles may not be in the same place at the same
time. It seems that all particles have an urge to try to be in each
other's space. And this desire is modified by the distance that
separates them.
"This adds up to three rules:
"1. No two particles may occupy the same space at the same time.
"2. Even though they can't, they try.
"3. They all know where they're going, and where they've been without
relation to anything but the spatial co-ordinates around them.
"That third statement seems to me to knock something of a hole in
Einstein's relativity theory. Unless you wish to grant all these
particles some method of determining their relationship to particles
that are not near them.
"Communication between particles by any means is apparently limited by
the speed of light, which is a relationship between space and time,
but apparently, from what we know of inertia, if the universe
contained only a single particle, and that particle was in motion, it
would continue to move regardless of the fact that its motion could
not be checked upon in relation to other particles.
"This indicates to me that the particle has an existence in space
because it is created out of space, and that space must, therefore,
have some very real properties of its own regardless of what is or is
not in it. The very fact that there is a limiting speed to light and
particle motion introduces the concept that space has physical
properties.
"In order to have an electromagnetic wave, one must have a medium in
which an electric field or a magnetic field may exist. In order to
have matter, which I believe to be a form of electromagnetic field in
stasis, one must have special properties which make the existence of
matter possible. In order to have inertia, one must also have spatial
properties which make the existence of inertia possible.
"People are fond of pointing out that there's nothing to get hold of
in free space in order to climb the ladder of gravity, or in order to
move between the planets, and that the only possibility of motion of a
vehicle in space is to throw something away, or, in other words, lose
mass in order to gain speed by reaction. Which is simply a statement
that as far as we can tell a force can only be exerted relative to two
points--or between two points or masses.
"But this does not account for the continuance of motion once started.
"Inertia says a body will move once started, but it doesn't say why or
how. How does that particle once started gain the knowledge to
continue without some direct control over its spatial framework? That
it will continue, we know. That in the presence of a gravitic field or
a magnetic field or other attractive force at right angles to its
motion, we can create an acceleration which will maintain it in an
exactly circular path called an orbit. But how does it remember, as
soon as that field ceases to exist, where it was going before it was
last influenced? That it will continue in a straight line
indefinitely, without such an influence, we know. That it can be
influenced over a distance by various field effects, we also know.
But what is the mechanism of influence whereby it influences itself to
continue in a straight line? And what handle did we get hold of to
convert that influence of self to our own advantage in moving this
ship?"
* * * * *
Mike stared at Ishie with vast respect.
"I thought you physics boys did it all with math," he said softly,
"and here you've outlined the facts of space that an Indian can feel
in his bones--and you've done it in good, solid English that makes
some sense.
"In other words," Mike was almost talking to himself as he tried to
reword Ishie's theorizing into his own type of thinking, "the particle
in motion creates a strain in the fabric--the field--of space; and
that fabric must attempt to relieve itself of the strain. A particle
in motion makes it possible for the fabric of space to smooth itself
out behind the particle; and the fabric attempts to smooth itself on
through the area occupied by the particle while it is moving, and so
the fabric of space smoothing itself is a constant thrust behind the
particle's motion, continuing that motion and making the particle scat
to where he wasn't going.
"When that same particle is stopped," Mike was visualizing the process
to himself, "the force of the attempt to smooth itself out by the
fabric of space exists equally around the particle on all sides; so
that the particle will be held stopped by the attempt of the fabric to
smooth itself until set into motion again by a force greater than that
of inertia--for inertia, then, is the attempt of the fabric of space
to smooth itself.
"Quite possibly," Mike was speaking very slowly now as he mocked up
and watched the forces of this inertia, "matter itself is created out
of the fabric of space, and in its creation, in the stasis condition
that keeps it existing as a particle rather than dissolving back into
the original fabric, it creates the strain in the fabric--in
space--that will then seek to smooth itself so long as the particle
shall exist.
"Thus this, then, is inertia--the attempt of the fabric of space to
smooth itself; to get rid of the strain of the particle that has been
created from itself."
Ishie shook his head. "Not quite," he said, "but you're getting
close."
Mike shook himself like a dog coming out of water.
"Oh, well," he said. "Anyway, we've got a space drive--flea sized. Now
the question before the board becomes, just what are we going to do
with it? Turn it over to the captain?"
"Confusion say," said Ishie, "he who has very little is often most
generous. But he who has huge fortune is very cautious about
dispersing it. Let's first be sure what we've got," he grinned slyly
at Mike, "before we become overgenerous with information."
Mike heaved a huge sigh of relief. He had been afraid he would have to
argue Ishie into this point of view.
"Speaking of math, Mike, you're no slouch at it yourself, if you
figured out all those orbit co-ordinates in your head, and arrived at
an exact figure on the amount of thrust. It would be very nice for our
future investigations if we had some method of putting the Cow to work
on this." The little physicist sat back, grinned knowingly, and
continued: "Where's your secret panel, Mike? We've got to keep this
information from going to anybody else."
[Illustration]
"Oh, I already--" Mike stopped. "I mean," he floundered, "uh ... how
did you know?" A foolish grin spread over his face. "It's right behind
you," he said. "And I've got it by voice," he said. "Just push the
switch in the corner and talk to it."
* * * * *
Ishie turned, glanced at the panel, and went over to the switch,
pushing it. "I wondered how you were concealing the teletype," he
said. "You mean you really talk to it?"
The Sacred Cow's voice came back. "Reference not understoo-od.
Ple-ease explai-ain."
"Oy!" said Ishie. "It even sounds like a cow!"
"Ye-es, si-ir," said the Cow. "A cow is an he-erbivorous ma-ammal,
usua-ally do-omesticated, and fou-ound in mo-ost of the cou-ountries
of Ea-arth. Wha-at specific da-ata did you-u wi-ish? The mi-ilk
su-upply--"
"Hold it," Mike said, forestalling a long dissertation on the dairy
industry.
Catching on quickly to the literal-mindedness of the placid computer,
Ishie fired a direct question.
"What is our current position in relation to the equatorial orbit that
we should be following?" he asked.
There was a sput from the speaker, very much as though someone had
been caught off guard and almost said something, and then the placid
reply came back.
"That information is top secret. Please identify yourself as Mike and
I will answer you."
Ishie groaned, depressed the cutoff switch and turned to Mike.
"You fixed it," he said. "If a simple question like that gets an
answer like that, how long do you think it will take the captain to
find out something's wrong with the Cow?"
Mike lunged for the switch, but Ishie held him back.
"Hold it, Boy. You've made enough electronic mistakes for one day.
This takes some thinking over."
"We better think fast," said Mike. "The captain'll ask that question
any second now, or a question like it."
"All right," said Ishie. "First we've got to withdraw your original
order--and you'd better not trust your own memory as to what it was.
You ask the Cow to tell you what order you gave her making certain
information top secret. Then when she tells you exactly what you said,
you tell her to cancel _that_ order."
Mike did as he was told.
"Why," said Ishie, "did you give such an order in the first place?
Never mind answering that question," he added, "but it's lucky she
hasn't been refusing to give people the time of day, and referring
them to you. As a matter of fact"--glancing up at the clock on the
wall--"it looks like she has. That clock hasn't moved since I got
here."
Even as he spoke, the clock whirred, jumped forty-five minutes, and
settled down to its steady, second-by-second spin.
"Ishie," said Mike, "we figured out a space drive, and that was great.
But if we can figure out how to communicate an idea to a computer,
we're _real_ geniuses."
Ishie turned on the vocoder. "Please supply us," he told the Cow,
"with a complete recording of your latest conversation with Mike."
And as the computer started back over the dialogue that has just
occurred between herself and Mike, Ishie interrupted. "Not that," he
said, "I mean the last previous conversation."
Then he sat back as the Cow unreeled a fifteen minute monologue which
repeated both sides of the conversation including the order to make
everything top secret.
Having listened through this, Ishie said: "At the point where Mike
asks you about acceleration, you will now erase the rest of the
conversation and substitute this comment from yourself: 'The lab is
being accelerated by an external magneto-ionic effect.' This will be
your only explanation of acceleration applied to the ship. Now please
repeat your conversation with Mike."
Then he sat back to listen through the recording again.
This time when it came to the part about acceleration, without
hesitation, the Cow referred blithely to the external magneto-ionic
effect that was causing acceleration.
When Ishie asked the computer: "How could this effect be canceled?"
and listened to a long syllogistic outline which, if condensed to a
single, understandable sentence meant simply "by reversing the field
in respect to the lab with a magnet on board the lab."
Ishie heaved a great sigh of relief, and said, "Now, Mike, we can go
to work. For of course," he added, "we must have authority to install
our magnetic coils, and what better authority is there than the Cow?
"Confusion say it is better to have the voice of authority speak with
your words than to be the voice of authority.
"Now," he said, "let us see what we have really got here."
* * * * *
As they worked, time progressed. The empty racks around the Confusor
slowly filled with more test instruments both borrowed and devised;
and the formerly unoccupied corner of the section of panels took on
more and more the look of a complete installation, in the center of
which the Confusor still churkled quietly, pitting its strength
against the mighty monster to which it was so firmly tied.
Two hours were spent in testing circuits, each one exhaustively. Then
Ishie turned to Mike.
"We need still yet another test that we have not provided. A strain
gauge to find out how much thrust a mosquito puts out. There's one in
the physics lab. I'll run get it."
"You will _not_," said Mike. "Genius you may be, but proton-proof
you're not. We can rig that right here."
Walking over to the spare parts locker, Mike brought back a complete
readout display panel, a spare from one of the Cow's bridge consoles;
and quickly connected it in to the data link on which the vocoder
operated. Then, carefully instructing the computer as to the required
display, he settled back.
"That'll do it," he said. "The Cow can tell us all we need to know
right on that panel--about acceleration, lack of it, or change of it
that we may cause by changing the parameters of our experiment. Those
racks were checked out to stand up under eighty gees," he added.
"Typical overspecification. They never said what would happen to the
personnel under those conditions."
Ishie turned the Confusor off and then back on, and watched the
display gauge rise to the six hundred forty mark, and then show the
fraction above it .12128. Then carefully, ever so infinitesimally, he
adjusted a knob on the device. The readout sank back towards zero,
coming to rest reading 441.3971.
"We'll have to put a vernier control on this phase circuit," Ishie
said to himself. "It jumped thirty per-cent, and I scarcely breathed
on it."
After a few more checks on the operation of the phase control, he
turned to the power control for the magnetic field. Carefully, Ishie
lowered the field strength, eye on the readout panel. As the field
strength lowered, the reading increased.
The indication was that by lowering the field strength only ten per
cent, he had increased the thrust to sixteen hundred pounds--which,
he felt, was close to the tolerance of the machine structure.
Carefully he increased the field strength again. Faithfully the
reading followed it down the scale.
Then he had another thought. Running the field strength down and the
pressure up, and again arriving at sixteen hundred pounds, he turned
off the Confusor, waited a few moments, and turned it back on.
The reading remained zero.
Apparently, then a decrease in field strength would cause an increase
in thrust; but the original field strength was necessary in order to
initiate the thrust field.
Carefully he nudged the field strength back up, and suddenly there
were seven hundred ten pounds indicated thrust.
Thrust could apparently be initiated by a field strength a few per
cent lower, but not much lower, than the original operating point.
* * * * *
Captain Naylor Andersen arrived on the bridge with an accusing air,
but feeling refreshed. He had slept longer than he intended--and
though he had asked Bessie to call him when she came back on duty two
hours earlier, he had not been called.
"You needed the sleep, captain," she told him unrepentant. "I checked
with the Cow. The flare's predicted to continue for another eight
hours. We're simply in standby."
However, various observatories on Earth had not been asleep. Within
fifteen minutes of the time he reached the bridge, a message from U.N.
Headquarters chattered in over the teletype.
"Tracking stations report your orbital discontinuity too great to have
been achieved by jet action of nitrogen escaping from Hot Rod. Hot Rod
pressures insufficient to achieve your present apparent acceleration.
Please explain discrepancy between these reports and your own
summation of ten hours previous. Suggest close and continual
observation of Project Hot Rod. Suspect, repeat strongly suspect,
possibility of sabotage. End message."
Nails Andersen stared at the sheet that the com officer had placed in
his hands. Then he pressed the intercom to the morgue.
"Dr. Kimball. Please report to the bridge. Dr. P.E.R. Kimball. Please
report to the bridge immediately."
Then he turned to Bessie. "Ask the Cow for an orbit computation from
the time of the ... er ... meteor last night."
Under Bessie's practiced, computer-minded fingers, the answer wanted
came quickly--a displayed string of figures, each to three decimal
places, accompanied by a second display on the captain's console
showing the old equatorial orbit across a grid projection of the
Earth's surface to a point of departure over the mid-Atlantic where it
began curving ever farther north, up across the tip of South America,
very slightly off course.
The captain glanced at the display of Hot Rod and its taut-cable, and
realized with a sickening sense of unreality that no jet action on
Hot Rod could have caused it to lead the station in this northerly
direction; and that instead it was placidly trailing behind. It was
now farther south of the Space Lab than its original position; but
their orbit had been displaced to the north.
Perk appeared beside the console, but the captain ignored the
astronomer for a moment longer, while he leaned back thinking.
What could be the answer? A leak in the Space Lab itself? That would
give acceleration; minor, not to have triggered an alarm--it should
have triggered an alarm--but acceleration. Sufficient for the
off-orbit shown? He did a brief calculation in his head. It wouldn't
take much. Very little, for the time that had passed--Very well, then.
He put down a leak in his mind as a possibility. Now, water or air? It
could be either, if his reasoning this far were correct. He looked up.
"Have the Cow display barometric readings for each section of the rim
and for each compartment in the central hub," he said briefly to
Bessie; and to the astronomer, "Dr. Kimball, take that side seat at
the computer console and check our progress on this orbital
deviation," and he gestured at the display on his screen.
Perk moved to the post with only a nod.
* * * * *
The barometric displays held constant, with only fractional deviations
that might have been imposed by the spin of the big wheel, or error in
the instruments themselves. Balanced against temperature readings,
they worked out to possible fractions of gain or loss so small as to
be insignificant, indicating only the inaccuracies of measurement that
inevitably occur in comparing the readings of a number of instruments.
The captain had hardly digested the readings displayed by the computer
when Perk looked up with a puzzled frown.
"The computer records a continuous acceleration over the past eleven
hours and forty-three minutes," he said, "and attributes it," he
looked even more puzzled, "to a magneto-ionic effect?" There was a
definite question in his voice.
"It's only about six hundred forty pounds," he added. "It must be an
external effect caused by the flare."
"Please investigate the effect as thoroughly as possible," the captain
told Perk, then dictated a message to the com officer.
"'To U.N. Headquarters, Earth, from Captain Naylor Andersen,
commanding Space Lab One. Original assumption that disaster was
attributable to meteoric impact on Project Hot Rod appears mistaken.
Investigation indicates we are under acceleration from an external
magneto-ionic effect which is exerting about--'" he called to Perk.
"Did you say six hundred forty pounds?"
The astronomer nodded, and the captain continued, "'Which is exerting
about six hundred forty pound pressure against this satellite. We are
now working out corrective measures and will inform you immediately
they are prepared. If your observatories can give us any advice,
please message at once. End.'"
Then the captain depressed his intercom switch to the morgue. "Dr.
Chi. Please report to the bridge. Repeat. Dr. Chi Tung. Please report
to the bridge at once."
His own intercom hummed, and a voice came on. "Dr. Chi Tung is not in
the morgue. He left with Mr. Blackhawk some time ago."
The captain frowned, but pushed the engineering room intercom. "Is Dr.
Chi with you, Mr. Blackhawk?" he asked, and when Mike's voice
answered, "Yes, sir," he said, "Will you both report to the bridge at
once, please?"
When the two arrived, only a little tardily, on the bridge, the
captain addressed Ishie.
"You heard of the disaster last night?" The physicist nodded. "We
assumed then," the captain told him, "that a meteor had caused the
disturbance. That it had gone through the balloon making a hole
through which the balloon's nitrogen was escaping, making a jet action
and accelerating the ship.
"It seems, however, that we are under acceleration, and that the
acceleration is too great to be such jet action, since Hot Rod does
not have sufficient pressure.
"The computer reports that the acceleration is derived from an
external magneto-ionic effect. Would such an effect be a result of a
flare?" he asked.
"I believe it could, captain. I should have to do a bit of math,
but...."
"We will assume, then, that the computer is correct," the captain told
him. "Could such an effect have a sufficiently great effect on this
ship to give it as much as six hundred forty pounds of thrust?"
"Again, I should have to check the math, captain, but I would assume
so."
"Mr. Blackhawk," the captain turned to his engineer, "could such a
thrust throw Hot Rod off her communications beam and cause last
night's disaster?"
"I guess I'd have to check by math, too, captain...." Mike appeared to
debate the question. "It would be a very small acceleration at first,
of course," he said, "from six hundred forty pounds of thrust. But Hot
Rod's cable is slack, and the velocity needn't be great to give it
quite a jolt when the slack was taken up. Yes, I feel sure that could
happen, captain."
[Illustration]
The captain relaxed a little, and a half-smile played near the corner
of his mouth as he said to Mike, "I believe, then, we may have found
the _real_ saboteur, Mr. Blackhawk." Then to Ishie. "Doctor, I believe
that your field is the one in which the most experience lies towards
finding a means for counteracting the effect that is now influencing
our orbit. I am putting you in charge of the problem. The pull,
according to the computer, is as I said, six hundred forty pounds. Do
you think you can work out a method for counteraction?"
"I think ... possibly, yes, captain. Let me say, probably yes."
"Then please do so, and report the method to me. I will then submit it
to the other scientists aboard that may have some selective knowledge
in the field, and to Earth. You may, of course, call on any of the
personnel of the ship for assistance, and possibly Mr. Blackhawk may
be of assistance to you. He is familiar with the equipment aboard.
"You probably recognize the urgency of the problem so I shall not
attempt to underline that urgency further, other than to say that it
is of the utmost importance," he ended.
* * * * *
Five minutes later the two conspirators were back in the engineering
quarters, grinning like Cheshire cats, and mentally rolling up their
sleeves to go to work. They had, to all intents and purposes, carte
blanche to work out the construction of the device they would need for
an enlarged Confusor with a real thrust, even though they would have
to appear to co-operate with a multitude of other interested parties.
Mike and Ishie were both becoming adept students of the mythical Dr.
Confusion, and neither doubted their combined ability to handle that
part of the problem.
"Now," said Ishie, "Confusion say he who can fly on wings of mosquito
fly better on wings of eagle. How much thrust do we want, Mike?"
"What are our limits?" asked the practical engineer.
"Limits, schlimits. We got _power_. Of course," he added, "we _are_
limited by the acceptable stress limits on the wheel, and ... yes ...
by the stress limits on our plastic, too."
"The wheel was designed to stand upwards of 1.5 gee maximum spin--but
that's only radial strength," Mike began figuring. "Don't think
anybody ever calculated the stress of pulling the hub loose, endwise.
No reason to, you know, and it wasn't expected to land or anything.
And really, nobody expected it to stand in service more than a 1.5 gee
spin on the rim. They computed these racks to take all kinds of shock,
but the overall structure is rather flimsily built." He paused for
thought. "We could maybe put a tenth of a gee on the axis, but I
better check some of the stress figures against the structural pattern
with the Cow first. We'll have to give some thought to strengthening
things later, if we really want to go into the fantastic possibility
of landing this monster anywhere."
Consulted, the Sacred Cow computed a potential maximum stress-safety
at the hub of something over two-tenths of a gee, and the two finally
settled on one-tenth as well within the limits.
"Now the other limit," said Ishie. "This little piece of plastic will
only stand a pressure approaching the point at which it begins to
distort and run out of the field. This stuff is quoted to have a
compression-yield strength of one hundred ten pounds to the square
inch. We probably shouldn't exceed ... hm-m-m ... ninety pounds. Let's
get the Cow to tell us how big a chunk of surface area that
represents."
The answer was discouraging. Mike rapidly converted the figure in
centimeters to feet, and came up with nearly an eighty-three foot
diameter for a circular surface.
"Looks like we'll have to put it out on the spokes," he muttered in
disgust, but Ishie shook his head quickly.
"No need, Mike. Later on we'll need a few thrust points out on the rim
for good aiming, but we don't have to have all this surface area in
one unit or even in one place. Also, we do not need to consider only
the surface of an homogeneous piece of plastic material.
"This plastic can be cast. Very easily. In it, we can insert
structures that will absorb the strain from many surfaces within,
rather than only on a front surface.
"I expect some of the glass thread with which the hull of the ship was
made could be inserted with no trouble. Each thread, then, would take
up the strain, and a mass of them distributed through the plastic
could deliver a greatly increased amount of thrust from a volume of
plastic rather than from a surface area."
* * * * *
Mike started to object. "To get an absolutely parallel magnetic field,
the gap between the pole faces can't be very wide."
"Perhaps I wasn't considering pole faces," Ishie answered. "Our
investigation has already shown that once initiated the thrust-effect
works best in a very low magnetic field.
"Such a low, parallel magnetic field would quite probably be found
inside of a simple solenoid coil."
"O.K.," Mike answered, "but you have also found that a very high
magnetic field is required to initiate the action. How do you get that
inside a solenoid without an iron core?"
"As you say, a strong field must _initiate_ the action. Let us try
another experiment, Mike."
Ishie turned the Confusor off, selected a piece of wire from Mike's
supplies, and wound a ten-turn coil over the large magnetic coils of
the experimental device.
The leads from this he ran to a pulse-generator that could be
accurately adjusted to supply pulses of anything from a tenth
microsecond to a tenth second.
Selecting the shortest possible duration, he then set the magnetic
field adjustment on the experimental device to a point just below that
point on which it had turned on previously.
"Now we see." Turning on the device, he glanced at the display panel
which still showed zero thrust. Then he triggered a single
one-microsecond pulse into the additional ten turns of winding. The
readout display showed zero thrust. He triggered a ten microsecond
pulse. Nothing happened. One hundred microseconds. Nothing. One
thousand microseconds--the display changed, dropping so quickly into
position that the pulse thrust itself was not recorded--but the figure
turned up seven hundred thirty pounds thrust on the display panel.
"So," said Ishie, "we can initiate thrust with a one thousand
microsecond pulse. Can you design a power supply that would achieve
that field for that time in a solenoid having ... say ... one per cent
as high a field strength as the one we are using here?"
"O.K.," said Mike. "I get you. Sounds to me like this thing is going
to look like a barrel when we get through with it.
"I wish," he added, "that we could get one point one gee. And land
this thing on Earth. And have a big parade, with Space Lab One
hovering just overhead to the cheers and the blaring bands and the--"
"Confusion say, he who would poke hole in hornets nest had best be
prepared with long legs." Ishie grinned. "You don't think anybody
would really appreciate our doing that, do you Mike? Outside of the
people themselves, that is, that aren't directly concerned with man's
_welfare_? We haven't done this in the proper manner of team research
and billions spent in experiments and planned predicted achievements
made with the proper Madison Avenue bow to the financier that made it
possible. You know what they do to wild-haired individualists down
there, don't you?"
Mike shrugged. "Oh, well," he said, "you're right of course. But it
was a beautiful dream. How do you suppose we can build these and still
keep all the scientists aboard and on Earth happy that they're just
innocent magneto-ionic effect cancelers? Boy, that was a beauty,
Ishie!"
"Best we have two sets of drawings. The ones for us can be sketchy,
and need not have too much exactitude of design. We know what we're
doing--at least, I hope we do.
"But let us make a second set of drawings that is somewhat different,
though of a simpler shape and design, on which other scientists aboard
can speculate, and which can be sent to Earth to confuse the
confusion."
* * * * *
The two went to work with a will, and as the two sets of drawings
emerged, they were indeed different. The set from which they would
actually work was only mildly described as sketchy. The papers looked
like the notations a man makes for himself to get the figures he will
set into a formalized pattern as it takes shape, before throwing his
penciled figurings into the wastebasket.
The second set was exact; created with drawing instruments on Mike's
drafting board, and each of the component circuits would have created
an effect that would have interlocked in the whole, but it would take
the most erudite of persons to figure each into its effect, and its
effect into the whole, and the effect of the whole was somewhat that
somebody might someday figure out--but would possibly cancel a
magneto-ionic effect if such existed. The drawings looked extremely
impressive.
As the second set of drawings neared completion, Ishie glanced at the
clock, then turned to the Cow's vocoder.
"How soon will Space Lab One reach the northernmost point of her
present orbit and begin a swing to the south?" he asked.
Mike looked puzzled, but the Cow answered, "In ten minutes,
thirty-seven seconds. At precisely 05:27:53 ship time."
"I think," said Ishie, "we'd best put a switch on our magnetic field
so that we can reverse the field and the thrust."
"Why?" asked Mike.
"Because," Ishie explained, "when we reach the top of our course
northward, then the thrust of the Confusor and Earth's gravity come
into conflict, moving our entire orbit off-center and bringing us
closer to the pole. In not too many orbits, that eccentricity in our
orbit might pull us into the Van Allen belt. We can't afford that.
Now, if we reverse the thrust at the right time, our orbit will be
enlarged and we stay out of troubled spaces."
Mike was still puzzled. "I don't see how that works," he said. "Why
wouldn't we just go off in a spiral on our present thrust?"
"The acceleration of Earth is a much greater influence," Ishie tried
to make it clear, "than our little mosquito here. As long as they work
together, things go well. But when Earth dictates that we will now
swing south, be it ever so few degrees south, our mosquito is
overpowered and can only drag us clear to Earth-center on a closing
spiral, which would eventually lead us to crash somewhere in the
southern hemisphere, a good many orbits from now.
"I hope," he said, "reversing the magnetic field will indeed reverse
our little mosquito's thrust." He moved toward the Confusor.
"Hold it," said Mike. "The displacement in orbit won't be very much,
at least on the first few go-arounds, will it? and if we switch it
now, somebody'll start getting suspicious of this magneto-ionic
effect. The effect that's doing all this. A sudden reversal might not
be in its character, if it had a character. And anyhow, we don't want
to give another jerk on Hot Rod. We might jerk something loose this
time. We've already wiped out Thule Base--and there's no use adding
scalps to an already full belt."
"O.K.," said Ishie. "Then now, I think it is time that we presented
our formal drawings to the captain; and I think that when we present
them we will suggest that we start work immediately on construction,
even while he is checking out our drawings through his experts, so
that the project will not be delayed."
* * * * *
On the bridge, the captain received the drawings with relief.
"Thank you, gentlemen. If these prove out, you may have saved the
satellite by the rapidity of your work. Dr. Kimball calculated that
our present acceleration will take us dangerously close to the Van
Allen belt in about three orbits, and I need not tell you what that
would mean."
Ishie spoke up immediately. "In that case, captain, perhaps Mr.
Blackhawk and I had better start construction on this device
immediately, without waiting for you to complete the check-out. That
may save us invaluable time."
"Of course," said the captain. "What assistance will you need?"
"Of the greatest priority," replied Ishie gravely, "is access to the
machine shop. The solar flare should be about wearing itself out."
"Oh ... of course. It may be." The captain's face was slightly red as
he realized he had not thought to check this point. "Bessie, ask the
computer...."
"Yes, sir," she answered quickly, and returned shortly. "The computer
says the radiation count is down to ten M.R. above normal."
"It's a fairly low reading, even if it is above the Cow's normal-safe
mark. That reading could go on for hours, which we may not have,"
commented Ishie. "Perhaps we could disregard so narrow a differential...."
"In your opinion, doctor," the captain asked, "would it be safe to
return the personnel to the rim? Of course, I would have to return the
entire ship to normal conditions in order to give the machine shop or
any other part of the rim its normal six-foot shielding," he added,
"so please consider your answer carefully."
"I think you would be quite safe to do so, captain. Considering the
fact that otherwise we may go into the Van Allen belt, I think it
should be done without question."
To himself, Mike chortled gleefully. This grave, pedantic physicist
was about as unlike the co-conspirator with whom he had worked for the
past nearly ten hours as was possible. "The guy's a genius at a lot of
things," he thought to himself. "Puts on the social mock-up expected
of him like you'd put on a suit of clothes--and takes it off just as
completely," he added as an afterthought.
* * * * *
The return to the rim was slower than had been the evacuation--but it
was complete within twenty minutes of the decision to return the
satellite to normal.
In the machine shop, Paul and Tombu, with Ishie and Mike, were
gathering the materials they'd need for the odd construction--Paul
singing to himself as he worked.
_"I got in the shuttle, thought it went to the Base;_
_I'd learned my trade; there I'd take my place_
_Safely on Earth; but I found me in space--_
_I'd went where I wasn't going!"_
"What's that song?" asked Ishie of the spaceman.
"Oh, that's just 'The Spaceman's Lament.' You make it up as you go
along." His voice grew louder, taking the minor, wailing key at a
volume the others could hear.
_"I got on the wheel, thought I'd stay for the ride--_
_I'd found a funny suit in which to hide--_
_But I went through a closet--and I was outside!_
_I'd went where I wasn't going!"_
Tombu and Mike joined happily in the chorus, bawling it out at the top
of their lungs as they began the work that would make the big
Confusor.
_"Oh ... there's a sky-trail leading from here to there_
_And another yonder showing--_
_But when I get to the end of the run_
_It'll be where I wasn't going!"_
Meanwhile, facsimile copies of the official drawings had been made for
the other interested scientists aboard, and also sent by transfax to
U.N. headquarters for distribution among Earth's top-level scientists.
They were innocent enough in concept, and sufficiently complex in
design to require a great deal of study by these conservative
individuals who would never risk a hasty guess as to the consequences
of even so simple an action as sneezing at the wrong time.
* * * * *
Major Steve Elbertson awoke with a start, to see a medic's eyes inches
from his own. For a moment, fearing himself under physical attack, he
struck out convulsively, and then as the face withdrew he sat up
slowly.
He was slightly nauseous; very dizzy; and his instincts told him that
he needed a gallon of coffee as soon as he could get it. Then the
medic's voice penetrated.
"Please, sir, you must rest. No excitement."
Almost, he was persuaded. It would be so easy to relax; to give
someone else the responsibility. But the concept of responsibility
brought him struggling up again.
Hot Rod was a dangerous weapon. He could not act irresponsibly.
"How long was I out?" he muttered.