The _Procyon_ bored on through space, at one unchanging gravity of
acceleration. It may not seem, at first glance, that one gravity would
result in any very high velocity; but when it is maintained steadily for
days and weeks and months, it builds up to a very respectable speed. Nor
was there any question of power, for the _Procyon_'s atomics did not
drive the ship, but merely energized the "Chaytors"--the Chaytor Effect
engines that tapped the energy of the expanding universe itself.
Thus, in less than six months, the _Procyon_ had attained a velocity
almost half that of light. At the estimated mid-point of the flight the
spaceship, still at one gravity of drive, was turned end-for-end; so
that for the ensuing five-and-a-fraction months she would be slowing
down.
A few weeks after the turnover, Adams seemed to have more time. At
least, he devoted more time to the expectant mothers, even to the point
of supervising Deston and Jones in the construction of a weirdly-wired
device by means of which he studied and photographed the unborn child
each woman bore. He said nothing, however, until Barbara made him talk.
"Listen, you egregious clam," she said, firmly, "I know darn well I've
been pregnant for at _least_ seven months, and I ought to be twice this
big. Our clock isn't _that_ far off; Carl said that by wave lengths or
something it's only about three per cent fast. And you've been
pussyfooting and hem-hawing around all this time. Now, Uncle Andy, I
want the _truth_. _Are_ we in for a lot of trouble?"
"Trouble? Of course not. _Certainly_ not. No trouble at all, my dear.
Why, you've seen the pictures--here, look at them again ... see?
Absolutely normal fetus--yours, too, Bernice. _Perfect_! No
malformations of any kind."
"Yes, but for what _age_?" Bernice asked, pointedly. "Four months, say?
I see, I was exposed to a course in embryology myself, once."
"But _that's_ the interesting part of it!" Adams enthused. "Fascinating!
And, indubitably, supremely important. In fact, it may point out the key
datum underlying the solution of our entire problem. If this zeta field
is causing this seemingly peculiar biological effect, that gives us a
tremendously powerful new tool, for certain time vectors in the
generalized matrix become parameters. Thus, certain determinants,
notably the all-important delta-prime-sub-mu, become manipulable by ...
but you aren't _listening_!"
"I'm listening, pops, but nothing is coming through. But thanks much,
anyway. I feel a lot better, knowing I'm not going to give birth to a
monster. Or _are_ you sure, really?"
"Of _course_ I'm sure!" Adams snapped, testily, and Barbara led Deston
aside.
"Have you got the _slightest_ idea of what he was talking about?" she
asked.
"Just the slightest, if any. Either that time is relative--no, that's so
elementary he wouldn't mention it. Maybe he's figured out a _variable_
time of some kind or other. Anyway, you girls' slowness in producing has
given the old boy a big lift, and I'm mighty glad of it."
"But aren't you _worried_, sweetheart? Not even the least little bit?"
"Of course not," and Deston very evidently meant just that.
"I am. I can't help but be. Why aren't you?"
"Because Doc isn't, and he knows his stuff, believe me. He can't lie any
better than a three-year-old, and he's _sure_ that all four of you are
just as safe as though you were in God's lefthand hip pocket."
"Oh--that's right. I never thought of it that way. So I _don't_ have
anything to worry about, do I?" She lifted her lips to be kissed; and
the kiss was long and sweet.
* * * * *
Time flew past until, one day a couple of weeks short of arrival, Adams
rushed up to Deston and Jones. "I have it!" he shouted, and began to
spout a torrent of higher--very _much_ higher--mathematics.
"Hold it, Doc!" Deston held up an expostulatory hand. "I read you zero
and ten. Can't you delouse your signal? Whittle the stuff down to our
size?"
"W-e-l-l-," the scientist looked hurt, but did consent to forego the
high math. "The discharge _is_ catastrophic; in energy equivalent
something of the order of magnitude of ten thousand discharges of
lightning. And, unfortunately, I do _not_ know what it is. It is
virtually certain, however, that we will be able to dissipate it in
successive decrements by the use of long, thin leads extending downward
toward a high point of the planet."
"Wire, you mean? What kind?"
"The material is not important except in that it should have sufficient
tensile strength to support as many miles as possible of its own
length."
"We've got dozens of coils of hook-up wire," Deston said, "but not too
many _miles_ and it's soft stuff."
"_Graham_ wire!" Jones snapped his finger.
"Of course," Deston agreed. "Hundreds of miles of it. Float the senser
down on a Hotchkiss----"
"Tear-out." Jones objected.
"Bailey it--spidered out to twenty or so big, flat feet. That'll take
metal, but we can cannibal the whole Middle without weakening the
structure."
"Sure ... surges--backlash. Remote it."
"Check. Remote everything to Baby Two, and----"
"Would you mind delousing _your_ signal?" Adams asked, caustically.
"'Scuse, please, Doc. A guy does talk better in his own lingo, doesn't
he? Well, Graham wire is one-point-three-millimeter-diameter,
ultra-high-tensile steel wire. Used for re-wrapping the Grahams, you
know."
"No, I don't know. What are Grahams?"
"Why, they're the intermediates between the Chaytors ... O. K., O. K.,
they're something like bottles, that have to stand terrifically high
pressures."
"That's what I want to know. Such wire will do very nicely. Note now
that our bodies must be grounded very thoroughly to the metal of the
ship."
"You're so right. We'll wrap the girls in silver-mesh underwear up to
the eyeballs, and run leads as big as my wrist to the frame."
* * * * *
The approach was made, and the fourth planet out from that strange sun
was selected as a ground. That planet was not at all like Earth. It had
very little water, very little atmosphere, and very little vegetation.
It was twice as massive as Earth; its surface was rugged and jagged; one
of its stupendous mountain ranges had sharp peaks more than forty
thousand feet high.
"There's one thing more we must do," Adams said. "I have barely
begun to study this zeta field, and this one may very well be
unique--irreplaceable. We must, therefore, launch all the
lifecraft--except Number Two, of course--into separate orbits around
this sun, so that a properly-staffed and properly-equipped expedition
can study it."
"Your proper expedition might get its pants burned off, too."
"There is always that possibility; but I will insist on being assigned
to the project. This information, young man, is _necessary_."
"O. K., Doc," and it was done; and in a few days the _Procyon_ hung
motionless, a good five hundred miles high, directly above the highest,
sharpest mountain peak they had been able to find.
The Bailey boom, with its spider-web-like network of grounding cables
and with a large pulley at its end, extended two hundred feet straight
out from the side of the ship. A twenty-five-mile coil of Graham wire
was mounted on the remote-controlled Hotchkiss reel. The end of the wire
was run out over the pulley; a fifteen-pound weight, to act both as a
"senser" and to keep the wire from fouling, was attached; and a few
hundred feet of wire were run out.
Then, in Lifecraft Two--as far away from the "business district" as they
could get--the human bodies were grounded and Deston started the reel.
The wire ran out--and ran--and ran--and ran. The full twenty-five miles
were paid out, and still nothing happened. Then, very slowly, Deston let
the big ship move straight downward. Until, finally, it happened.
There was a blast beside which the most terrific flash of lightning ever
seen on Earth would have seemed like a firecracker. In what was almost a
vacuum though she was, the whole immense mass of the _Procyon_ was
hurled upward like the cork out of a champagne bottle. And as for what
it _felt_ like--since the five who experienced it could never describe
it, even to each other, it is obviously indescribable by or to anyone
else. As Bernice said long afterward, when she was being pressed by a
newsman: "Just tell 'em it was the living end," and that is as good a
description as any.
The girls were unwrapped from their silver-mesh cocoons and, after a
minute or so of semihysterics, were as good as new. Then Deston stared
into the 'scope and gulped. Without saying a word he waved a hand and
the others looked. It seemed as though the entire tip of the mountain
was gone; had become a seething, flaming volcano on a world that had
known no volcanism[3] for hundreds of thousands of years.
[3] Transcriber's note: The original read 'vulcanism'.
"And what," said Deston finally, "do you suppose happened to the other
side of the ship?"
The boom, of course, was gone. So were all twenty of the grounding
cables which, each the size of a man's arm, had fanned out in all
directions to anchorages welded solidly to the vessel's skin and frame.
The anchorages, too, were gone; and tons upon tons of high-alloy steel
plating and structural members for many feet around where each anchorage
had been. Steel had run like water; had been blown away in gusts of
vapor.
"Shall I try the radio now, Doc?" Deston asked.
"By no means. This first blast would, of course, be the worst, but there
will be several more, of decreasing violence."
* * * * *
There were. The second, while it volatilized the boom and its grounding
network, merely fused portions of the anchorages. The third took only
the boom itself; the fourth took only the dangling miles of wire. At the
sixth trial nothing--apparently--happened; whereupon the wire was drawn
in and a two-hundred-pound mass of steel was lowered until it was in
firm and quiescent contact with the solid rock of the planet.
"Now you may try your radio," Adams said.
Deston flipped a switch and spoke, quietly but clearly, into a
microphone. "_Procyon One_ to Control Six. Flight Eight Four Nine.
Subspace Radio Test Ninety-Five--I think. How do you read me, Control
Six?"
The reply was highly unorthodox. It was a wild yell, followed by words
not directed at Deston at all. "Captain Reamer! Captain French! Captain
Holloway! ANYBODY! It's the _Procyon_! The _PROCYON_, that was lost a
year ago! Unless some fool is playing a dumb joke."
"It's no joke--I hope." Another voice, crisp and authoritative, came in;
growing louder as its source approached the distant pickup. "Or somebody
will rot in jail for a hundred years."
"_Procyon One_ to Control Six," Deston said again. His voice was not
quite steady this time; both girls were crying openly and joyfully. "How
do you read me, Frenchy old horse?"
"It _is Procyon One_--the Runt himself--Hi, Babe!" the new voice roared,
then quieted to normal volume. "I read you eight and one. Survivors?"
"Five. Second Officer Jones, our wives, and Dr. Andrew Adams, a Fellow
of the College of Advanced Study. He's solely responsible for our being
here, so----"
"Skip that for now. In a lifecraft? No, after this long, it must be the
ship. Not navigable, of course?"
"Not in subspace, and only so-so in normal. The Chaytors are O. K., but
the whole Top is spun out and the rest of her won't hold air--air, hell!
She won't hold shipping crates! All the Wesleys are shot, and all the
Q-converters. Half the Grahams are leaking like sieves, and----"
"Skip that, too. Just a sec--I'll cut in the downstairs recorder. Now
start in at your last check and tell us what's happened since."
"It's a long story."
"Unwind it, Runt, I don't give a damn how long it is. Not a
full-detailed report, just hit the high spots--but don't leave out
anything really important."
"Wow!" Jones remarked, audibly. "Wottaman Frenchy! Like the ex-urbanite
said to the gardener: 'I don't want you to work hard--just take big
shovelfulls and lots of 'em per minute'."
"That's enough out of you, Herc my boy. You'll be next. Go ahead, Babe."
Deston went ahead, and spoke almost steadily for thirty minutes. He did
not mention the gangsters; nor any personal matters. Otherwise, his
report was accurate and complete. He had no idea that everything he
said was going out on an Earth-wide hookup; or that many other planets,
monitoring constantly all subspace channels, were hooking on. When he
was finally released Captain French said, with a chuckle:
"Off the air for a minute. You've no idea what an uproar this has
stirred up already. They let them have all your stuff, but we aren't
putting out a thing until some Brass gets out there and gets the real
story----"
"That _is_ the real story, damn it!"
"Oh, sure, and a very nice job, too, for an extemporaneous effort--if it
was. Semantics says, though, that in a couple of spots it smells like
slightly rancid cheese, and ... no-no, keep still! Too many planets
listening in--_verbum sap_. Anyway, THE PRESS smells something, too, and
they're screaming their lungs out, especially the sob-sisters. Now,
Herc, on the air, you're orbiting the fourth planet of a sun. What sun?
Where?"
"I don't know. Unlisted. We're in completely unexplored territory.
Standard reference angles are as follows"--and Jones read off a long
list of observations, not only of the brightest stars of the galaxy, but
also of the standard reference points, such as S-Doradus, lying outside
it. "When you get that stuff all plotted, you'll find a hell of a big
confusion; but I _hope_ there aren't enough stars in it but what you can
find us sometime."
"Off the air--for good, I hope. Don't make me laugh, Buster, Your
probable center will spear it. If there's ever more than one star in any
confusion _you_ set up, I'll eat all the extras. But there's a dozen Big
Brains here, gnawing their nails off up to the wrist to talk to Adams
all the rest of the night, so put him on and let's get back to sleep,
huh? They're cutting this mike now."
"Just a minute!" Deston snapped. "What's your time?"
"Three, fourteen, thirty-seven. So go back to bed, you night-prowling
owl."
"Of what day, month, and year?" Deston insisted.
"Friday, Sep----" French's voice was replaced by a much older one; very
evidently that of a Fellow of the College.
After listening for a moment to the newcomer and Adams, Barbara took
Deston by the arm and led him away. "Just a little bit of _that_
gibberish is a bountiful sufficiency, husband mine. So I think we'd
better take Captain French's advice, don't you?"
* * * * *
Since there was only one star in Jones' "Confusion" (by the book,
"Volume of Uncertainty") finding the _Procyon_ was no problem at all.
High Brass came in quantity and the entire story--except for one bit of
biology--was told. Two huge subspace-going machine shops also came, and
a thousand mechanics, who worked on the crippled liner for almost three
weeks.
Then the _Procyon_ started back for Earth under her own subspace drive,
under the command of Captain Theodore Jones. His first, last, and only
subspace command, of course, since he was now a married man. Deston had
wanted to resign while still a First Officer, but his superiors would
not accept his resignation until his promotion "for outstanding
services" came through. Thus, Ex-Captain Carlyle Deston and his wife
were dead-heading, not quite back to Earth, but to the transfer-point
for the planet Newmars.
"Theodore Warner Deston is going to be born on Newmars, where he should
be," Barbara had said, and Deston had agreed.
"But suppose she's Theodora?" Bernice had twitted her.
"Uh-uh," Barbara had said, calmly. "I just _know_ he's Theodore."
"Uh-huh, I know." Bernice had nodded her spectacular head. "And we
wanted a girl, so she is. Barbara Bernice Jones, her name is. A living
doll."
Although both pregnancies were well advanced, neither was very near full
term. Thus it was clear that both periods of gestation were going to be
well over a year in length; but none of the five persons who knew it so
much as mentioned the fact. To Adams it was only one tiny datum in an
incredibly huge and complex mathematical structure. The parents did not
want to be pilloried as crackpots, as publicity-seeking liars, or as
being unable to count; and they knew that nobody would believe them if
they told the truth; even--or especially?--no medical doctor. The more
any doctor knew about gynecology and obstetrics, in fact, the less he
would believe any such story as theirs.
Of what use is it to pit such puny and trivial things as _facts_ against
rock-ribbed, iron-bound, entrenched AUTHORITY?
The five, however, _knew_; and Deston and Jones had several long and
highly unsatisfactory discussions; at first with Adams, and later
between themselves. At the end of the last such discussion, a couple of
hours out from the transfer point, Jones lit a cigarette savagely and
rasped:
"Wherever you start or whatever your angle of approach, he _always_
boils it down to this: 'Subjective time is measured by the number of
learning events experienced.' I ask you, Babe, what does that mean? If
anything?"
"It sounds like it ought to mean _something_, but I'll be damned if I
know what." Deston gazed thoughtfully at the incandescent tip of his
friend's cigarette. "However, if it makes the old boy happy and gives
the College a toehold on subspace, what do _we_ care?"