Compared with a spaceship in distress, going
to hell in a handbasket is roomy and slow!
The space freighter _Queen Dierdre_ was a great, squat, pockmarked
vessel of the Earth-Mars run and she never gave anyone a bit of trouble.
That should have been sufficient warning to Mr. Watkins, her engineer.
Watkins was fond of saying that there are two kinds of equipment--the
kind that fails bit by bit, and the kind that fails all at once.
Watkins was short and red-faced, magnificently mustached, and always a
little out of breath. With a cigar in his hand, over a glass of beer, he
talked most cynically about his ship, in the immemorial fashion of
engineers. But in reality, Watkins was foolishly infatuated with
_Dierdre_, idealized her, humanized her, and couldn't conceive of
anything serious ever happening.
On this particular run, _Dierdre_ soared away from Terra at the proper
speed; Mr. Watkins signaled that fuel was being consumed at the proper
rate; and Captain Somers cut the engines at the proper moment indicated
by Mr. Rajcik, the navigator.
As soon as Point Able had been reached and the engines stopped, Somers
frowned and studied his complex control board. He was a thin and
meticulous man, and he operated his ship with mechanical perfection. He
was well liked in the front offices of Mikkelsen Space Lines, where Old
Man Mikkelsen pointed to Captain Somers' reports as models of neatness
and efficiency. On Mars, he stayed at the Officers' Club, eschewing the
stews and dives of Marsport. On Earth, he lived in a little Vermont
cottage and enjoyed the quiet companionship of two cats, a Japanese
houseboy, and a wife.
* * * * *
His instructions read true. And yet he sensed something wrong. Somers
knew every creak, rattle and groan that _Dierdre_ was capable of making.
During blastoff, he had heard something _different_. In space, something
different had to be wrong.
"Mr. Rajcik," he said, turning to his navigator, "would you check the
cargo? I believe something may have shifted."
"You bet," Rajcik said cheerfully. He was an almost offensively handsome
young man with black wavy hair, blase blue eyes and a cleft chin.
Despite his appearance, Rajcik was thoroughly qualified for his
position. But he was only one of fifty thousand thoroughly qualified men
who lusted for a berth on one of the fourteen spaceships in existence.
Only Stephen Rajcik had had the foresight, appearance and fortitude to
court and wed Helga, Old Man Mikkelsen's eldest daughter.
Rajcik went aft to the cargo hold. _Dierdre_ was carrying transistors
this time, and microfilm books, platinum filaments, salamis, and other
items that could not as yet be produced on Mars. But the bulk of her
space was taken by the immense Fahrensen Computer.
Rajcik checked the positioning lines on the monster, examined the stays
and turnbuckles that held it in place, and returned to the cabin.
"All in order, Boss," he reported to Captain Somers, with the smile that
only an employer's son-in-law can both manage and afford.
"Mr. Watkins, do you read anything?"
Watkins was at his own instrument panel. "Not a thing, sir. I'll vouch
for every bit of equipment in _Dierdre_."
"Very well. How long before we reach Point Baker?"
"Three minutes, Chief," Rajcik said.
"Good."
The spaceship hung in the void, all sensation of speed lost for lack of
a reference point. Beyond the portholes was darkness, the true color of
the Universe, perforated by the brilliant lost points of the stars.
Captain Somers turned away from the disturbing reminder of his extreme
finitude and wondered if he could land _Dierdre_ without shifting the
computer. It was by far the largest, heaviest and most delicate piece of
equipment ever transported in space.
He worried about that machine. Its value ran into the billions of
dollars, for Mars Colony had ordered the best possible, a machine whose
utility would offset the immense transportation charge across space. As
a result, the Fahrensen Computer was perhaps the most complex and
advanced machine ever built by Man.
"Ten seconds to Point Baker," Rajcik announced.
"Very well." Somers readied himself at the control board.
"Four--three--two--one--fire!"
* * * * *
Somers activated the engines. Acceleration pressed the three men back
into their couches, and more acceleration, and--shockingly--still more
acceleration.
"The fuel!" Watkins yelped, watching his indicators spinning.
"The course!" Rajcik gasped, fighting for breath.
Captain Somers cut the engine switch. The engines continued firing,
pressing the men deeper into their couches. The cabin lights flickered,
went out, came on again.
And still the acceleration mounted and _Dierdre's_ engines howled in
agony, thrusting the ship forward. Somers raised one leaden hand and
inched it toward the emergency cut-off switch. With a fantastic
expenditure of energy, he reached the switch, depressed it.
The engines stopped with dramatic suddenness, while tortured metal
creaked and groaned. The lights flickered rapidly, as though _Dierdre_
were blinking in pain. They steadied and then there was silence.
Watkins hurried to the engine room. He returned morosely.
"Of all the damn things," he muttered.
"What was it?" Captain Somers asked.
"Main firing circuit. It fused on us." He shook his head. "Metal
fatigue, I'd say. It must have been flawed for years."
"When was it last checked out?"
"Well, it's a sealed unit. Supposed to outlast the ship. Absolutely
foolproof, unless--"
"Unless it's flawed."
"Don't blame it on me! Those circuits are supposed to be X-rayed,
heat-treated, fluoroscoped--you just can't trust machinery!"
At last Watkins believed that engineering axiom.
"How are we on fuel?" Captain Somers asked.
"Not enough left to push a kiddy car down Main Street," Watkins said
gloomily. "If I could get my hands on that factory inspector ..."
Captain Somers turned to Rajcik, who was seated at the navigator's desk,
hunched over his charts. "How does this affect our course?"
Rajcik finished the computation he was working on and gnawed
thoughtfully at his pencil.
"It kills us. We're going to cross the orbit of Mars before Mars gets
there."
"How long before?"
"Too long. Captain, we're flying out of the Solar System like the
proverbial bat out of hell."
* * * * *
Rajcik smiled, a courageous, devil-may-care smile which Watkins found
singularly inappropriate.
"Damn it, man," he roared, "don't just leave it there. We've got a
little fuel left. We can turn her, can't we? You _are_ a navigator,
aren't you?"
"I am," Rajcik said icily. "And if I computed my courses the way you
maintain your engines, we'd be plowing through Australia now."
"Why, you little company toady! At least I got my job legitimately, not
by marrying--"
"That's enough!" Captain Somers cut in.
Watkins, his face a mottled red, his mustache bristling, looked like a
walrus about to charge. And Rajcik, eyes glittering, was waiting
hopefully.
"No more of this," Somers said. "I give the orders here."
"Then give some!" Watkins snapped. "Tell him to plot a return curve.
This is life or death!"
"All the more reason for remaining cool. Mr. Rajcik, can you plot such a
course?"
"First thing I tried," Rajcik said. "Not a chance, on the fuel we have
left. We can turn a degree or two, but it won't help."
Watkins said, "Of course it will! We'll curve back into the Solar
System!"
"Sure, but the best curve we can make will take a few thousand years for
us to complete."
"Perhaps a landfall on some other planet--Neptune, Uranus--"
Rajcik shook his head. "Even if an outer planet were in the right place
at the right time, we'd need fuel--a lot of fuel--to get into a braking
orbit. And if we could, who'd come get us? No ship has gone past Mars
yet."
"At least we'd have a chance," Watkins said.
"Maybe," Rajcik agreed indifferently. "But we can't swing it. I'm afraid
you'll have to kiss the Solar System good-by."
Captain Somers wiped his forehead and tried to think of a plan. He
found it difficult to concentrate. There was too great a discrepancy
between his knowledge of the situation and its appearance. He
knew--intellectually--that his ship was traveling out of the Solar
System at a tremendous rate of speed. But in appearance they were
stationary, hung in the abyss, three men trapped in a small, hot room,
breathing the smell of hot metal and perspiration.
"What shall we do, Captain?" Watkins asked.
* * * * *
Somers frowned at the engineer. Did the man expect him to pull a
solution out of the air? How was he even supposed to concentrate on the
problem? He had to slow the ship, turn it. But his senses told him that
the ship was not moving. How, then, could speed constitute a problem?
He couldn't help but feel that the real problem was to get away from
these high-strung, squabbling men, to escape from this hot, smelly
little room.
"Captain! You must have some idea!"
Somers tried to shake his feeling of unreality. The problem, the real
problem, he told himself, was how to stop the ship.
He looked around the fixed cabin and out the porthole at the unmoving
stars. _We are moving very rapidly_, he thought, unconvinced.