Chapter 3: Up From Earth

Chet had plenty of time in which to acquaint Pilot O’Malley with the facts. And, when he had told his story, it did his sick and worried mind good to hear the explosive stream of expletives that came from the other’s lips. Yet, despite the Irishman’s anger, it was noticeable that he closed the tight door of the control room before he said a word.

“Only a skeleton crew,” he explained. “Just the relief pilot and the engineers and a man or two in the galley, and I trust ‘em all. But you can’t be too careful.

“The Commander,” he concluded, “is gettin’ to be more an emperor than a Commander, and somethin’s got to be done. Discipline we must have, ‘tis true; but this kotowin’ to His Royal Highness and all o’ that--devil a bit do I like it! If only you could show him up, Mr. Bullard--but of course you can’t.”

“I’m not so sure,” Chet responded. “What I told the big boss wasn’t all bluff. Haldgren did go out, five years ago this month. We have the record of a Crescent liner’s captain who saw Haldgren’s little ship shoot through the R.A. and go on out as if it were going somewhere. And now we have these flashes!

“Do you see what that means, Spud? An SOS! Nobody but an Earth-man would send that, and we wouldn’t do it now. We would just press the lever of our emergency-call, and every receiver within a thousand miles would pick up the scream of it.

“But we’ve had this Dunston Emergency Transmitter less than four years. Haldgren knew only the old S O S. And remember this: three dots, three dashes and three dots don’t just happen. They showed up on the Moon. They were repeated the next night. Somebody sent them! Who was it?”

And Pilot O’Malley gave the only obvious answer:

“There’s only yourself and Mr. Harkness and Pilot Haldgren that could have got there. ‘Twas Haldgren, of course! What a pity that you can’t go; ‘tis likely the poor bhoy needs help.”

“Five years!” mused Chet. “Five long years since he left! He must have landed safely--and then what? After five years comes a signal and that signal a call for help that no pilot worthy the name would disregard...

“Where are we bound?” he demanded abruptly.

“Rooshia,” said O’Malley. “I disremember the name--’tis on my orders--but I know it’s a long way up north.”

“Spud,” said Chet, “you’re a rotten pilot; you’re one of the worst I ever knew. Careless--that’s your worst fault--and if anybody doubts that they’ll believe it after this trip. For, Spud, if you’re any friend of mine, and I know you are, you’re going to lose your bearings, and kick this old sky-hog a long way beyond that factory she is bound for. And you’re going to set me down in a God-forsaken spot in the arctic where I’m pretty sure I’ll find a ship waiting for me.

“And, if you just stick around for a while after that, you will see me take off for the Moon. Then, if Haldgren is there--”

Chet failed to finish the sentence; he was staring through a rear lookout, where, over the arc of the Earth’s horizon, could be seen a thin crescent Moon; about it drifting clouds made a halo.

The eyes of Spud O’Malley followed Chet’s, and his imaginative faculties must have been stimulated by Chet’s words, for he gazed open-mouthed, as if for the first time he visioned that golden scimitar as something more substantial than a high-hung light. He drew one long incredulous breath before he answered.

“What position, sir? Say the word and I’ll lose myself so bad we’ll be over the Pole and half-way to the equator again!”

“Not that bad,” was Chet’s assurance. “Just spot this ship over 82:14 north, 93:20 east, and I’ll give you local bearings from there.”

Then to himself: “‘Cold storage, ‘ Walt said; he meant our old shop, of course. Probably had a hunch we would need it.”

But to the pilot he said only the one word: “Thanks!”--though the grip of his hand must have spoken more eloquently.

The eastbound lanes of the five thousand level saw them plod slowly along, while faster and better-groomed ships slipped smoothly past; then the red hull rose to Level Twelve and swung out upon the great circle course that would bear them more nearly in the direction of the destination Chet had given. There were free levels higher up in which they could have laid a direct course, but the Irish pilot did not need Chet to tell him that the old hull would never stand it. Her internal pressure could never have been maintained at any density such as human lungs demanded.

But they were on their way, and Chet’s customary genial expression gave place to one of more grim determination as he watched the white-flecked ocean drift slowly past below.

Once a patrol ship spoke to them. Daylight had come to show plainly the silver hull with the distinctive red markings of the Service that slipped smoothly down from above to hang poised under flashing fans like a giant humming-bird. Her directed radio beam flashed the yellow call signal in O’Malley’s control room.

Chet was beside him, and the two exchanged silent glances before O’Malley cut in his transmitter. He must give name and number--this signal was a demand that could not be disregarded--but on the old freighter was no automatic sender that would flash the information across to the other ship; the pilot’s voice must serve instead.

“Number three--seven--G--four--two!” he thundered into the radiophone. “Freighter of the Intercolonial Line, without cargo--”

“For the love of Pete,” shouted the loudspeaker beside him in volume to drown out the pilot’s words, “are you sending this by short wave, or are you just yelling across to me? Calm down, you Irish terrier!”

Then, before the pilot could reply, the voice from the silver and red patrol ship dropped into an exaggerated mimicry of the O’Malley brogue--

“And did yez say ‘twas a freighter you had there? Sure, I thot at th’ very last ‘twas a foine big liner from the Orient and Transpolar run, dropped down here from the hoigh livils! All right, Spud; on your way! But don’t crowd the bottom of the Twelve Level so close. This is O--sixteen--L; Jimmy Maddux. By--by! I’ll report you O.K.”

Again Chet looked at the pilot silently before he glanced back at the vanishing ship, already small in the distance. He repeated the Patrol Captain’s words:

“You will ‘report us O.K.’--yes, Jimmy, you’ll do that, and if they want to find us again you can tell them right where to look.”

“I’m pushin’ her all I can, Mr. Bullard,” said Spud. “‘Tis all she can do ... And now do ye go into my cabin--there’s two berths there--and we’ll just turn in and sleep while my relief man takes his turn. But go in before I call him; there’s not a soul on the ship besides ourselves knows that you’re here.”

And, in the cabin a short time later, Pilot O’Malley chuckled as he whispered: “I gave the lad his course. And Mac will follow it, but it’ll niver take him near to the part of Rooshia he expects it to. Still, the record’s clear as far as he’s concerned; I’ve got it in the log. Mac’s a good lad, and I wouldn’t have him get into trouble over this.”

In the freighter’s cabin the chronometer was again approaching the hour of twenty-two; for nearly twenty-four hours the ship had been on her plodding way. And, lacking the A.D.D.--the Automatic Destination Detector--and other refinements of instrumental installations of the passenger ships, Pilot O’Malley had to work out his position for himself.

And where a faster craft would have driven through with scarcely a quiver, the big ship trembled with the buffets and suction of a wintry blast that drove dry snow like sand across the lookout glasses. The twelve thousand level was an unbroken cloud of snow--a gray smother where the red ship’s blunt and rusty bow nosed through.

O’Malley clung to the chart table as the air gave way beneath them and the ship fell a hundred feet or more before her racing fans took hold and jerked her back to an even keel. He managed to check his figures, then moved to the door of his cabin, opened it and called softly.

Chet was beside him in an instant. It had seemed best that he remain in hiding, and he knew what the pilot’s call meant. “Made it, did you!” he exclaimed. “Now I’ll take a look about and pick up my bearing points.”

But one look at the ports and he shook his head.

“That’s dirty,” he told O’Malley, and his eyes twinkled as he felt the old ship rear and plunge with the lift of a driving gale; “and how the old girl does feel it! She can’t rip through, and she can’t go above. You’ve had some trip, Spud; it’s been mighty decent of you to go to all this--”

A flashing of yellow light on the instrument panel brought his thanks to a sudden halt. A voice, startling in its sudden loudness, filled the little room.

“Calling three--seven--G--four--two! Stand by for orders! Patrol O--sixteen--L sending; acknowledge, please!”

Chet’s eyes were staring into those of O’Malley. “That’s Jimmy Maddux back on our trail,” he said. “Now, what has got them suspicious?”

He glanced once at the collision instrument. “He’s right overhead at thirty thousand,” he added; “and there are more of them coming in from all sides. Now what the devil--”

Spud O’Malley had his hand on the voice switch. “Be quiet!” he commanded; then spoke into the transmitter--

“Three--seven--G--four--two acknowledging!” he said, and again Chet observed how all trace of accent had departed from his voice; it was an indication of the moment’s tenseness and of the pilot’s full understanding of their position.

The answering order was crisply spoken; this was a different Jimmy Maddux from the one who had chaffed the Irish pilot some hours before.

“Stand by! We’re coming down! Records at Hoover Terminal show two men reporting at pilots’ gate under the number of your engineer, CG41. Hold your ship exactly where you are; we’re sending a man aboard!”

Chet had moved silently to the controls. The old multiple-lever instrument--he knew it well! But he looked at Spud O’Malley and waited for his nod of assent before he presumed to trespass on another pilot’s domain. Then he shifted two little levers, and the ship fell away beneath them as it plunged toward the Earth.

And Pilot O’Malley was explaining to the Patrol Ship Captain as best he could for the rolling plunge of the careening ship:

“I can’t hold her, sir. And you’d best be keepin’ away. It’s stormin’ fearful down here, and I can’t rise above it! Keep clear!--I’m warnin’ you!” The hum of their helicopters rose to a shrill whine as Chet drove the ship out and down through the smothering clouds. “You must hear her fans on your instruments; you can see how we’re pitchin’!”

He switched off the transmitter for a moment and faced Chet. “They’ve been checkin’ close,” he stated. “That was my engineer’s number I gave you as we came through the gate. And, of course, he had given it before when he reported in. Now we’re up against it.”