Chapter 1

The IPV Arcturus Sets Out for Mars

A narrow football of steel, the Interplanetary Vessel Arcturus stood upright in her berth in the dock like an egg in its cup. A hundred feet across and a hundred and seventy feet deep was that gigantic bowl, its walls supported by the structural steel and concrete of the dock and lined with hard-packed bumper-layers of hemp and fibre. High into the air extended the upper half of the ship of space--a sullen gray expanse of fifty-inch hardened steel armor, curving smoothly upward to a needle prow. Countless hundred of fine vertical scratches marred every inch of her surface, and here and there the stubborn metal was grooved and scored to a depth of inches--each scratch and score the record of an attempt of some wandering cosmic body to argue the right-of-way with the stupendous mass of that man-made cruiser of the void.

A burly young man made his way through the throng about the entrance, nodded unconcernedly to the gatekeeper, and joined the stream of passengers flowing through the triple doors of the double air-lock and down a corridor to the center of the vessel. However, instead of entering one of the elevators which were whisking the passengers up to their staterooms in the upper half of the enormous football, he in some way caused an opening to appear in an apparently blank steel wall and stepped through it into the control room.

“Hi, Breck!” the burly one called, as he strode up to the instrument-desk of the chief pilot and tossed his bag carelessly into a corner. “Behold your computer in the flesh! What’s all this howl and fuss about poor computation?”

“Hello, Steve!” The chief pilot smiled as he shook hands cordially. “Glad to see you again--but don’t try to kid the old man. I’m simple enough to believe almost anything, but some things just aren’t being done. We have been yelling, and yelling hard, for trained computers ever since they started riding us about every one centimeter change in acceleration, but I know that you’re no more an I-P computer than I am a Digger Indian. They don’t shoot sparrows with coast-defense guns!”

“Thanks for the compliment, Breck, but I’m your computer for this trip, anyway. Newton, the good old egg, knows what you fellows are up against and is going to do something about it, if he has to lick all the rest of the directors to do it. He knew that I was loose for a couple of weeks and asked me to come along this trip to see what I could see. I’m to check the observatory data--they don’t know I’m aboard--take the peaks and valleys off your acceleration curve, if possible, and report to Newton just what I find out and what I think should be done about it. How early am I?” While the newcomer was talking, he had stripped the covers from a precise scale model of the solar system and from a large and complicated calculating machine and had set to work without a wasted motion or instant--scaling off upon the model the positions of the various check-stations and setting up long and involved integrals and equations upon the calculator.

The older man studied the broad back of the younger, bent over his computations, and a tender, almost fatherly smile came over his careworn face as he replied:

“Early? You? Just like you always were--plus fifteen seconds on the deadline. The final dope is due right now.” He plugged the automatic recorder and speaker into a circuit marked “Observatory,” waited until a tiny light above the plug flashed green, and spoke.

“IPV Arcturus; Breckenridge, Chief Pilot; trip number forty-three twenty-nine. Ready for final supplementary route and flight data, Tellus to Mars.”

“Meteoric swarms still too numerous for safe travel along the scheduled route,” came promptly from the speaker. “You must stay further away from the plane of the ecliptic. The ether will be clear for you along route E2-P6-W41-K3-R19-S7-M14. You will hold a constant acceleration of 981.27 centimeters between initial and final check stations. Your take-off will be practically unobstructed, but you will have to use the utmost caution in landing upon Mars, because in order to avoid a weightless detour and a loss of thirty-one minutes, you must pass very close to both the Martian satellites. To do so safely you must pass the last meteorological station, M14, on schedule time plus or minus five seconds, at scheduled velocity plus or minus ten meters, with exactly the given negative acceleration of 981.27 centimeters, and exactly upon the pilot ray M14 will have set for you.”

“All x.” Breckenridge studied his triplex chronometer intently, then unplugged and glanced around the control room, in various parts of which half a dozen assistants were loafing at their stations.

“Control and power check-out--Hipe!” he barked. “Driving converters and projectors!”

The first assistant scanned his meters narrowly as he swung a multi-point switch in a flashing arc. “Converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100; on each of numbers one to forty-five inclusive. All x.”

“Dirigible projectors!”

Two more gleaming switches leaped from point to point. “Converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100, dirigibility 100, on each of numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive, of upper band; and numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive, of lower band. All x.”

“Gyroscopes!”

“35,000. Drivers in equilibrium at ten degrees plus. All x.”

“Upper lights and lookout plates!”

The second assistant was galvanized into activity, and upon a screen before him there appeared a view as though he were looking directly upward from the prow of the great vessel. The air above them was full of aircraft of all shapes and sizes, and occasionally the image of one of that flying horde flared into violet splendor upon the screen as it was caught in the mighty, roving beam of one of the twelve ultra-light projectors under test.

“Upper lights and lookout plates--all x,” the second assistant reported, and other assistants came to attention as the check-out went on.

“Lower lights and lookout plates!”

“All x,” was the report, after each of the twelve ultra-lights of the stern had swung around in its supporting brackets, illuminating every recess of the dark depths of the bottom well of the berth and throwing the picture upon another screen in lurid violet relief.

“Lateral and vertical detectors!”

“Laterals XP2710--all x. Verticals AJ4290--all x.”

“Receptors!”

“15,270 kilofranks--all x.”

“Accumulators!”

“700,000 kilofrank-hours--all x.”

Having thus checked and tested every function of his department, Breckenridge plugged into “Captain,” and when the green light went on:

“Chief pilot check-out--all x,” he reported briefly.

“All x,” acknowledged the speaker, and the chief pilot unplugged. Fifteen minutes remained, during which time one department head after another would report to the captain of the liner that everything in his charge was ready for the stupendous flight.

“All x, Steve?” Breckenridge turned to the computer. “How do you check acceleration and power with the observatory?”

“Not so good, old bean,” the younger man frowned in thought. “They figure like astronomers, not navigators. They’ve made no allowances for anything, not even the reversal--and I figure four thousands for that and for minor detours. Then there’s check station errors...”

“Check-station errors! Why, they’re always right--that’s what they’re for!”

“Don’t fool yourself--they’ve got troubles of their own, the same as anybody else. In fact, from a study of the charts of the last few weeks, I’m pretty sure that E2 is at least four thousand kilometers this side of where he thinks he is, that W41 is ten or twelve thousand beyond his station, and that they’ve both got a lateral displacement that’s simply fierce. I’m going to check up, and argue with them about it as we pass. Then there’s another thing--they figure to only two places, and we’ve got to have the third place almost solid if we expect to get a smooth curve. A hundredth of a centimeter of acceleration means a lot on a long trip when they’re holding us as close as they are doing now. We’ll ride this trip on 981.286 centimeters--with our scheduled mass, that means thirty six points of four seven kilofranks plus equilibrium power. All set to go,” the computer stated, as he changed, by fractions of arc, the course-plotters of the automatic integrating goniometer.

“You’re the doctor--but I’m glad it’s you that’ll have to explain to the observatory,” and Breckenridge set his exceedingly delicate excess power potentiometer exactly upon the indicated figure. “Well, we’ve got a few minutes left for a chin-chin before we lift her off.”

“What’s all this commotion about? Dish out the low-down.”

“Well, it’s like this, Steve. We pilots are having one sweet time--we’re being growled at on every trip. The management squawks if we’re thirty seconds plus or minus at the terminals, and the passenger department squalls if we change acceleration five centimeters total en route--claims it upsets the dainty customers and loses business for the road. They’re tightening up on us all the time. A couple of years ago, you remember, it didn’t make any difference what we did with the acceleration as long as we checked in somewhere near zero time--we used to spin ‘em dizzy when we reversed at the half-way station--but that kind of stuff doesn’t go any more. We’ve got to hold the acceleration constant and close to normal, got to hold our schedule on zero, plus or minus ten seconds, and yet we’ve got to make any detours they tell us to, such as this seven-million kilometer thing they handed us just now. To make things worse, we’ve got to take orders at every check-station, and yet we get the blame for everything that happens as a consequence of obeying those orders! Of course, I know as well as you do that it’s rotten technique to change acceleration at every check-station; but we’ve told ‘em over and over that we can’t do any better until they put a real computer on every ship and tell the check-stations to report meteorites and other obstructions to us and then to let us alone. So you’d better recommend us some computers!”

“You’re getting rotten computation, that’s a sure thing, and I don’t blame you pilots for yelling, but I don’t believe that you’ve got the right answer. I can’t help but think that the astronomers are lying down on the job. They are so sure that you pilots are to blame that it hasn’t occurred to them to check up on themselves very carefully. However, we’ll know pretty quick, and then we’ll take steps.”

“I hope so--but say, Steve, I’m worried about using that much plus equilibrium power. Remember, we’ve got to hit M14 in absolutely good shape, or plenty heads will drop.”

“I’ll say they will. I know just how the passengers will howl if we hold them weightless for half an hour, waiting for those two moons to get out of the way, and I know just what the manager will do if we check in minus thirty-one minutes. Wow! He’ll swell up and bust, sure. But don’t worry, Breck--if we don’t check in all right, anybody can have my head that wants it, and I’m taking full responsibility, you know.”

“You’re welcome to it.” Breckenridge shrugged and turned the conversation into a lighter vein. “Speaking of weightlessness, it’s funny how many weight-fiends there are in the world, isn’t it? You’d think the passengers would enjoy a little weightlessness occasionally--especially the fat ones--but they don’t. But say, while I think of it, how come you were here and loose to make this check-up? I thought you were out with the other two of the Big Three, solving all the mysteries of the Universe?”

“Had to stay in this last trip--been doing some work on the ether, force-field theory, and other advanced stuff that I had to go to Mars and Venus to get. Just got back last week. As for solving mysteries, laugh while you can, old hyena. You and a lot of other dim bulbs think that Roeser’s Rays are the last word--that there’s nothing left to discover--are going to get jarred loose from your hinges one of these days. When I came in nine months ago they were hot on the trail of something big, and I’ll bet they bring it in...”

Out upon the dock an insistent siren blared a crescendo and diminuendo blast of sound, and two minutes remained. In every stateroom and in every lounge and saloon speakers sounded a warning:

“For a short time, while we are pulling clear of the gravitational field of the Earth, walking will be somewhat difficult, as everything on board will apparently increase in weight by about one-fifth of its present amount. Please remain seated, or move about with caution. In about an hour weight will gradually return to normal. We start in one minute.”

“Hipe!” barked the chief pilot as a flaring purple light sprang into being upon his board, and the assistants came to attention at their stations. “Seconds! Four! Three! Two! One! LIFT!” He touched a button and a set of plunger switches drove home, releasing into the forty-five enormous driving projectors the equilibrium power--the fifteen-thousand-and-odd kilofranks of energy that exactly counterbalanced the pull of gravity upon the mass of the cruiser. Simultaneously there was added from the potentiometer, already set to the exact figure given by the computer, the plus-equilibrium power--which would not be changed throughout the journey if the ideal acceleration curve were to be registered upon the recorders--and the immense mass of the cruiser of the void wafted vertically upward at a low and constant velocity. The bellowing, shrieking siren had cleared the air magically of the swarm of aircraft in her path, and quietly, calmly, majestically, the Arcturus floated upward.

Breckenridge, sixty seconds after the initial lift, actuated the system of magnetic relays which would gradually cut in the precisely measured “starting power,” which it would be necessary to employ for sixty-nine minutes--for, without the acceleration given by this additional power, they would lose many precious hours of time in covering merely the few thousands of miles during which Earth’s attraction would operate powerfully against their progress.

Faster and faster the great cruiser shot upward as more and more of the starting power was released, and heavier and heavier the passengers felt themselves become. Soon the full calculated power was on and the acceleration became constant. Weight no longer increased, but remained constant at a value of plus twenty three and six-tenths percent. For a few moments there had been uneasy stomachs among the passengers--perhaps a few of the first-trippers had been made ill--but it was not much worse than riding in a high-speed elevator, particularly since there was no change from positive to negative acceleration such as is experienced in express elevators.

The computer, his calculations complete, watched the pilot with interest, for, accustomed as he was to traversing the depths of space, there was a never-failing thrill to his scientific mind in the delicacy and precision of the work which Breckenridge was doing--work which could be done only by a man who had had long training in the profession and who was possessed of instantaneous nervous reaction and of the highest degree of manual dexterity and control. Under his right and left hands were the double-series potentiometers actuating the variable-speed drives of the flight-angle directors in the hour and declination ranges; before his eyes was the finely marked micrometer screen upon which the guiding goniometer threw its needle-point of light; powerful optical systems of prisms and lenses revealed to his sight the director-angles, down to fractional seconds of arc. It was the task of the chief pilot to hold the screened image of the cross-hairs of the two directors in such position relative to the ever-moving point of light as to hold the mighty vessel precisely upon its course, in spite of the complex system of forces acting upon it.