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  Copyright 1953 by ARTHUR C. CLARKE

  Prelude to Space is based upon published material originally copyrighted in 1951 by Galaxy Publishing

  Corporation.

  The quotation on page 44 is reprinted from The Ballad of the White Horse, by G. K. Chesterton, Copyright 1911 by Dodd, Mead & Company.

  All rights reserved. Editors and reviewers may use short passages from the book without written permission.

  SIDGWICK AND JACKSON

  LONDON

  Prelude to Space

  Arthur C. Clarke

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  EPILOGUE

  About Arthur C. Clarke

  To

  Val and Wernher

  Who are doing the things I merely write about.

  PART ONE

  For five miles, straight as an arrow, the gleaming metal track lay along the face of the desert. It pointed to the northwest across the dead heart of the continent and to the ocean beyond. Over this land, once the home of the aborigines, many strange shapes had risen, roaring, in the last generation. The greatest and strangest of them all lay at the head of the launching track along which it was to hurtle into the sky.

  A little town had grown out of the desert in this valley between the low hills. It was a town built for one purpose—a purpose which was embodied in the fuel-storage tanks and the power station at the end of the five-mile-long track. Here had gathered scientists and engineers from all the countries of the world. And here the “Prometheus,” first of all spaceships, had been assembled in the past three years.

  The Prometheus of legend had brought fire from heaven down to earth. The Prometheus of the twentieth century was to take atomic fire back into the home of the Gods, and to prove that Man, by his own exertions, had broken free at last from the chains that had held him to his world for a million years.

  No one seemed to know who had given the spaceship its name. It was, in actuality, not a single ship at all but really consisted of two separate machines. With notable lack of enterprise, the designers had christened the two components “Alpha” and “Beta.” Only the upper component, “Alpha,” was a pure rocket. “Beta,” to give it its full name, was a “hypersonic athodyd.” Most people usually called it an atomic ramjet, which was both simpler and more expressive.

  It was a long way from the flying bombs of the Second World War to the two-hundred-ton “Beta,” skimming the top of the atmosphere at thousands of miles an hour. Yet both operated on the same principle—the use of forward speed to provide compression for the jet. The main difference lay in the fuel. I had burned gasoline; “Beta” burned plutonium, and her range was virtually unlimited. As long as her air-scoops could collect and compress the tenuous gas of the upper atmosphere, the white-hot furnace of the atomic pile would blast it out of the jets. Only when at last the air was too thin for power or support need she inject into the pile the methane from her fuel tanks and thus become a pure rocket.

  “Beta” could leave the atmosphere, but she could never escape completely from Earth. Her task was two-fold. First, she had to carry up fuel tanks into the orbit round the Earth, and set them circling like tiny moons until they were needed. Not until this had been done would she lift “Alpha” into space. The smaller ship would then fuel up in free orbit from the waiting tanks, fire its motors to break away from Earth, and make the journey to the Moon.

  Circling patiently “Beta” would wait until the spaceship returned. At the end of its half-million-mile journey “Alpha” would have barely enough fuel to maneuver into a parallel orbit. The crew and their equipment would then be transferred to the waiting “Beta,” which would still carry sufficient fuel to bring them safely back to Earth.

  It was an elaborate plan, but even with atomic energy it was still the only practicable way of making the lunar round-trip with a rocket weighing not less than many thousands of tons. Moreover, it had many other advantages. “Alpha” and “Beta” could each be designed to carry out their separate tasks with an efficiency which no single, all-purpose ship could hope to achieve. It was impossible to combine in one machine the ability to fly through Earth’s atmosphere and to land on the airless Moon.

  When the time came to make the next voyage, “Alpha” would still be circling the Earth, to be refuelled in space and used again. No later journey would ever be quite as difficult as the first. In time there would be more efficient motors, and later still, when the lunar colony had been founded, there would be refuelling stations on the Moon. After that it would be easy and space flight would become a commercial proposition—though this would not happen for half a century or more.

  Meanwhile the “Prometheusalias”, “Alpha” and “Beta,” still lay glistening beneath the Australian sun while the technicians worked over her. The last fittings were being installed and tested: the moment of her destiny was drawing nearer. In a few weeks, if all went well, she would carry the hopes and fears of humanity into the lonely deeps beyond the sky.

  1

  Dirk Alexson threw down his book and climbed up the short flight of stairs to the observation deck. It was still much too soon to see land, but the journey’s approaching end had made him restless and unable to concentrate. He walked over to the narrow, curving windows set in the leading-edge of the great wing and stared down at the featureless ocean below.

  There was absolutely nothing to be seen: from this height the Atlantic’s mightiest storms would have been invisible. He gazed for a while at the blank grayness beneath and then moved across to the passengers’ radar display.

  The spinning line of light on the screen had begun to paint the first dim echoes at the limits of its range. Land lay ahead, ten miles below and two hundred miles away—the land that Dirk had never seen though it was sometimes more real to him than the country of his birth. From those hidden shores, over the last four centuries, his ancestors had set out for the New World in search of freedom or fortune. Now he was returning, crossing in less than three hours the wastes over which they had labored for as many weary weeks. And he was coming on a mission of which they, in their wildest imaginings, could never have dreamed.

  The luminous image of Land’s End had moved half-way across the radar screen before Dirk first glimpsed the advancing coastline, a dark stain almost lost in the horizon mists. Though he had sensed no change of direction, he knew that the liner must now be falling down the long slope that led to London Airport, four hundred miles away. In a few minutes he would hear again, faint but infinitely reassuring, the rumbling whisper of the great jets as the air thickened around him and brought their music once more to his ears.

  Cornwall was a gray blur, sinking astern too swiftly for any details to be seen. For all that one could tell, King Mark might still be waiting above the cruel rocks for the ship that brought Iseult, while on the hills Merlin might yet be talking with the winds and thinking of his doom. From this height the land would have looked the same when the masons laid the last stone on Tintagel’s walls.

  Now the liner was dropping towards a cloudscape so white and dazzling that it hurt the eyes. At first it seemed broken only by a few slight undulations but, presently, as it rose towards him, Dirk realized that the mountains of cloud below were built on a Himalayan scale. A moment later, the peaks were above him and the machine was driving through a great pass flanked on either side by overhanging walls of snow. He flinched involuntarily as the white cliffs came racing towards him, then relaxed as the driving mist was all
around and he could see no more.

  The cloud layer must have been very thick, for he caught only the briefest glimpse of London and was taken almost unawares by the gentle shock of landing. Then the sounds of the outer world came rushing in upon his mind—the metallic voices of loud-speakers, the clanging of hatches, and above all these, the dying fall of the great turbines as they idled to rest.

  The wet concrete, the waiting trucks, and the gray clouds lowering overhead dispelled the last impressions of romance or adventure. It was drizzling slightly, and as the ridiculously tiny tractor hauled the great ship away, her glistening sides made her seem a creature of the deep sea rather than of the open sky. Above the jet housings, little flurries of steam were rising as the water drained down the wing.

  Much to his relief, Dirk was met at the Customs barrier. As his name was checked off the passenger list, a stout, middle-aged man came forward with outstretched hand.

  “Dr. Alexson? Pleased to meet you. My name’s Matthews. I’m taking you to Headquarters at Southbank and generally looking after you while you’re in London.”

  “Glad to hear it,” smiled Dirk. “I suppose I can thank McAndrews for this?”

  “That’s right. I’m his assistant in Public Relations. Here—let me have that bag. We’re going by the express tube; it’s the quickest way—and the best, since you get into the city without having to endure the suburbs. There’s one snag, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Matthews sighed. “You’d be surprised at the number of visitors who cross the Atlantic safely, then disappear into the Underground and are never seen again.”

  Matthews never even smiled as he imparted this unlikely news. As Dirk was to discover, his impish sense of humor seemed to go with a complete incapacity for laughter. It was a most disconcerting combination.

  “There’s one thing I’m not at all clear about,” began Matthews as the long red train began to draw out of the airport station. “We get a lot of American scientists over to see us, but I understand that science isn’t your line.”

  “No, I’m an historian.”

  Matthews’s eyebrows asked an almost audible question.

  “I suppose it must be rather puzzling,” continued Dirk, “but it’s quite logical. In the past, when history was made, there was seldom anyone around to record it properly. Nowadays, of course, we have newspapers and films—but it’s surprising what important features get overlooked simply because everyone takes them for granted at the time. Well, the project you people are working on is one of the biggest in history, and if it comes off it will change the future as perhaps no other single event has ever done. So my University decided that there should be a professional historian around to fill in the gaps that might be overlooked.”

  Matthews nodded.

  “Yes, that’s reasonable enough. It will make a pleasant change for us non-scientific people, too.

  We’re rather tired of conversations in which three words out of four are mathematical symbols. Still, I suppose you have a fairly good technical background?”

  Dirk looked slightly uncomfortable.

  “To tell the truth,” he confessed, “it’s almost fifteen years since I did any science—and I never took it very seriously then. I’ll have to learn what I need as I go along.”

  “Don’t worry; we have a high-pressure course for tired businessmen and perplexed politicians which will give you everything you need. And you’ll be surprised to find how much you pick up, simply by listening to the Boffins holding forth.”

  “Boffins?”

  “Good lord, don’t you know that word? It goes back to the War, and means any long-haired scientific type with a slide-rule in his vest-pocket. I’d better warn you right away that we’ve quite a private vocabulary here which you’ll have to learn. There are so many new ideas and conceptions in our work that we’ve had to invent new words. You should have brought along a philologist as well!”

  Dirk was silent. There were moments when the sheer immensity of his task almost overwhelmed him. Some time in the next six months the work of thousands of men over half a century would reach its culmination. It would be his duty, and his privilege, to be present while history was being made out there in the Australian desert on the other side of the world. He must look upon these events through the eyes of the future, and must record them so that in centuries to come other men could recapture the spirit of this age and time.

  They emerged at New Waterloo station, and walked the-few hundred yards to the Thames.

  Matthews had been right in saying that this was the best way to meet London for the first time. The spacious sweep of the fine new Embankment, still only twenty years old, carried Dirk’s gaze down the river until it was caught and held by the dome of St. Paul’s, glistening wetly in an unexpected shaft of sunlight. He followed the river upstream, past the great white buildings before Charing Cross, but the Houses of Parliament were invisible around the curve of the Thames.

  “Quite a view, isn’t it?” said Matthews presently. “We’re rather proud of it now, but thirty years ago this part was a horrid mass of wharves and mudbanks. By the way—you see that ship over there?”

  “You mean the one tied up against the other bank?”

  “Yes, do you know what it is?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “She’s the Discovery, which took Captain Scott into the Antarctic back at the beginning of this century. I often look at her as I come to work and wonder what he’d have thought of the little trip we are planning.”

  Dirk stared intently at the graceful wooden hull, the slim masts and the battered smokestack. His mind slipped into the past in the easy way it had, and it seemed that the Embankment was gone and that the old ship was steaming past walls of ice into an unknown land. He could understand Matthews’s feelings, and the sense of historical continuity was suddenly very strong. The line that stretched through Scott back to Drake and Raleigh and yet earlier voyagers was still unbroken: only the scale of things had changed.

  “Here we are,” said Matthews in a tone of proud apology. “It’s not as impressive as it might be, but we didn’t have a lot of money when we built it. Not that we have now, for that matter.”

  The white, three-story building that faced the river was unpretentious and had obviously been constructed only a few years before. It was surrounded by large, open lawns scantily covered by dispirited grass. Dirk guessed that they had already been earmarked for future building operations. The grass seemed to have realized this too.

  Nevertheless, as administrative buildings went, Headquarters was not unattractive, and the view over the river was certainly very fine. Along the second story ran a line of letters, as clean-cut and severely practical as the rest of the building. They formed a single word, but at the sight of it Dirk felt a curious tingling in his veins. It seemed out of place, somehow, here in the heart of a great city where millions were concerned with the affairs of everyday life. It was as out of place as the Discovery, lying against the far bank at the end of her long journeying—and it spoke of a longer voyage than she or any ship had ever) made:

  INTERPLANETARY

  2

  The office was small, and he would have to share it with a couple of junior draftsmen—but it overlooked the Thames and when he was tired of his reports and files Dirk could always rest his eyes on that great dome floating above Ludgate Hill. From time to time Matthews or his chief would drop in for a talk, but usually they left him alone, knowing that that was his desire. He was anxious to be left in peace until he had burrowed through the hundreds of reports and books which Matthews had obtained for him.

  It was a far cry from Renaissance Italy to twentieth-century London, but the techniques he had acquired when writing his thesis on Lorenzo the Magnificent served Dirk in good stead now. He could tell, almost at a glance, what was unimportant and what must be studied carefully. In a few days the outlines of the story were complete and he could begin to fill in the details.

&
nbsp; The dream was older than he had imagined. Two thousand years ago the Greeks had guessed that the Moon was a world not unlike the Earth, and in the second century A.D. the satirist Lucian had written the first of all inter-planetary romances. It had taken more than seventeen centuries to bridge the gulf between fiction and reality—and almost all the progress had been made in the last fifty years.

  The modern era had begun in 1923, when an obscure Transylvanian professor named Hermann Oberth had published a pamphlet entitled The Rocket Into Interplanetary Space. In this he developed for the first time the mathematics of space flight. Leafing through the pages of one of the few copies still in existence, Dirk found it hard to believe that so enormous a superstructure had arisen from so small a beginning. Oberth—now an old man of 84—had started the chain reaction which was to lead in his own lifetime to the crossing of space.

  In the decade before the Second World War, Oberth’s German disciples had perfected the liquid-fuelled rocket. At first they too had dreamed of the conquest of space, but that dream had been forgotten with the coming of Hitler. The city over which Dirk so often gazed still bore the scars from the time, thirty years ago, when the great rockets had come falling down from the stratosphere in a tumult of sundered air.

  Less than a year later had come that dreary dawn in the New Mexico desert, when it seemed that the River of Time had halted for a moment, then plunged in foam and spray into a new channel towards a changed and unknown future. With Hiroshima had come the end of a war and the end of an age: the power and the machine had come together at last and the road to space lay clear ahead.

  It had been a steep road, and it had taken thirty years to climb—thirty years of triumphs and heartbreaking disappointments. As he grew to know the men around him, as he listened to their stories and their conversations, Dirk slowly filled in the personal details which the reports and summaries could never provide.