Prelude to Space Page 6

  He arrived ten minutes before the official time, and found Matthews pacing up and down the foyer, flanked by a couple of muscular waiters. He indicated them without a smile.

  “My strong-arm men,” he said. “Look carefully, and you can see the bulges in their hip-pockets. We expect lots of gate-crashers, particularly from the section of Fleet Street we haven’t invited. I’m afraid you’ll have to look after yourself tonight, but the chaps with ‘Steward’ on their lapels will tell you who’s who if there’s anyone you want to meet.”

  “That’s all right,” said Dirk, checking his hat and coat. “I hope you get time to have a snack now and then while you’re holding the fort.”

  “My emergency reserves are well organized. You’ll get your drinks, by the way, from the chaps labeled ‘Fuel Technician.’ We’ve called all the drinks after some rocket fuel or other, so no one will know what they’ve got until they drink it—if then. But I’ll give you a tip.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lay off the hydrazine hydrate!”

  “Thanks for the warning,” laughed Dirk. He was somewhat relieved to find, a few minutes later, that Matthews had been pulling his leg and that no such disguises had been employed.

  The place filled rapidly in the next half-hour. Dirk did not know more than one person in twenty, and felt a little out in the cold. Consequently he kept somewhat nearer the bar than was altogether good for him. From time to time he nodded to acquaintances, but most of them were too fully engaged elsewhere to join him. He was rather glad when another equally unattached guest settled down beside him in search of company.

  They got into conversation in a somewhat desultory manner, and after a while the talk came around, inevitably, to the approaching adventure.

  “By the way,” said the stranger, “I’ve not seen you around Interplanetary before. Have you been here long?”

  “Only three weeks or so,” said Dirk. “I’m on a special job for the University of Chicago.”

  “Indeed?”

  Dirk felt talkative, and the other seemed to show a flattering interest in his affairs.

  “I’ve got to write the official history of the first voyage and the events leading up to it. This trip is going to be one of the most important things that’s ever happened, and it’s necessary to have a complete record for the future.”

  “But surely there’ll be thousands of technical reports and newspaper accounts?”

  “Quite true: but you forget that they’ll be written for contemporaries and will assume a background which may only be familiar to present-day readers. I have to try and stand outside of Time, as it were, and produce a record which can be read with full understanding ten thousand years from today.”

  “Phew! Some job!”

  “Yes: it’s only become possible recently through the new developments in the study of language and meaning, and the perfection of symbolic vocabularies. But I’m afraid I’m boring you.”

  To his annoyance, the other didn’t contradict him.

  “I suppose,” said the stranger casually, “you’ve got to know the people round here pretty well. I mean, you’re in rather a privileged position.”

  “That’s true: they’ve looked after me excellently and helped me all they could.”

  “There goes young Hassell,” said his companion. “He looks a bit worried, but so would I in his shoes. Have you got to know the crew at all well?”

  “Not yet, though I hope to do so. I’ve spoken to Hassell and Leduc a couple of times, but that’s all.”

  “Who do you think’s going to be chosen for the trip?”

  Dirk was about to give his not-very-well-informed views on this subject when he saw Matthews frantically signaling to him from the other side of the room. For a moment alarming possibilities of sartorial disaster raced through his mind. Then a slow suspicion dawned, and with a mumbled excuse he disengaged himself from his companion.

  A few moments later, Matthews confirmed his fears.

  “Mike Wilkins is one of the best—we used to work together on the News. But for goodness’ sake be careful what you say to him. If you’d murdered your wife he’d get it out of you by asking leading questions about the weather.”

  “Still, I don’t think there’s much I could tell him that he doesn’t know already.”

  “Don’t you believe it. Before you know where you are, you’ll be featured in the paper as ‘an important official of Interplanetary’ and I’ll be sending out the usual ineffective disclaimers.”

  “I see. How many other reporters have we got among our guests?”

  “About twelve were invited,” said Matthews darkly. “I should just avoid all heart-to-heart talks with people you don’t know. Excuse me now—I must go back on guard duty.”

  As far as he was concerned, thought Dirk, the party was hardly going with a swing. The Public Relations Department seemed to have an obsession about security, which Dirk considered they had pushed to extremes. However, he could understand Matthew’s horror of unofficial interviews—he had seen some of their gruesome results.

  For quite a time after this Dirk’s attention was fully occupied by an astonishingly pretty girl who appeared to have arrived without an escort—a fact somewhat surprising in itself. He had just, after much vacillation, decided to step into the breach when it became all too obvious that the escort had merely been engaged on convoy duties elsewhere. Dirk hadn’t missed his opportunity: he had never had one. He turned once more to philosophical musings.

  His spirits, however, revived considerably during dinner. The meal itself was excellent and even the Director-General’s speech (which set a limit for all the others) only lasted ten minutes. It was, as far as Dirk could remember, an extremely witty address full of private jokes which produced roars of laughter in some quarters and sickly smiles in others. Interplanetary had always been fond of laughing at itself in private, but only recently could it afford the luxury of doing so in public.

  The remaining few orations were even shorter: several speakers would clearly have liked more time, but dared not take it. Finally McAndrews, who had acted throughout as a very efficient Master of Ceremonies, called a toast for the success of the “Prometheus” and her crew.

  Afterwards there was much dancing to the gentle, nostalgic rhythms so popular in the late ‘70s. Dirk, who was a very bad dancer at the best of times, made several erratic circuits with Mrs. Matthews and the wives of other officials before an increasing lack of muscular co-ordination warned him off the field.

  He then sat watching the proceedings through a benevolent glow, thinking what nice people all his friends were and tut-tutting slightly when he noticed dancers who had obviously taken aboard just a little too much “fuel.”

  It must have been around midnight when he suddenly became aware that someone was speaking to him. (He hadn’t been asleep, of course, but it was refreshing to close one’s eyes now and then.) He turned sluggishly and found a tall, middle-aged man watching him with some amusement from the next chair. To Dirk’s surprise, he was not in evening dress and did not seem to be worried by the fact.

  “I saw your fraternity badge,” said the other by way of introduction. “I’m Sigma Xi myself. Only got back from California this evening—too late for the dinner.”

  So that explained the dress, thought Dirk, feeling rather pleased with himself at so brilliant a piece of deduction. He shook hands, glad to meet a fellow Californian—though he couldn’t catch the name. It seemed to be something like Mason, but it didn’t really matter.

  For some time they discussed American affairs and speculated on the Democrats’ chances of returning to power. Dirk contended that the Liberals would once again hold the balance, and made some brilliant comments on the advantages and disadvantages of the three-party system. Strangely enough, his companion seemed unimpressed by his wit, and brought the conversation back to Interplanetary.

  “You haven’t been here very long, have you?” he queried. “How are you getting on?�
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  Dirk told him, at length. He explained his job, and enlarged lavishly upon its scope and importance. When he had finished his work, all subsequent eras and all possible planets would realize exactly what the conquest of space had meant to the age which had achieved it.

  His friend seemed very interested, though there was a trace of amusement in his voice about which Dirk might have to reprimand him, gently but firmly.

  “How have you got on in your contacts with the technical side?” he asked.

  “To tell the truth,” said Dirk sadly, “I’ve been intending to do something about this for the last week. But I’m rather scared of scientists, you know. Besides, there’s Matthews. He’s been very helpful, but he has his own ideas of what I should do and I’m anxious not to hurt his feelings.”

  That was a deplorably weak sort of statement, but there was a lot of truth in it. Matthews had organized everything a little too completely.

  Thinking of Alfred brought back memories, and Dirk was filled with a sudden grave suspicion. He looked carefully at his companion, determined not to be caught again.

  The fine profile and the wide, intelligent brow were reassuring, but Dirk was now too old a hand at the game to be deceived. Alfred, he thought, would be proud of the way he was evading definite answers to his companion’s queries. It was rather a pity, of course, since the other was a fellow American and had come a long way in search of a “scoop”; still, his first loyalty now was with his hosts.

  The other must have realized that he was getting nowhere, for presently he rose to his feet and gave Dirk a quizzical smile.

  “I think,” he said, as he took his leave, “that I may be able to put you in touch with the right people on the technical side. Ring me tomorrow at Extension 3—don’t forget—3.”

  Then he was gone, leaving Dirk in a highly confused state of mind. His fears, it seemed, had been groundless: the fellow belonged to Interplanetary after all. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped.

  His next clear recollection was saying good-night to Matthews in the foyer. Alfred still seemed annoyingly bright and energetic, and very pleased with the success of the party—though it seemed that he had suffered from qualms from time to time.

  “During that horn-pipe,” he said, “I was quite certain that the floor was going to give way. Do you realize that would have delayed the conquest of space by at least half a century?”

  Dirk did not feel particularly interested in such meta-physical speculations, but as he bade a sleepy good-night he suddenly remembered his unknown Californian.

  “By the way,” he said, “I got talking with another American—thought he was a journalist at first. He’d just arrived in town—you must have seen him—he wasn’t wearing evening dress. Told me to ring him tomorrow at extension something-or-other. Know who he was?”

  Matthews’s eyes twinkled.

  “You thought he was another journalist, did you? I hope you remembered my warning.”

  “Yes,” said Dirk proudly. “I never told him a thing. Though it wouldn’t have mattered, would it?”

  Matthews pushed him into the cab and slammed the door. He leaned through the window for his parting words.

  “No, it certainly wouldn’t,” he said. “That was only Professor Maxton, the Deputy Director-General. Go home and sleep it off!”

  2

  Dirk managed to arrive at the office in time for lunch—a meal which, he noticed, did not seem very popular. He had never seen so few customers in the canteen before.

  When he rang up Extension 3 and introduced himself sheepishly, Professor Maxton seemed glad to hear him and invited him round at once. He found the Deputy D.-G. in the next office to Sir Robert Derwent, almost surrounded with packing cases—holding, he explained, special test gear which was to be flown to Australia at once. Their conversation was frequently interrupted by the Professor’s orders and counter-orders to his perspiring assistants as they checked through their equipment.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed a bit offhand last night,” said Dirk apologetically. “The fact is, I wasn’t quite myself.”

  “I gathered that,” said Maxton dryly. “After all, you had several hours’ start on me! Hi, you dope, don’t carry that recorder upside down! Sorry, Alexson, I didn’t mean you.”

  He paused for breath.

  “This is an infernal business—you never know what you’ll want and you can be pretty sure that in the end the most important stuff will get left behind.”

  “What’s it all for?” asked Dirk, quite overcome by the arrays of glittering equipment and the sight of more radio tubes than he had ever seen before at any one time in his life.

  “Post-mortem gear,” said Maxton succinctly. ” ‘Alpha’s’ main instrument readings are telemetered back to Earth. If anything goes wrong, at least we’ll know what happened.”

  “This isn’t very cheerful talk after last night’s gaiety.”

  “No, but it’s practical talk and may save millions of dollars, as well as a good many lives. I’ve heard all about your project in the States, and thought it was a very interesting idea. Who started it?”

  “The Rockefeller Foundation—History and Records Division.”

  “I’m glad the historians have finally realized that science does play quite a part in shaping the world. When I was a kid their textbooks were nothing but military primers. Then the economic determinists held the field—until the neo-Freudians routed them with great slaughter. We’ve only just got that lot under control—so let’s hope we’re going to get a balanced view at last.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m aiming at,” said Dirk. “I realize that all sorts of motives must have inspired the man who founded Interplanetary. I want to unravel and analyze them as far as possible. On the factual side, I’ve been supplied with everything I want by Matthews.”

  “Matthews? Oh, the chap from Public Relations. They think they run the place—don’t believe everything they tell you, especially about us.”

  Dirk laughed.

  “I thought that Interplanetary was all one big, happy family!”

  “On the whole we get along pretty well, especially at the top. At least, we present a united front to the outside world. As a class, I think scientists work together better than any other, especially when they have a common goal. But you always have clashing personalities, and there seems an inevitable rivalry between the technical and the non-technical grades. Sometimes it’s just good-natured fun, but often there’s a certain amount of bitterness behind it.”

  While Maxton was speaking, Dirk had been studying him carefully. His first impression had been confirmed. The D.D.G. was not only a man of obvious brilliance, but one of wide culture and sympathies. Dirk wondered how he got on with his equally brilliant but ferociously forthright colleague,

  Sir Robert. Two such contrasting personalities would either work together very well—or not at all.

  At the age of fifty, Professor Maxton was generally regarded as the world’s leading atomic engineer. He had played a major part in the development of nuclear propulsion systems for aircraft, and the drive units of the “Prometheus” were based almost entirely on his designs. The fact that such a man, who could have demanded almost any price from industry, was willing to work here at a nominal salary, seemed to Dirk a very significant point.

  Maxton called out to a fair-haired young man in the late twenties who was just passing.

  “Come here a minute, Ray—I’ve got another job for you!”

  The other approached with a rueful grin.

  “I hope it’s nothing tough. I’ve got a bit of a headache this morning.”

  The D.D.-G. grinned at Dirk but refrained, after an obvious struggle, from making any comment.

  He introduced them briefly.

  “Dr. Alexson—Ray Collins, my personal assistant. Ray’s line is hyperdynamics—short, but only just, for hypersonic aerodynamics, in case you didn’t know. Ray—Dr. Alexson’s a history specialist, so I guess you wonder what he’s
doing here. He hopes to be the Gibbon of astronautics.”

  “Not the ‘Decline and Fall of Interplanetary,’ I hope! Pleased to meet you.”

  “I want you to help Dr. Alexson with any technical queries. I’ve only just rescued him from the clammy clutches of McAndrews’s mob, so he’ll probably have some pretty weird ideas about things.”

  He turned to survey the surrounding chaos, found that his assistants were undermining the precarious seat he had adopted, and shifted to another packing case.

  “I’d better explain,” he continued, “though you probably know it already, that our little technical empire has three main divisions. Ray here is one of the airborne experts; he’s concerned with getting the ship safely through the atmosphere—in both directions—with the minimum of wear and tear. His section used to be looked down upon by the spacehounds, who regarded the atmosphere as just a nuisance. They’ve changed their tune now that we’ve shown them how to use the air as a free fuel supply—for the first part of the trip at least.”

  That was one of the hundred or so points that Dirk had never properly understood, and he made a mental note, putting it first on his list of questions.

  “Then there are the astronomers and mathematicians, who form a tight little trade-union of their own—though they’ve suffered some pretty heavy infiltration from the electronics engineers with their calculating machines. They, of course, have to compute orbits and do our mathematical donkey-work, which is very extensive indeed. Sir Robert himself is in charge of their affairs.

  “Finally there are the rocket engineers, bless ‘em. You won’t find many here, for they’re nearly all in Australia.

  “So that’s the set-up, though I’ve neglected several groups like the communications and control people, and the medical experts. I’ll turn you over to Ray now, and he’ll look after you.”