The Mechanical Monarch Page 3

  “Sickness.” Comain made a rapid note. “Keep talking, Curt.” He leaned over to the slumped figure of the Colonel.

  “Can we get the Doc here? Maybe he could suggest something to ease the sickness?”

  “Get the doctor,” ordered Adams and a man almost ran from the room to fetch the old medico. “Keep him talking, Comain. Is there anything else wrong with him?”

  “I’m bleeding from nose and ears." The voice from the speaker faded then returned with roaring strength. “Blood cells ruptured during take-off. Normally it wouldn’t matter but with this dope inside of me the blood isn’t coagulating. Should I take the green injection?”

  “Were getting the doctor. Better wait until he gets here before doing anything like that. How is the ship operating?” “Vibration still a nuisance. I can feel the hull quivering and the stanchions haven’t settled down yet.” '

  “Vibration!” Comain glanced at Adams. “How? The rockets cut almost three hours ago.”

  “I know that.” Curt retched again and when he spoke the listeners could imagine his inner pain. T’m in a closed system remember. There’s no air up here to damp out the vibration, and believe me, there was plenty to start with. It will damp out in time, but will it affect the instruments?”

  “It shouldn’t.” Comain made a quick notation on his pad. “How is the radiation?”

  “The Geiger’s well into the red. Cosmic rays of course and I’d guess at plenty of gamma particles as well.” Curt paused. “I hope I don’t go blind.”

  “You won't,” said Comain with false conviction. He twisted in his seat as the old doctor entered the room, and gestured him towards the radio. “Curt’s sick,” he said rapidly. “Free fall doesn’t agree with his stomach. He’s bleeding, too.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” The doctor grunted as he settled his bulk into a chair. “Hello, Curt, I hear that you’re having a little trouble.”

  “Hello, Doc. Can you suggest anything to untwist my guts?”

  “Sorry, Curt, but you’ll just have to stand it. It’s all in your mind you know. The balancing channels in the inner ear are out of kilter without a constant gravity drag to inform them which direction is ‘down.’ Your mind knows that you’re not falling, but your body knows that you are. You can’t blame it too much, after all the body is only a reflex mechanism, it can only respond in a certain way to external stimuli. As soon as you can convince it that everything is alright you’ll get rid of your sickness.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Curt dryly. “You’re a great help. What about this bleeding?”

  “Nothing to worry about. You’ve broken some surface blood cells and will lose a little blood. It will stop in time, your blood still has some coagulating power, and you won’t bleed to death, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “Should I use the green injection?”

  “No. For all we know the radiation up there may thicken your blood and if it were normal you’d die from clotting. Better leave well alone, Curt. After all, you didn’t expect it to be a picnic did you?”

  “Go to hell,” said Curt, and the doctor shook his head as he heard the sounds of violent retching coming from the radio.

  “Nothing we can do,” he said to Comain. “If we sympathise with him it will make it worse. Rosslyn has courage, he doesn’t need anyone to hold his hand. He’ll get out of it>on his own, or he won’t get out of it at all. I’m sorry for him, but I’d still give my right arm to be where he is now.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Comain, and from the assembled men came a murmur of agreement. They all envied the pilot. They all shared his troubles, his dangers, and all hoped to share his final success, and there wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t have cheerfully given up his hopes of heaven to have taken his place.

  Adams rose tiredly from his chair.

  “Nothing any of us can do now, except to wait,” he said heavily. “Comain. You stand by the radio and try and keep Rosslyn talking into the recorders. The rest of you get out of here. I’m going to get some sleep and from the look of you, you’d better do the same. I’ll send a relief, Comain. You look all in.”

  “I don’t want a relief.”

  “Maybe not, but you’re going to get one.” Adams glared at the thin man. “Get some sense, man. The rocket has only just started, it won’t be back for three days, and you’re almost asleep now.”

  “I can stand it.”

  “You’ll do as I order!”

  “No, Adams.” The thin man glared at the Colonel. "Curt is my friend and I’m going to stand by until he’s safely back on Earth. Send a relief if you like, but I’m staying here!” “Damn you, Comain!” Tiredness and irritation sharpened the Colonel’s voice. “I’m in charge here and you’ll do as I say!”

  “No.” Comain thinned his lips as he stared at the officer. “I don’t come under your jurisdiction, Adams. I’m a civilian, not a soldier, and my first loyalty is to my friend.”

  “I .. . Adams paused as the old doctor rested his hand on his arm. “What is it?”

  “Why argue with him, Adams? (Domain's doing no harm and he might do Rosslyn a lot of good. You can send over a radio relief, but why beat your head against a wall?”

  “But the ship can’t return for three days yet. You know the procedure, Doc. It will drive close to the Moon, be caught in the satellite’s gravitational field and be swung in a circular orbit. At the exact moment the tubes will fire a short blast to break free from the Moon and drive the ship towards Earth. What can Comain do to help that? What sense is there in his waiting by the radio for three days?”

  “None,” admitted the old doctor. “But let him do it, Adams.”

  “Very well.” The Colonel shrugged and followed the rest of the men from the room. Comain stared after him for a moment, half-angry with himself for annoying the officer, and yet knowing that nothing would keep him from radio contact with his friend.

  Inside the hut it began to grow warm with the heat of the rising sun. Outside, the barren desert shimmered beneath the solar furnace and the sky stretched from horizon to horizon, an inverted bowl of clear blue. Men moved listlessly about the area, tired after the rush preceding take-off, squinting up at the bowl of the sky as if they hoped to see the tiny speck of the rocket ship as it drove silently towards the Moon.

  Comain saw nothing of that. He sat, his thin features tense and a little bitter with frustrated ambition, and listened to the voice of a man who spoke from where no other man had ever been.

  “This is hell, Comain, It’s like seasickness multiplied a thousand times. A horrible vertigo and nausea. We’ll have to da something about it on future flights.”

  “We can rotate the ship, provide an artificial gravitation by means of centrifugal force. I’m more worried about the vibration you mentioned. Is it still bad?”

  “Dying. Almost gone now."

  “Good. What is it like out there, Curt?”

  “Wonderful!” Despite the sickness Comain could catch the note of near-exultation in his friend’s voice. “Space is black of course, we knew that, but the stars are like a million diamonds scattered on a piece of black velvet. I never guessed that there could be so many stars. We can’t see them on Earth, the air is too thick, but out here they glow like electric lights. Fourth magnitude stars are brighter than first, and the really bright ones, Vega, Rigel, you know them as well as I do, they shine like headlights on a dark night.”

  “How are you feeling, Curt? In yourself I mean.”

  “My temperature has risen. Hundred and one point three. Pulse is ninety-five. I’m sweating, too, have been ever since take-off, and my skin itches a little.”

  “Badly?”

  “No. Nervous reaction from take off I suppose. I’ve noticed an ache in my bones and my muscles hurt a little. That could be the effect of free fall, I’ve had to learn to move all over again and may have strained a few tendons. One effect of this gravity lack is that my mind seems to be terribly clear.

  I can almost
feel the blood rush through my skull and thoughts bubble and rise as yeast in fermenting wine. The things I’ve thought of, Contain! The ideas I’ve had. If I wasn’t doubled up with vertigo this would be paradise, and even with the sickness I feel that I’m on top of the world.”

  “You are.” Comain bit his lip as he recognised his own envy betraying itself in his tone, but the pilot didn’t seem to notice. Curt yawned, the sound coming clearly over the radio, then gave an apologetic laugh.

  “Funny. I feel tired. Think that I’ll sleep for a while.”

  “Curt! Are you insane? You can’t be tired, not with all that anti-fatigue drug they gave you before take off. Are you alright, Curt?"

  “Sure I’m alright. Just a little sleep. I’ll be as good as new after a while."

  “Keep awake, Curt. Don’t give in to it. Keep talking.”

  “I can’t. I’m too tired . . . tired . . . tired . .

  “Curt!" Hastily Comain adjusted the controls, feeding more power to the radio beam “Answer me, Curt! Curt!”

  Silence. Nothing but the hum of the radio and the distant crackle of static, and after a long while the thin man admitted defeat. He pressed a button, waiting until a uniformed operator arrived to take over, then his feet moving with an exaggerated slowness, walked tiredly from the room.

  Above his bowed head the sun crawled across a sky of clearest blue and beneath his feet the sand plumed in little clouds as he walked wearily towards his quarters. Men passed him, stared curiously at his drawn features, and he passed them as though they didn’t exist.

  When he finally fell asleep his dreams were filled with exotic worlds and strange races, or heroic men and heroic machines.

  Slowly the day wore on.

  CHAPTER IV

  He awoke to the sound of shouts and sharp commands. A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him and making the narrow cot on which he rested quiver and tremble.

  “Comain! Wake up man. Wake up!”

  “What?” He opened his eyes, blinking, trying to focus on the pale blob of a face which loomed above him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Hurry. Wake up.”

  He grunted, fumbling for his spectacles, hooking them behind his ears and blinking at the Colonel’s worried expression. He felt ill, overtired, his head a mass of cotton wool and his mouth tasting like the discharge end of a sewerage pipe. He gasped, feeling his clammy body shiver as the Colonel dragged off the sweat-soaked sheets, and he swung his thin legs over the edge of the bed as he struggled to regain full awareness.

  “Adams! What’s the matter?”

  “Get up, Comain. We want you over at the radio. Quick!”

  “Something wrong?” Panic seared through him and his hands trembled as he reached for his clothes. Adams nodded.

  “Yes. Rosslyn has only just made radio contact after a silence of more than twelve hours and I’m worried.”

  “Twelve hours.” Comain stared up at the Colonel. “As long as that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “Why should I?” Adams moved his shoulders beneath the thin material of his tunic. “What good would it have done? You were tired, we all were, and a man was standing by the radio all the time. You needed sleep, and you’ve had it, twelve hours of it.”

  “Yes.” Comain finished dressing and licked his dry lips. He stepped over to the small water faucet and laved his

  face and hands, then, after letting the tepid water run for a moment, drank three glasses of the warm fluid. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way over.” Adams shifted his feet with nervous impatience. “Ready yet?"

  “Ready."

  Together they stepped from the hut into the soft darkness of approaching night.

  “The ship isn’t keeping to schedule,” said Adams quietly. “The observatories report that it is going too fast, that, even though it will pass through the gravitational field of the Moon, it will only be swung from a direct flight line, and not swung into a circular orbit.” He paused and in the silence Comain could hear the sound of their boots as they scuffed over the sand.

  “Impossible.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Comain. It’s happening I tell you. The observatories can’t be wrong.”

  “But how could it happen? We know exactly, know to the third decimal place, just what thrust we get from the fuel, the duration of fire from the venturis, the speed of the ship, everything. It started as predicted. It should continue like that."

  “It isn’t.” Adams stared at the thin man. “Something’s gone wrong with the automatics, Comain. That is obvious. Now, unless Rosslyn can operate the ship by manual control, he will drive directly into space.”

  “Yes,” said the thin man numbly. “I know that.”

  He didn’t say any more. Neither did the Colonel. Each was thinking of the same thing, but, true to their natures, each placed a different priority on what they were thinking.

  Adams thought of a ship driving into space, carrying with it a helpless man. Comain thought of a man, his friend, being carried into the unknown by rebel machinery. He was glad when they finally entered the crowded radio shack.

  “Anything?” He thrust the radio operator from his seat as the man shook his head, then, with fingers which trembled a little, he adjusted the power flow of the beam radio.

  “Curt! Contain here. Answer please."

  “Contain!” The thin man flushed to the welcome in the voice of a man almost a quarter million miles away. “Been asleep?”

  “Yes. When you decided to take a rest I followed your example." He frowned a question at the Colonel, and Adams shook his head. “Keep talking, Curt. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Why? Is anything wrong down there?”

  “Of course not, Curt. Just give any relevant data you can think of. I want to check radio directional antenna.” He signalled to the operator and stepped over to Adams. “Doesn’t he know?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t want to tell him until we knew just what to do. In any case, he’s only just made contact, I can’t understand why he should have fallen asleep.”

  “The radiation perhaps?” Contain shrugged. “Not that it matters now. The main thing is to get the rocket back on course. Have you the observatory reports?”

  “Yes. The ship will reach the orbit of the Moon within an hour. The gravitational field will swing it and it will be hidden from sight for about two hours. After that . . .”

  “If he can’t operate the manual controls he will just drive on a straight line into space.” Comain nodded, his thin features grim. “So what must be done must be done quickly.”

  "Yes. Once the ship is hidden by the Moon there’ll be no radio contact, and after that, with the speed the ship has, we can’t count on more than a few minutes. Hurry, Comain! Hurry!”

  "Yes.” Comain returned to the radio and leaned towards the microphone. “Curt. Can you receive me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now listen, Curt. Listen carefully. Something has gone wrong with the ship. You are travelling too fast. You must take over the operation of the ship. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now this is what you must do. Spin the main

  gyroscope until you have reversed positions in space, until the firing tubes are pointed in your direction of flight. When you have done that fire the main drive for exactly ten seconds. No more. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Curt laughed and something of the tension in the room left the waiting men. “Don’t sound so serious, Comain. This is why I’m here isn’t it? Despite what you say your machines could never replace a man. They break down and when they do they are helpless. Relax, Comain. I’ll bring your ship back to you.”

  “You have an hour, Curt. One hour in which to slow down the speed of the ship and bring it back to the scheduled flight path. After that time you will be hidden behind the Moon and I won’t be able to talk to you. Also, and this is imp
ortant, the ship doesn’t have enough fuel to return without the aid of the Moon’s gravitational field to swing and slow the vessel. Work fast, Curt. Work fast.”

  “I’m working,” said the pilot grimly. “Hear me?”

  Over the radio came the whine of the gyroscopes as they spun on their bearings, turning the ship on its short axis, shifting the vessel in direct ratio to their own mass. It was a thing which took time. The mass of the gyroscope was only one hundred thousandth of that of the entire ship and it would take exactly one hundred thousand revolutions to turn the vessel. During that time they could do nothing but wait.

  And wait they did.

  They waited while the slender hand of a chronometer crawled towards the deadline. They sweated blood as, a quarter of a million miles away, a man fought for his life. It took more than thirty minutes for the spinning gyroscope to rotate the ship, thirty minutes of heart-numbing waiting before the gaping venturis were in a position to check the speed of the ship. And then . . .

  The rockets wouldn’t fire!

  Comain winced as he heard Curt’s startled curse.

  “The tubes! They won’t respond. Comain!”

  “Steady.” The thin man bit his lip as he stared at the swinging hand of the chronometer. “The take-off may have jarred loose a wire. Check the contacts.”

  More waiting. Sitting and standing in a mounting tension while over the radio came the gasping breath of a man working in impossible conditions to effect an emergency repair. "Contact checked but it’s still no damn use.”

  "Wait!” Comain glanced at Adams. “Curt. There is only one thing you can do now. Lift the hatch and press the firing relay by hand. Can you do that?”

  “I can try,” said the pilot grimly. “Won’t the automatics take over at the correct time?”

  .“Yes, but, Curt, that will be too late. You’ve only got fifteen minutes left before you slip behind the Moon. The automatics are set for time, not distance, and they won’t fire for several hours yet. Your only chance is to fire the rockets manually—and you must do it within the next thirty minutes.” “I understand. I’m working on the hatch now.”