Ensign Lorch cleared his throat. “Well done,” he said absently. “Dismissed.” He turned his back on the detail and propelled himself down the passageway toward the sick bay.
If he went back to the bridge, the old man would find work for him; if he went to the wardroom, the exec would find an excuse to send him to the old man. And his own quarters were horribly, stifling hot.
He accosted the ship’s surgeon and demanded, “How long are we expected to live in this heat?”
Commander Broderick said irritably, “How should I know? You don’t die of the heat, that’s sure. There are other things that will come first—suffocation, thirst, maybe even starvation.”
Lorch looked thoughtfully at the medical officer. Red-eyed, his face lined with worry and weariness, Broderick was showing strain. Through his scanty shorts, you could see the fishbelly whiteness of his skin; it was old man’s skin, and Broderick, for all of his passing the annual fitness exam, was getting on toward being an old man.
Lorch said more gently, “I guess you’re getting a rough time all round.”
“Good Lord, am I!” the surgeon snapped. “Half the ship’s complement has been in here today—little fiddling things like prickly heat and dizzy spells. Dizzy spells! How the devil can anyone
not
have dizzy spells? The women’s quarters have practically a regular courier service. If it isn’t antiperspirants, it’s salt tablets; if it isn’t salt tablets, it’s alcohol from the ship’s store for rubdowns.” He passed his hand shakily over his eyes. “Then,” he said, “to top it all off there’s him.” He pointed to the inner chamber of the sick bay. Lorch, listening, could hear the blinded Groden’s rasping breath.
There was a shrill whistle from the speaking tube, then, tinnily, a voice from the bridge. “Commander Broderick! Captain requests you report to the bridge at once.”
The surgeon blinked and swore. “How the devil am I supposed to do that?” he demanded. “Two of my crewmen are out with heat prostration, and the other two were working all night. All right, I go up to the bridge. Suppose there’s some trouble? Suppose Groden starts acting up again?” He stared irresolutely at the speaking tube.
Lorch said thoughtfully, “Say, Commander, could I keep an eye on him for you?”
It was a fine idea. Broderick took off for the bridge and Lorch, hastily briefed on the simple task of sticking a new needle in Groden’s arm if he showed any signs of trouble, bade him a careful good-bye and waited until he was well out of sight before, whistling, he knelt before the cabinet of emergency medical supplies.
Broderick had given him an idea. And, he told himself blissfully, moments later, it had been a good one. Alcohol rub! Now why hadn’t he thought of that himself?
He hardly noticed that Groden’s heavy breathing had changed pitch and character. It almost formed words now.
On the bridge, the captain was briefing the ship’s officers—all but Groden, in the sick bay, and Lorch, who, the captain had agreed, was easily enough spared to watch after
Groden—on what in his mind he called Project Desperation. It didn’t take much briefing because it was the only thing left for them to do and every man on the ship knew it.
“We have,” the captain said precisely, “margin for just under forty minutes of rocket blast at standard thrust. That will bring our overall temperature up to sixty degrees, give or take a degree according to Engineering’s best guess. And that’s the maximum the human body can stand—that’s right, Broderick?”
The surgeon quickly translated into the Fahrenheit scale; a hundred and forty degrees or so.
“That’s right, sir,” he said. “If we can stand that much,” he added reluctantly after a moment. “It hits that on Earth in a couple of places—around the Dead Sea, Aden, places like that. But it isn’t sustained heat; it drops considerably after dark.”
The captain nodded somberly. “We’ll hope,” he said, “that we’ll find ourselves out of this before we hit sixty degrees. If we don’t—well, at least we won’t starve or suffocate. You understand, gentlemen, that the odds are against us. I suggested to Lieutenant Ciccarelli that it was a million-to-one-shot. He said I was an optimist. But one chance in a million, or a billion, or whatever the number may be, is better than no chance at all. Do you all agree?”
There was no answer. The captain went on, “Before we jump, I presume no one has a better idea?” No one had. “Thank you. Then, gentlemen, if you will assume your stations, we’ll get down to business. Stand by to jump.”
The captain took his place with an air of benign detachment. It wasn’t a captain’s job to take the conn of a ship in a perfectly routine maneuver. He watched approvingly as the exec put the ship on alert, then on standby, then went through the checklist that culminated in the “jump” into hyperspace.
The captain was a model of placid, observant command officership, but behind the placid face, the agitated mind was churning out awful calculations.
Consider the Galaxy, he was thinking to himself; a hundred thousand light-years broad, perhaps forty thousand through its axis. Call it a lens-shaped figure with a volume of three hundred trillion light-years. Say that their cruising radius, in normal space, was within a volume of one light-year; that meant that the chances of their coming out, by accident, within cruising distance of Earth was—not one in a million, or one in a hundred million, or one in a billion … .
It was one chance in three hundred trillion.
The captain juggled the numbers comfortably enough in his mind. They were absolutely meaningless, far too big to be comprehended or feared.
There it was, the beautiful Master Pattern.
Groden lay tense and fearful, seeing it. It had been a long time since the last needle; by the only clock he owned, his heartbeat, it had been more than two hours since he discovered that he could move his lips and his fingers again. He had feverishly wondered why; and had not dared speak or move after the first trials for fear of bringing the needle again. But now he knew.
There was the Master Pattern. He scanned it slowly in every part. There was the giant star-cluster of Hercules; and there the bridge of
Terra II;
there was the fat red disc of Betelgeuse; and there the shower room of the enlisted women’s quarters. He took in the ordered ranks of the constellations as easily as he noted that Broderick was gone from the sick bay, and in his place the young ensign, Lorch, was clinging with harried
expression to a stanchion. They were in hyperspace. Broderick was on the bridge. Lorch had been left in charge, and it had not occurred to him, since his patient had been so carefully quiet, to administer another needle.
Groden carefully moved his hands, and found that they would do what he wanted. He was getting the hang of—well, it was not seeing, exactly, he confessed to himself. It was like being alone on a starless night, in the middle of a dark wood. It took time to get used to the darkness, but by and by shapes would begin to make themselves known.
It was not the same thing; this was no mere matter of the expanding pupil of the eye; but the effect was something the same. But explain it or not, he was being able to use it; each time the beautiful vision was more complete, and therefore more beautiful.
He found the straps that bound him, and unbuckled them.
On the bridge, he “saw,” the jump at random was nearing its end. It would be only a matter of minutes before they were back in normal space, and he was blind again.
In the outer room of the sick-bay, Ensign Lorch was staring dismally at the hallucinations of hyperspace. It was almost certain, thought Groden to himself, that if Lorch was so fortunate as to see him at all, he would pass off the sight as another of the lies light told. The important thing was sound; he must not make a noise.
He crept through the door, carefully holding to the guide rails. Broderick had been right about one thing, though, he admitted—the pain. The wreck of his eyes no longer seemed as important, with the wonderful things hyperspace’s cloudless perception brought to him, but the shattered bone and tissue and nerve ends
hurt
.
Algol’s dark primary occluded the radiant star for a second and confused him; they were moving faster than he had thought. He hastily scanned the Master Plan again, fearful for a second. But there was Sol and its family of planets, and there was Earth.
Terra II
might be lost, but Lieutenant Groden was not, and if only he could get to the bridge …
He scanned the bridge. It was later than he thought. He felt the vibrations in the floor as he realized that the jump was at an end. Panicked, he hesitated.
Blackness again, and no more stars.
He stood there, incredibly desolate, and the pain was suddenly more than he could bear.
And from behind him he heard a startled yell, Lorch’s voice: “Hey, Groden! Come back here! What the devil are you doing out in the passage?”
It was the last straw. Groden had no tear ducts left with which to weep, but he did the best he could.
Broderick worked over the girl, Eklund, for a moment, and brought her to. She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, but she was all right. As all right, he thought, as anyone on
Terra II
had any chance to be.
“Plain heat prostration,” he reported to the captain. “It’s been a pretty rough job for her, trying to keep on top of all this.”
The captain nodded unemotionally. “Well, Ciccarelli?” he demanded.
The navigator ran his hands through his hair. ‘No position, sir,’ he said despondently. “Maybe if I ran down the third and fourth magnitude stars—”
“Don’t bother,” the captain said. “If we aren’t within a light-year of Sol, we’re too far to do us any good. At your convenience, gentlemen, we’ll take another jump.”
The executive nodded wearily and opened his mouth to give the order, but Broderick
protested, “Sir, we’ll all be falling over if we don’t take a break. The temperature’s past forty-five now. The only way to handle it is frequent rests and plenty of liquids.”
“Ten minutes be enough?”
The surgeon hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Why not? No sense worrying about long-term effects just now, is there?”
“There is not,” said the captain. “Make it so,” he ordered the exec.
The captain half-closed his eyes, fanning himself mechanically. When the runner from the wardroom brought him his plastic globe of fruit juices he accepted it and began to sip, but he wasn’t paying very much attention. He had the figures on the tip of his tongue: the first blind jump in Project Desperation had cost them sixteen minutes of rocket time. He could be a little more conservative with the next one—maybe use only ten minutes. That way he could squeeze out at least one more full-length, or nearly full-length, jump; and then one last truly desperate try, not more than a minute or two. And if that didn’t work, they were cooked.
Literally, he told himself wryly.
In fact, he continued, counting up the entries in red ink on their ledger, they were just about out of luck now. For even if their next jump took them within cruising distance of Earth, there was still the time factor to be considered. They had left only twenty-four minutes of jet-time before
Terra II’s
hull temperature passed the critical sixty-degree mark.
True, he had maintained some slight reserve in that not
all
their expansible gas had been used. There remained a certain amount in the compressed tanks. And even beyond that, it would be possible to valve off some of the ship’s ambient air itself, dropping the pressure to, say ten pounds to the square inch or even less.
That
might
give them maneuvering time in normal space—provided they were God-blessed enough to come out of one of the three remaining jumps within range of Earth, provided all the angels of heaven were helping them … .
Which, it was clear, he told himself, they weren’t.
“Sir,” said Commander Broderick’s voice, “I think you can proceed now.”
The captain opened his eyes. “Thank you,” he said gravely and nodded to the exec. It was a quick job by now. The kerosene lamps were already lit, the main electric circuits already cut; it was only a matter of double-checking and of getting the nucleophoretic generators up to speed.
The captain observed the routine attentively. It did not matter that the fitness reports for which he was taking mental notes might never be written. It was a captain’s job to make his evaluations all the same.
“Stand by to jump!” called the exec, and the talker repeated it into the tubes. Down in the generator-room, the jumpmen listened for the command. It came; they heaved on the enormous manual clutches.
And
Terra II
slipped into Riemannian space once more.
The stars whirled before the captain’s eyes and became geometrical figures in prismatic colors. The slight, worn figure of the library, the girl named Eklund, ballooned and wavered and seemed to float around the bridge. The captain looked on with composure; he was used to the illusions of hyperspace. Even—almost—he understood them. From the girl’s vast stored knowledge, he had learned of the connection between electric potential and the three-dimensional matrix.