‘That makes a nice change,’ said John Wyndham, without the slightest effect.
‘It was on a Saturday afternoon,’ Harry began. ‘A beautiful day in late spring. There were about six of us scientists in the bar of the “Black Swan”, and the windows were open so that we could see down the slopes of Clobham Hill and out across the country to Upchester, about thirty miles away. It was so clear, in fact, that we could pick out the twin spires of Upchester Cathedral on the horizon. You couldn’t have asked for a more peaceful day.
‘The staff from the Establishment got on pretty well with the locals, though at first they weren’t at all happy about having us on their doorsteps. Apart from the nature of our work, they’d believed that scientists were a race apart, with no human interests. When we’d beaten them up at darts a couple of times, and bought a few drinks, they changed their minds. But there was still a certain amount of half-serious leg-pulling, and we were always being asked what we were going to blow up next.
‘On this afternoon there should have been several more of us present, but there’d been a rush job in the Radioisotopes Division and so we were below strength. Stanley Chambers, the landlord, commented on the absence of some familiar faces.
‘“What’s happened to all your pals today?” he asked my boss, Dr French.
‘“They’re busy at the works,” French replied—we always called the Establishment “the works”, as that made it seem more homely and less terrifying. “We had to get some stuff out in a hurry. They’ll be along later.”
‘“One day,” said Stan severely, “you and your friends are going to let out something you won’t be able to bottle up again. And then where will we all be?”
‘“Halfway to the moon,” said Dr French. I’m afraid it was rather an irresponsible sort of remark, but silly questions like this always made him lose patience.
‘Stan Chambers looked over his shoulder as if he was judging how much of the hill stood between him and Clobham. I guessed he was calculating if he’d have time to reach the cellar—or whether it was worth trying anyway.
‘“About these—isotopes—you keep sending to the hospitals,” said a thoughtful voice. “I was at St Thomas’s last week, and saw them moving some around in a lead safe that must have weighed a ton. It gave me the creeps, wondering what would happen if someone forgot to handle it properly.”
‘“We calculated the other day,” said Dr French, obviously still annoyed at the interruption to his darts, “that there was enough uranium in Clobham to boil the North Sea.”
‘Now that was a silly thing to say: and it wasn’t true, either. But I couldn’t very well reprimand my own boss, could I?
‘The man who’d been asking these questions was sitting in the alcove by the window, and I noticed that he was looking down the road with an anxious expression.
‘“The stuff leaves your place on trucks, doesn’t it?” he asked, rather urgently.
‘“Yes: a lot of isotopes are short-lived, and so they’ve got to be delivered immediately.”
‘“Well, there’s a truck in trouble down the hill. Would it be one of yours?”
‘The dartboard was forgotten in the general rush to the window. When I managed to get a good look, I could see a large truck, loaded with packing cases, careering down the hill about a quarter of a mile away. From time to time it bounced off one of the hedges: it was obvious that the brakes had failed and the driver had lost control. Luckily there was no oncoming traffic, or a nasty accident would have been inevitable. As it was, one looked probable.
‘Then the truck came to a bend in the road, left the pavement, and tore through the hedge. It rocked along with diminishing speed for fifty yards, jolting violently over the rough ground. It had almost come to rest when it encountered a ditch and, very sedately, canted over onto one side. A few seconds later the sound of splintering wood reached us as the packing cases slid off to the ground.
‘“That’s that,” said someone with a sigh of relief. “He did the right thing, aiming for the hedge. I guess he’ll be shaken up, but he won’t be hurt.”
‘And then we saw a most perplexing sight. The door of the cab opened, and the driver scrambled out. Even from this distance, it was clear that he was highly agitated—though, in the circumstances, that was natural enough. But he did not, as one would have expected, sit down to recover his wits. On the contrary: he promptly took to his heels and ran across the field as if all the demons of hell were after him.
‘We watched open-mouthed, and with rising apprehension, as he dwindled down the hill. There was an ominous silence in the bar, except for the ticking of the clock that Stan always kept exactly ten minutes fast. Then someone said, “D’you think we’d better stay? I mean—t’s only half a mile…”
‘There was an uncertain movement away from the window. Then Dr French gave a nervous little laugh.
‘“We don’t know if it is one of our trucks,” he said. “And anyway, I was pulling your legs just now. It’s completely impossible for any of this stuff to explode. He’s just afraid his tank’s going to catch fire.”
‘“Oh yes?” said Stan. “Then why’s he still running? He’s halfway down the hill now.”
‘“I know!” suggested Charlie Evan, from the Instruments Section. “He’s carrying explosives, and is afraid they’re going to go up.”
‘I had to scotch that one. “There’s no sign of a fire, so what’s he worried about now? And if he was carrying explosives, he’d have a red flag or something.”
‘“Hang on a minute,” said Stan. “I’ll go and get my glasses.”
‘No one moved until he came back: no one, that is, except the tiny figure far down the hillside, which had now vanished into the woods without slackening its speed.
‘Stan stared through the binoculars for an eternity. At last he lowered them with a grunt of disappointment.
‘“Can’t see much,” he said. “The truck’s tipped over in the wrong direction. Those crates are all over the place—some of them have busted open. See if you can make anything of it.”
‘French had a long stare, then handed the glasses to me. They were a very old-fashioned model, and didn’t help much. For a moment it seemed to me that there was a curious haziness about some of the boxes—but that didn’t make sense. I put it down to the poor condition of the lenses.
‘And there, I think, the whole business would have fizzled out if those cyclists hadn’t appeared. They were puffing up the hill on a tandem, and when they came to the fresh gap in the hedge they promptly dismounted to see what was going on. The truck was visible from the road and they approached it hand in hand, the girl obviously hanging back, the man telling her not to be nervous. We could imagine their conversation: it was a most touching spectacle.
‘It didn’t last long. They got to within a few yards of the truck—and then departed at high speed in opposite directions. Neither looked back to observe the other’s progress; and they were running, I noticed, in a most peculiar fashion.
‘Stan, who’d retrieved his glasses, put them down with a shaky hand.
‘“Get out the cars!” he said.
‘“But—” began Dr French.
‘Stan silenced him with a glare. “You damned scientists!” he said, as he slammed and locked the till (even at a moment like his, he remembered his duty). “I knew you’d do it sooner or later.”
‘Then he was gone, and most of his cronies with him. They didn’t stop to offer us a lift.
‘“This is perfectly ridiculous!” said French. “Before we know where we are, those fools will have started a panic and there’ll be hell to pay.”
‘I knew what he meant. Someone would tell the police: cars would be diverted away from Clobham; the telephone lines would be blocked with calls—it would be like the Orson Welles “War of the Worlds” scare back in 1938. Perhaps you think I’m exaggerating, but you can never underestimate the power of panic. And people were scared, remember, of our place, and were half expecting something
like this to happen.
‘What’s more, I don’t mind telling you that by this time we weren’t any too happy ourselves. We were simply unable to imagine what was going on down there by the wrecked truck, and there’s nothing a scientist hates more than being completely baffled.
‘Meanwhile I’d grabbed Stan’s discarded binoculars and had been studying the wreck very carefully. As I looked, a theory began to evolve in my mind. There was some—aura—about those boxes. I stared until my eyes began to smart, and then said to Dr French: “I think I know what it is. Suppose you ring up Clobham Post Office and try to intercept Stan, or at least to stop him spreading rumours if he’s already got there. Say that everything’s under control—there’s nothing to worry about. While you’re doing that, I’m going to walk down to the truck and test my theory.”
‘I’m sorry to say that no one offered to follow me. Though I started down the road confidently enough, after a while I began to be a little less sure of myself. I remembered an incident that’s always struck me as one of history’s most ironic jokes, and began to wonder if something of the same sort might not be happening now. There was once a volcanic island in the Far East, with a population of about fifty thousand. No one worried about the volcano, which had been quiet for a hundred years. Then one day, eruptions started. At first they were minor, but they grew more intense hour by hour. The people started to panic, and tried to crowd aboard the few boats in harbour so that they could reach the mainland.
‘But the island was ruled by a military commandant who was determined to keep order at all costs. He sent out proclamations saying that there was no danger, and he got his troops to occupy the ships so that there would be no loss of life as people attempted to leave in overloaded boats. Such was the force of his personality, and the example of his courage, that he calmed the multitude, and those who had been trying to get away crept shamefaced back to their homes, where they sat waiting for conditions to return to normal.
‘So when the volcano blew up a couple of hours later, taking the whole island with it, there weren’t any survivors at all…
‘As I got near the truck, I began to see myself in the role of that misguided commandant. After all, there are some times when it is brave to stay and face danger, and others when the most sensible thing to do is to take to the hills. But it was too late to turn back now, and I was fairly sure of my theory.’
‘I know,’ said George Whitley, who always liked to spoil Harry’s stories if he could. ‘It was gas.’
Harry didn’t seem at all perturbed at losing his climax.
‘Ingenious of you to suggest it. That’s just what I did think, which shows that we can all be stupid at times.
‘I’d got to within fifty feet of the truck when I stopped dead, and though it was a warm day a most unpleasant chill began to spread out from the small of my back. For I could see something that blew my gas theory to blazes and left nothing at all in its place.
‘A black, crawling mass was writhing over the surface of one of the packing cases. For a moment I tried to pretend to myself that it was some dark liquid oozing from a broken container. But one rather well-known characteristic of liquids is that they can’t defy gravity. This thing was doing just that: and it was also quite obviously alive. From where I was standing, it looked like the pseudopod of some giant amoeba as it changed its shape and thickness, and wavered to and fro over the side of the broken crate.
‘Quite a few fantasies that would have done credit to Edgar Allan Poe flitted through my mind in those few seconds. Then I remembered my duty as a citizen and my pride as a scientist: I started to walk forward again, though in no great haste.
‘I remember sniffing cautiously, as if I still had gas on the mind. Yet it was my ears, not my nose, that gave me the answer, as the sound from that sinister, seething mass built up around me. It was a sound I’d heard a million times before, but never as loud as this. And I sat down—not too close—and laughed and laughed and laughed. Then I got up and walked back to the pub.
‘“Well,” said Dr French eagerly, “what was it? We’ve got Stan on the line—caught him at the crossroads. But he won’t come back until we can tell him what’s happening.”
‘“Tell Stan,” I said, “to rustle up the local apiarist, and bring him along at the same time. There’s a big job for him here.”
‘“The local what?” said French. Then his jaw dropped. “My God! You don’t mean…”
‘“Precisely,” I answered, walking behind the bar to see if Stan had any interesting bottles hidden away. “They’re settling down now, but I guess they’re still pretty annoyed. I didn’t stop to count, but there must be half a million bees down there trying to get back into their busted hives.”’
The Other Side of the Sky
First published in Infinity Science Fiction Magazine, September/October 1957
Collected in The Other Side of the Sky
The success of the earlier set of linked short stories, ‘Venture to the Moon’, led to the writing of this series which by good luck appeared on the London newsstands just when Sputnik I appeared in the sky.
Special Delivery
I can still remember the excitement, back in 1957, when Russia launched the first artificial satellites and managed to hang a few pounds of instruments up here above the atmosphere. Of course, I was only a kid at the time, but I went out in the evening like everyone else, trying to spot those little magnesium spheres as they zipped through the twilight sky hundreds of miles above my head. It’s strange to think that some of them are still there—but that now they’re below me, and I’d have to look down toward Earth if I wanted to see them…
Yes, a lot has happened in the last forty years, and sometimes I’m afraid that you people down on Earth take the space stations for granted, forgetting the skill and science and courage that went to make them. How often do you stop to think that all your long-distance phone calls, and most of your TV programmes, are routed through one or the other of the satellites? And how often do you give any credit to the meteorologists up here for the fact that weather forecasts are no longer the joke they were to our grandfathers, but are dead accurate ninety-nine per cent of the time?
It was a rugged life, back in the seventies, when I went up to work on the outer stations. They were being rushed into operation to open up the millions of new TV and radio circuits which would be available as soon as we had transmitters out in space that could beam programmes to anywhere on the globe.
The first artificial satellites had been very close to Earth, but the three stations forming the great triangle of the Relay Chain had to be twenty-two thousand miles up, spaced equally around the equator. At this altitude—and at no other—they would take exactly a day to go around their orbit, and so would stay poised forever over the same spot on the turning Earth.
In my time I’ve worked on all three of the stations, but my first tour of duty was aboard Relay Two. That’s almost exactly over Entebbe, Uganda, and provides service for Europe, Africa, and most of Asia. Today it’s a huge structure hundreds of yards across, beaming thousands of simultaneous programmes down to the hemisphere beneath it as it carries the radio traffic of half the world. But when I saw it for the first time from the port of the ferry rocket that carried me up to orbit, it looked like a junk pile adrift in space. Prefabricated parts were floating around in hopeless confusion, and it seemed impossible that any order could ever emerge from this chaos.
Accommodation for the technical staff and assembling crews was primitive, consisting of a few unserviceable ferry rockets that had been stripped of everything except air purifiers. ‘The Hulks’, we christened them; each man had just enough room for himself and a couple of cubic feet of personal belongings. There was a fine irony in the fact that we were living in the midst of infinite space—and hadn’t room to swing a cat.
It was a great day when we heard that the first pressurised living quarters were on their way up to us—complete with needle-jet shower baths that wo
uld operate even here, where water—like everything else—had no weight. Unless you’ve lived aboard an overcrowded spaceship, you won’t appreciate what that meant. We could throw away our damp sponges and feel really clean at last…
Nor were the showers the only luxury promised us. On the way up from Earth was an inflatable lounge spacious enough to hold no fewer than eight people, a microfilm library, a magnetic billiard table, lightweight chess sets, and similar novelties for bored spacemen. The very thought of all these comforts made our cramped life in the Hulks seem quite unendurable, even though we were being paid about a thousand dollars a week to endure it.
Starting from the Second Refuelling Zone, two thousand miles above Earth, the eagerly awaited ferry rocket would take about six hours to climb up to us with its precious cargo. I was off duty at the time, and stationed myself at the telescope where I’d spent most of my scanty leisure. It was impossible to grow tired of exploring the great world hanging there in space beside us; with the highest power of the telescope, one seemed to be only a few miles above the surface. When there were no clouds and the seeing was good, objects the size of a small house were easily visible. I had never been to Africa, but I grew to know it well while I was off duty in Station Two. You may not believe this, but I’ve often spotted elephants moving across the plains, and the immense herds of zebras and antelopes were easy to see as they flowed back and forth like living tides on the great reservations.
But my favourite spectacle was the dawn coming up over the mountains in the heart of the continent. The line of sunlight would come sweeping across the Indian Ocean, and the new day would extinguish the tiny twinkling galaxies of the cities shining in the darkness below me. Long before the sun had reached the lowlands around them, the peaks of Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya would be blazing in the dawn, brilliant stars still surrounded by the night. As the sun rose higher, the day would march swiftly down their slopes and the valleys would fill with light. Earth would then be at its first quarter, waxing toward full.