The Past Through Tomorrow

  “Huh? Impossible. Mabel can’t make mistakes.” Weinstein gestured at the giant astrogation computer filling the far wall.

  “You made a mistake. You gave me an easy fix—‘Vega, Antares, Regulus.’ You make things easy for the pilot and your guild’ll chuck you out.” Weinstein looked sheepish but pleased. “I see I don’t blast off for seventeen hours. I could have taken the morning freight.” Jake’s thoughts went back to Phyllis.

  “UN canceled the morning trip.”

  “Oh—” Jake shut up, for he knew Weinstein knew as little as he did. Perhaps the flight would have passed too close to an A-bomb rocket, circling the globe like a policeman. The General Staff of the Security Council did not give out information about the top secrets guarding the peace of the planet.

  Pemberton shrugged. “Well, if I’m asleep, call me three hours minus.”

  “Right. Your tape will be ready.”

  While he slept, the Flying Dutchman nosed gently into her slip, sealed her airlocks to the Station, discharged passengers and freight from Luna City. When he woke, her holds were filling, her fuel replenished, and passengers boarding. He stopped by the post office radio desk, looking for a letter from Phyllis. Finding none, he told himself that she would have sent it to Terminal. He went on into the restaurant, bought the facsimile Herald-Tribune, and settled down grimly to enjoy the comics and his breakfast.

  A man sat down opposite him and proceeded to plague him with silly questions about rocketry, topping it by misinterpreting the insignia embroidered on Pemberton’s singlet and miscalling him “Captain.” Jake hurried through breakfast to escape him, then picked up the tape from his automatic pilot, and went aboard the Flying Dutchman.

  After reporting to the Captain he went to the control room, floating and pulling himself along by the handgrips. He buckled himself into the pilot’s chair and started his check off.

  Captain Kelly drifted in and took the other chair as Pemberton was finishing his checking runs on the ballistic tracker. “Have a Camel, Jake.”

  “I’ll take a rain check.” He continued; Kelly watched him with a slight frown. Like captains and pilots on Mark Twain’s Mississippi—and for the same reasons—a spaceship captain bosses his ship, his crew, his cargo, and his passengers, but the pilot is the final, legal, and unquestioned boss of how the ship is handled from blast-off to the end of the trip. A captain may turn down a given pilot—nothing more. Kelly fingered a slip of paper tucked in his pouch and turned over in his mind the words with which the Company psychiatrist on duty had handed it to him.

  “I’m giving this pilot clearance, Captain, but you need not accept it.”

  “Pemberton’s a good man. What’s wrong?”

  The psychiatrist thought over what he had observed while posing as a silly tourist bothering a stranger at breakfast. “He’s a little more anti-social than his past record shows. Something on his mind. Whatever it is, he can tolerate it for the present. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Kelly had answered, “Will you come along with him as pilot?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Don’t bother—I’ll take him. No need to lift a deadhead.”

  Pemberton fed Weinstein’s tape into the robot-pilot, then turned to Kelly. “Control ready, sir.”

  “Blast when ready, Pilot.” Kelly felt relieved when he heard himself make the irrevocable decision.

  Pemberton signaled the Station to cast loose. The great ship was nudged out by an expanding pneumatic ram until she swam in space a thousand feet away, secured by a single line. He then turned the ship to its blast-off direction by causing a flywheel, mounted on gymbals at the ship’s center of gravity, to spin rapidly. The ship spun slowly in the opposite direction, by grace of Newton’s Third Law of Motion.

  Guided by the tape, the robot-pilot tilted prisms of the pilot’s periscope so that Vega, Antares, and Regulus would shine as one image when the ship was headed right; Pemberton nursed the ship to that heading… fussily; a mistake of one minute of arc here meant two hundred miles at destination.

  When the three images made a pinpoint, he stopped the flywheels and locked in the gyros. He then checked the heading of his ship by direct observation of each of the stars, just as a salt-water skipper uses a sextant, but with incomparably more accurate instruments. This told him nothing about the correctness of the course Weinstein had ordered—he had to take that as Gospel—but it assured him that the robot and its tape were behaving as planned. Satisfied, he cast off the last line.

  Seven minutes to go—Pemberton flipped the switch permitting the robot-pilot to blast away when its clock told it to. He waited, hands poised over the manual controls, ready to take over if the robot failed, and felt the old, inescapable sick excitement building up inside him.

  Even as adrenalin poured into him, stretching his time sense, throbbing in his ears, his mind kept turning back to Phyllis.

  He admitted she had a kick coming—spacemen shouldn’t marry. Not that she’d starve if he messed up a landing, but a gal doesn’t want insurance; she wants a husband—minus six minutes.

  If he got a regular run she could live in Space Terminal.

  No good—idle women at Space Terminal went bad. Oh, Phyllis wouldn’t become a tramp or a rum bum; she’d just go bats.

  Five minutes more—he didn’t care much for Space Terminal himself. Nor for space! “The Romance of Interplanetary Travel”—it looked well in print, but he knew what it was: A job. Monotony. No scenery. Bursts of work, tedious waits. No home life.

  Why didn’t he get an honest job and stay home nights?

  He knew! Because he was a space jockey and too old to change.

  What chance has a thirty-year-old married man, used to important money, to change his racket? (Four minutes) He’d look good trying to sell helicopters on commission, now, wouldn’t he?

  Maybe he could buy a piece of irrigated land and— Be your age, chum! You know as much about farming as a cow knows about cube root! No, he had made his bed when he picked rockets during his training hitch. If he had bucked for the electronics branch, or taken a GI scholarship—too late now. Straight from the service into Harriman’s Lunar Exploitations, hopping ore on Luna. That had torn it.

  “How’s it going, Doc?” Kelly’s voice was edgy.

  “Minus two minutes some seconds.” Damnation—Kelly knew better than to talk to the pilot on minus time.

  He caught a last look through the periscope. Antares seemed to have drifted. He unclutched the gyro, tilted and spun the flywheel, braking it savagely to a stop a moment later. The image was again a pinpoint. He could not have explained what he did: it was virtuosity, exact juggling, beyond textbook and classroom.

  Twenty seconds… across the chronometer’s face beads of light trickled the seconds away while he tensed, ready to fire by hand, or even to disconnect and refuse the trip if his judgment told him to. A too-cautious decision might cause Lloyds’ to cancel his bond; a reckless decision could cost his license or even his life—and others.

  But he was not thinking of underwriters and licenses, nor even of lives. In truth he was not thinking at all; he was feeling, feeling his ship, as if his nerve ends extended into every part of her. Five seconds… the safety disconnects clicked out. Four seconds… three seconds… two seconds...…one——

  He was stabbing at the hand-fire button when the roar hit him.

  Kelly relaxed to the pseudo-gravity of the blast and watched. Pemberton was soberly busy, scanning dials, noting time, checking his progress by radar bounced off Supra-New York. Weinstein’s figures, robot-pilot, the ship itself, all were clicking together.

  Minutes later, the critical instant neared when the robot should cut the jets. Pemberton poised a finger over the hand cut-off, while splitting his attention among radarscope, accelerometer, periscope, and chronometer. One instant they were roaring along on the jets; the next split second the ship was in free orbit, plunging silently toward the Moon. So perfectly matched were human and robot that
Pemberton himself did not know which had cut the power.

  He glanced again at the board, then unbuckled. “How about that cigarette, Captain? And you can let your passengers unstrap.”

  No co-pilot is needed in space and most pilots would rather share a toothbrush than a control room. The pilot works about an hour at blast off, about the same before contact, and loafs during free flight, save for routine checks and corrections. Pemberton prepared to spend one hundred and four hours eating, reading, writing letters, and sleeping—especially sleeping.

  When the alarm woke him, he checked the ship’s position, then wrote to his wife. “Phyllis my dear,” he began, “I don’t blame you for being upset at missing your night out. I was disappointed, too. But bear with me, darling, I should be on a regular run before long. In less than ten years I’ll be up for retirement and we’ll have a chance to catch up on bridge and golf and things like that. I know it’s pretty hard to—”

  The voice circuit cut in. “Oh, Jake—put on your company face. I’m bringing a visitor to the control room.”

  “No visitors in the control room, Captain.”

  “Now, Jake. This lunkhead has a letter from Old Man Harriman himself. ‘Every possible courtesy—’ and so forth.”

  Pemberton thought quickly. He could refuse—but there was no sense in offending the big boss. “Okay, Captain. Make it short.”

  The visitor was a man, jovial, oversize—Jake figured him for an eighty pound weight penalty. Behind him a thirteen-year-old male counterpart came zipping through the door and lunged for the control console. Pemberton snagged him by the arm and forced himself to speak pleasantly. “Just hang on to that bracket, youngster. I don’t want you to bump your head.”

  “Leggo me! Pop—make him let go.”

  Kelly cut in. “I think he had best hang on, Judge.”

  “Umm, uh—very well. Do as the Captain says, Junior.”

  “Aw, gee, Pop!”

  “Judge Schacht, this is First Pilot Pemberton,” Kelly said rapidly. “He’ll show you around.”

  “Glad to know you, Pilot. Kind of you, and all that.”

  “What would you like to see, Judge?” Jake said carefully.

  “Oh, this and that. It’s for the boy—his first trip. I’m an old spacehound myself—probably more hours than half your crew.” He laughed. Pemberton did not.

  “There’s not much to see in free flight.”

  “Quite all right. We’ll just make ourselves at home—eh, Captain?”

  “I wanna sit in the control seat,” Schacht Junior announced.

  Pemberton winced. Kelly said urgently, “Jake, would you mind outlining the control system for the boy? Then we’ll go.”

  “He doesn’t have to show me anything. I know all about it. I’m a Junior Rocketeer of America—see my button?” The boy shoved himself toward the control desk.

  Pemberton grabbed him, steered him into the pilot’s chair, and strapped him in. He then flipped the board’s disconnect.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “I cut off power to the controls so I could explain them.”

  “Aintcha gonna fire the jets?”

  “No.” Jake started a rapid description of the use and purpose of each button, dial, switch, meter, gimmick, and scope.

  Junior squirmed. “How about meteors?” he demanded.

  “Oh, that—maybe one collision in half a million Earth-Moon trips. Meteors are scarce.”

  “So what? Say you hit the jackpot? You’re in the soup.”

  “Not at all. The anti-collision radar guards all directions five hundred miles out. If anything holds a steady bearing for three seconds, a direct hook-up starts the jets. First a warning gong so that everybody can grab something solid, then one second later—Boom!—We get out of there fast.”

  “Sounds corny to me. Lookee, I’ll show you how Commodore Cartwright did it in The Comet Busters—”

  “Don’t touch those controls!”

  “You don’t own this ship. My pop says—”

  “Oh, Jake!” Hearing his name, Pemberton twisted, fish-like, to face Kelly.

  “Jake, Judge Schacht would like to know—” From the corner of his eye Jake saw the boy reach for the board. He turned, started to shout—acceleration caught him, while the jets roared in his ear.

  An old spacehand can usually recover, catlike, in an unexpected change from weightlessness to acceleration. But Jake had been grabbing for the boy, instead of for anchorage. He fell back and down, twisted to try to avoid Schacht, banged his head on the frame of the open air-tight door below, and fetched up on the next deck, out cold.

  Kelly was shaking him. “You all right, Jake?”

  He sat up. “Yeah. Sure.” He became aware of the thunder, the shivering deckplates. “The jets! Cut the power!”

  He shoved Kelly aside and swarmed up into the control room, jabbed at the cut-off button. In sudden ringing silence, they were again weightless.

  Jake turned, unstrapped Schacht Junior, and hustled him to Kelly. “Captain, please remove this menace from my control room.”

  “Leggo! Pop—he’s gonna hurt me!”

  The elder Schacht bristled at once. “What’s the meaning of this? Let go of my son!”

  “Your precious son cut in the jets.”

  “Junior—did you do that?”

  The boy shifted his eyes. “No, Pop. It… it was a meteor.”

  Schacht looked puzzled. Pemberton snorted. “I had just told him how the radar-guard can blast to miss a meteor. He’s lying.”

  Schacht ran through the process he called “making up his mind”, then answered, “Junior never lies. Shame on you, a grown man, to try to put the blame on a helpless boy. I shall report you, sir. Come, Junior.”

  Jake grabbed his arm. “Captain, I want those controls photographed for fingerprints before this man leaves the room. It was not a meteor; the controls were dead, until this boy switched them on. Furthermore the anti-collision circuit sounds an alarm.”

  Schacht looked wary. “This is ridiculous. I simply objected to the slur on my son’s character. No harm has been done.”

  “No harm, eh? How about broken arms-or necks? And wasted fuel, with more to waste before we’re back in the groove. Do you know, Mister ‘Old Spacehound,’ just how precious a little fuel will be when we try to match orbits with Space Terminal—if we haven’t got it? We may have to dump cargo to save the ship, cargo at $60,000 a ton on freight charges alone. Fingerprints will show the Commerce Commission whom to nick for it.”

  When they were alone again Kelly asked anxiously, “You won’t really have to jettison? You’ve got a maneuvering reserve.”

  “Maybe we can’t even get to Terminal. How long did she blast?”

  Kelly scratched his head. “I was woozy myself.”

  “We’ll open the accelerograph and take a look.”

  Kelly brightened. “Oh, sure! If the brat didn’t waste too much, then we just swing ship and blast back the same length of time.”

  Jake shook his head. “You forgot the changed mass-ratio.”

  “Oh… oh, yes!” Kelly looked embarrassed. Mass-ratio… under power, the ship lost the weight of fuel burned. The thrust remained constant; the mass it pushed shrank. Getting back to proper position, course, and speed became a complicated problem in the calculus of ballistics. “But you can do it, can’t you?”

  “I’ll have to. But I sure wish I had Weinstein here.”

  Kelly left to see about his passengers; Jake got to work. He checked his situation by astronomical observation and by radar. Radar gave him all three factors quickly but with limited accuracy. Sights taken of Sun, Moon, and Earth gave him position, but told nothing of course and speed, at that time—nor could he afford to wait to take a second group of sights for the purpose.

  Dead reckoning gave him an estimated situation, by adding Weinstein’s predictions to the calculated effect of young Schacht’s meddling. This checked fairly well with the radar and visual observations, but stil
l he had no notion of whether or not he could get back in the groove and reach his destination; it was now necessary to calculate what it would take and whether or not the remaining fuel would be enough to brake his speed and match orbits.

  In space, it does no good to reach your journey’s end if you flash on past at miles per second, or even crawling along at a few hundred miles per hour. To catch an egg on a plate—don’t bump!

  He started doggedly to work to compute how to do it using the least fuel, but his little Marchant electronic calculator was no match for the tons of IBM computer at Supra-New York, nor was he Weinstein. Three hours later he had an answer of sorts. He called Kelly. “Captain? You can start by jettisoning Schacht & Son.”

  “I’d like to. No way out, Jake?”

  “I can’t promise to get your ship in safely without dumping. Better dump now, before we blast. It’s cheaper.”

  Kelly hesitated; he would as cheerfully lose a leg. “Give me time to pick out what to dump.”

  “Okay.” Pemberton returned sadly to his figures, hoping to find a saving mistake, then thought better of it. He called the radio room. “Get me Weinstein at Supra-New York.”

  “Out of normal range.”

  “I know that. This is the Pilot. Safety priority—urgent. Get a tight beam on them and nurse it.”

  “Uh… aye aye, sir. I’ll try.”

  Weinstein was doubtful. “Cripes, Jake, I can’t pilot you.”

  “Dammit, you can work problems for me!”

  “What good is seven-place accuracy with bum data?”

  “Sure, sure. But you know what instruments I’ve got; you know about how well I can handle them. Get me a better answer.”

  “I’ll try.” Weinstein called back four hours later. “Jake? Here’s the dope: You planned to blast back to match your predicted speed, then made side corrections for position. Orthodox but uneconomical. Instead I had Mabel solve for it as one maneuver.”

  “Good!”

  “Not so fast. It saves fuel but not enough. You can’t possibly get back in your old groove and then match Terminal without dumping.”