Part 3
Peal came in, looking more haggard than Blane. The scientist shook his head wearily. "The count is up in the bomb bay. I've been trying to sound some of the chemists out about ways to test, but I don't think we can do it. We don't know what to do or to look for. But I'm convinced now that something is going on inside those casings. It must be some new isotope being created from the uranium by the action of cosmic radiation. Those energies are high enough to cause transmutation. Whatever isotope it is, it must be a neutron emitter, and it's stirring up the uranium, just as increasing the mass does. The temperature around the casings is rising."
"Still no idea of how much margin we have?"
"Not exactly. But I can get some idea from watching how the temperature rises. Maybe a few days, maybe a couple of months." Peal dropped to a couch, rubbing his eyes. "It's getting too hot in there to work without a protective screen, so we can only make short tests. But Manners and I will take turns."
* * * * *
Headquarters was not greatly impressed by the rise in temperature that had been noted, though the reply was longer in coming this time. It simply suggested he stand by for later orders.
That night, a large meteorite fell in Arkansas. It was metallic, and big enough so that several hundred pounds managed to survive the burning friction of Earth's atmosphere. A large area saw the bright streak across the sky and traced it to where it fell. There its impact had knocked over trees, destroyed a house and the inhabitants, and killed a cow. There was a large hole in the ground where it had hit, and still a trace of metallic fragments around the cup.
Blane picked up the news accounts almost at once on the radio in his office. He switched the circuits around to connect all the speakers in the station and threw the master switch, giving everyone a chance to hear.
It took almost no time for the first reports to come babbling in hysterically, claiming an atomic missile had been sent down from the _Tsiolkovsky_.
The official signal from Headquarters flashed out at Blane, and he listened. They were declaring a general alert, but it wasn't red and there was still a delay. Once it went red, it would mean putting one of the plans already prepared into operation, demanding that he send his few men down into the bomb bay to set the automatic chutes into operation. Then missiles would rain down on Russian cities and bases.
Peal and Manners came in. Manners would have to carry out the orders. Blane glanced at him, and saw doubt and worry etched across the forehead. Could any man start the holocaust going? Or, believing that the _Sulky_ would be throwing bombs, as Manners must still believe, could any man refuse such an order?
Blane shook his head faintly as he met Peal's look. There were no bombs on the _Sulky_. And no bombs must fall from the _Goddard_. But in the long run, would it make any difference. There were more than enough land-based missiles to wipe out both countries. And if Blane saw them on his screens, getting set to wipe out _his_ nation, could he refuse to order the bombs here into operation?
* * * * *
He threw the side door of the office open and heard the mad action going on outside as men were beaming down the full power of their radio signals, giving the true nature and path of the meteorite, trying to override the frantic chaos already filling the atmosphere.
Then the light winked out. A voice that was weak and shaken came from all the speakers. "Attention. This is official! The object that fell from space has been determined to be a natural meteorite. No attack has been initiated. There is no cause for alarm...."
Blane cut off his speakers and went back into his cabin, shaking with reaction.
This time, there had been no holocaust. This time the alert had never gone red, and sane minds had somehow prevailed. But how long would sanity hold sway in a world where every unnatural accident was a potential trigger for a rain of bombs, a storm that might destroy most of the life on Earth and would certainly end man's adventure into space. It wouldn't really matter whether the stations managed to get off without retaliatory missiles from Earth; once the ships and supply bases were gone, there would be no possibility of continuing life here. The men who fired the missiles from these floating arsenals would be committing a long and horrible suicide. Yet he might have to order it--might reach a stage where he would even want to order it!
Peal was waiting for him with the report on the temperature of the casings when he came into the office the next day. There had been an increase of nearly two degrees, and it began to look as if the rise were an asymptotic one, that might get out of hand so quickly that there would be little warning.
"It's not much of a secret, either," the scientist stated. "I don't think Manners said anything, and I've kept it as tight as I could. But there are indirect ways of noting things going on, and the temperature gages in the hull show signs already. The men who service the bomb bay aren't all fools, either. They can guess there's trouble when they're sent in for only minutes at a time. So rumors are spreading."
Blane nodded. If the rumors got out of hand, things would go to pot in ways that might make it impossible for them to meet an emergency later. He threw the master switch for general summons again, and began speaking slowly, choosing his words with care. He wasn't going to lie, but he couldn't give them full information. He was already violating security to an extent that could bring full official wrath on him.
He told them that there was evidence that radioactivity was leaking from the warheads, though not in any measure to endanger the station at present. He said simply that there had been some related increase in temperature noted, and that the situation was being studied and reported to Earth, where fuller analysis was possible. It was all true, so far as it went--and the impression was as false as he could make it.
* * * * *
By the time the station was over Denver, where he could contact headquarters on his tightest beam, most of the rumors had died, and the men were discussing the situation without much excitement.
Surprisingly, headquarters took his report and switched him directly to a human, instead of the tape receiver he usually had to deal with. He gave the basic facts, and reported precisely on the fact that he had been forced to inform the crew of the station.
The voice from below sighed wearily across the thousand miles of space. "Quite right, Blane. Panic would be the worst thing you could have. Forget about the violation--we all have to cut that at times. Now, in regard to your basic situation, I'm going to do the best I can for you. But I wouldn't worry about your boiler trouble yet. It will be at least three days before repairs are really necessary, and before then Devlin will be back with you. He has a full grasp of what must be done. And good luck."
The voice cut off.
Blane sat staring at the wall. Three days--it could only mean that there were three days still to go before the runaway radiation inside the casings built up too high for something to be done--whether to dump the bombs or what, he couldn't guess. But that was shaving it pretty thin.
And how sure could he be that they knew what was going on? They had only his coded figures to go by. Yet he had to trust them. For once, he'd be glad when Devlin was back.
He called Manners and Peal in. "Seal off the bomb bay," he told them. "Just stick up a sign making it off limits and spread the word that nobody's to go in until Devlin gets back here--which will be in a couple of days." He grinned at their protests, and shook his head. "And that means off limits to you, too. Earth says we're safe until Devlin gets here, and he'll have orders. Until then, we can't do anything, so forget the warheads."
It would be a lot easier for the crew of the station to accept than would the sight of Peal and Manners going in and out in constant efforts to check. And there was nothing that their tests could show, anyhow; nobody here knew enough to interpret what the readings meant.
For a change, a sort of lucky accident helped him. One of the pipes in the circulating system got clogged with something that should never have reached the water and burst. It made a mess of most of one deck, and took a full day's cleaning and repairing. That type of misfortune was something the _Goddard_ had long since grown used to, and the sight of great scientists working with cooks and power men was always a relief from the routine. Maybe stations should be built to fail in minor ways. If ever a ship was built to cross the vast gulf to another star, it should be as imperfect as safety permitted.
On the surface, everything was routine by the time Devlin's ship came up the next day. Devlin must have more pull on Earth, Blane decided; something had boosted his stock. The ship had taken off from Cape Canaveral--the same ship that had taken him down--in a tricky but successful maneuver. Edwards, of course, had been called in for the job.
Blane had only a few words with the pilot, but he gathered the ship would be standing by to take Devlin off again at some undecided later time.
* * * * *
General Devlin came into the office with brisk, precise steps, and stood looking at Blane with a perfect picture of a military man regarding an inferior. His short body was as straight as a rod, and his head was at precisely the right posture. But his face looked grey, and a muscle under one eye twitched. He motioned sharply as Blane stood up to relinquish the seat behind the desk.
"At ease. Stay where you are. I've been cramped in a hammock for hours, I prefer to stand. I'm not taking over your command this time, anyhow. I'm merely here to execute one order before I have to report back down there. How's the trouble here?"
He listened to Blane's report, but hardly seemed to hear it. He was apparently fully aware of everything that Blane could tell him. When it was done, he nodded. "I was told to fill you in. I'll make it brief. Dr. Peal's theory that ultra hard radiation has caused the transmutation of some of the uranium to a more dangerous isotope is correct. This effects the same results as raising the mass of each segment of the uranium trigger to critical level eventually. But there is still time to save the station, and the level of radiation will not make it dangerous for the squad to handle the missiles; they will be exposed too short a time. I would appreciate it if you would instruct Captain Manners and his men to assemble in the hub in fifteen minutes. I'll join you there."
It wasn't a lot to work on, Blane decided. But he nodded as Devlin went out, pacing toward the coffee in the rec hall. He put through the orders and shortly moved out to join the eight men and Manners. In the hub were stacked a number of boxes. He counted them, and nodded. There was one for each of the missiles.
"Looks like we dump the missiles," Manners suggested, relief heavy in his voice. "Those must be program tapes for the guidance computers on the missiles."
Devlin's voice sounded sharply behind them, bringing them to attention. If he had heard Manners, he gave no sign of it.
"In those boxes are tapes for the missiles. You are all familiar with their installation and the operation of loading the missiles into the outer chutes. Each of you will take one pile of the tapes and repair to the bomb bay. You are to enter there at precisely nine hundred. The bay is hot, but not dangerous for the length of time required to complete this operation. Captain, how long should the operation of moving all bombs into chutes require?"
"About twenty minutes, sir." There were motorized winches that did the work, and the chutes were one of the few pieces of mechanism on the _Goddard_ that had not been made shoddily.
"Very good. Then at nine twenty, I shall expect you to emerge from the bomb bay and seal it again. You will then report to Mr. Blane for further instructions."
* * * * *
The orders could have been given just as easily outside the bomb bay, or to Manners alone, Blane realized. The whole affair was too precise, too much by the book. He frowned as he watched Manners and the men pick up the little boxes and move toward the elevators. They were in no great hurry, since they still had fifteen minutes before they were to enter the bomb bay. Then they were gone. And Devlin shuddered faintly and began wiping his face with a kerchief. Something cold shot up from Blane's throat to the roof of his mouth.
"What's the destination on the tapes?" he asked sharply.
Devlin stared at him or through him. Then the stiff body bent a trifle in a faint bow. "I suspect you've guessed it, Blane. They are all set to take an elliptical orbit that will bring them against the _Tsiolkovsky_ in mid-Pacific."
"They can't!" But Blane knew that they could be set for just that--they had to be set for such an orbit. With their bomb stock about to become useless in a matter of a few days, and with too little time to replace them after the realization of what was happening, the military mind could decide that the only hope was to eliminate the danger from the other station. It would mean a stalemate in space, and might possibly still leave Russia doubtful enough about the striking power left on the _Goddard_ to intimidate her out of retaliating.
"It would wipe men out of space!" he protested. "You've got to cancel the order."
Again Devlin gave the faint bow. "Unfortunately, I have no authority to cancel that order, Mr. Blane. I cannot do so."
Blane felt his fist move from his hip before he realized what he planned. It was an awkward blow, as all activity in nearly zero gravity must be, but it connected. Devlin was lifted from his weak contact with the floor and his head banged savagely against the roof. He drifted back toward the deck, unconscious. Blane caught himself and dashed for the elevator. There was still time to broadcast the facts to the station and to stop the men from entering the bomb bay. After that, he no longer cared what happened to him.
VI
The meeting Blane had called in the rec hall had been brief. Men and women had stared incredulously at him as he told them the facts--all the facts this time. There hadn't even been a vote, since none was needed. Now they were scurrying about, hastily following the orders he had given. Manners was destroying the tapes, the weather men were collecting the reports of future weather that should have been filed within the next few days, and others were gathering what bits of scientific material and notes they could. Edwards had somehow joined them and was already out in the little ferry, heading for the big lunar ship that was fueled and almost completed.
Devlin sat in the hub still. He was conscious now, but the blood on his head ruined what would otherwise have been a fine military posture. He made his slight bow, smiling bitterly in recognition of his helplessness.
"I'm oddly grateful to you, Blane," he said. "But I don't expect you to believe me. And I find I regret what will happen to you and the men here when this catches up with you. What are your plans for me?"
Blane hadn't thought of that. He watched through the port as the ugly, clumsy lunar ship moved toward the ship, to a distance where the ferry could be used to carry them all out to it.
"You can pilot a ship, I remember. Take Edwards' ship and go back to the Island," he decided at last.
Devlin smiled. "I thought of that, too. But with your permission, I'd rather come with you. I'm curious. And I give you my word I shall not interfere in any way. Your case is hopeless, of course--but so is mine."
Blane shrugged. "Come along, then."
Loading everyone into the lunar ship was a horrible period of chaos. It had never been meant to hold such a cargo of goods and people. But somehow room was found, and Edwards began moving out and away from the _Goddard_--the station that was now empty, except for the warheads that were growing hotter with each hour.
"I've called the Island," he said to Blane. "If the message got to anyone except some lumphead, I think they'll be waiting for us."
Blane nodded, but he found little reaction to any news now. He had made his plans in some split moment between striking Devlin and reaching the office. There was nothing now to add to them. There was only a grim determination and the hope that all spacemen must share it--the determination that somehow, men had to stay out here and find an honest destiny in space.
* * * * *
Three hours later, when their long ellipse brought them within sight of the _Tsiolkovsky_, he saw that there were ships around the station. There were no more than half a dozen now, but he could see others approaching. It was impossible for all to leave at once, but the men there had elected to join him, and they had found enough sympathy among the staff of the Island to gain control long enough to accomplish their decision.
The awkward lunar ship came to a reluctant stop less than half a mile from the station, and Blane began picking those who were to go with him aboard the little ferry that was in tow. Manners and Peal and two others. He was looking for a sixth when Devlin moved into the group. Blane started to order him aside, and then shrugged.
They were almost as crowded in the taxi that Edwards piloted as they had been on the lunar ship. But there was no thought of that. The others were taking their cue from Blane, and Blane was simply waiting, frozen in his determination until events could shape his moves.
* * * * *
The landing net snapped around them, and they settled into the silicone ring, and then began moving into the huge hub of the _Sulky_.
At least a dozen people were waiting there--too many, Blane realized. He hadn't bothered to consider the size of the group he must meet. But he disregarded that.
Sonya Vartanian moved forward to greet him with the double kiss and handshake. Her eyes were unreadable, but her voice was warm. "Welcome, gentlemen. I am delighted that you remembered our offer of aid in time of trouble. You have our assurance that--"
Blane cut her off with a hasty gesture. He wanted no speeches from her. It had to be done at once, or forgotten, as he had planned it. His mind had no second line of action. He began to speak authoritatively;
"In the name of the free territory of space, I seize this ship and all that is on it," he continued coldly, "I sever all ties any may have with Earth herewith. I ban all military operations from space. I declare that no nation may own property in space, but may only trade according to the just laws and practices that shall be henceforth established for space. I--"
He was wound up to the point where he could not stop, though there was nothing more to say at the moment.
But a sudden sound choked off his words. It was a shout from those who had come to meet the crew from the _Goddard_. It was a long, surprised crescendo that slowly became a cheer.
* * * * *
Sonya leaned forward, grasping his hands. "Thank God," she cried in his ear. "Oh thank God. I was so afraid you wouldn't see it."
He blinked, beginning to feel foolish. "You mean that you agree? Without resistance?"
"We've been trying to find some way to make it happen for two years--ever since our commander refused to permit our decaying missiles to be used against your station," she told him. "But we never really believed it could happen."
Blane knew that he had never believed it, either.
He pulled her closer, beginning to smile again. "In the name of the free territory of space!" he said, and kissed her.
VII
The blaze in the heavens that had signalled the end of the _Goddard_ was less than twelve hours old. It had been a magnificent funeral pyre to an epoch, but it had not yet ended the methods of diplomacy. It had merely forced faster action.
The Premier of Russia and the President of the United States sat together, trying to keep their voices down and yet hear each other over the noise and confusion of the assembly hall in the UN building. They were surrounded by guards, as usual, and the television cameras were focused on them. But they had so far been unable either to agree or disagree. They could only wait until the time announced had arrived, as most of the world was now waiting.
Then the great system of amplifiers and speakers went into operation, and quiet began to descend over the hall.
There must have been a greeting of some formal kind, but few heard it. Jerry Blane's tired voice was already setting forth his written statement of demands when the quiet was sufficient for him to be heard. He read with the voice of a man not used to making a written speech sound natural, but nobody noticed.
The announcement of the facts was obvious, but it took on added power from the brevity that compressed everything into a single focus. America had lost a station and Russia had no supply ships. There was a supply base on Johnston Island, but the ships were all in space. Earth was completely cut off from contact with space for months to come.
And Earth could no longer exist without that contact. Her next weather reports were needed within the week, and without them the damage to crops grown dependent on them might result in famine for much of Earth. Certain drugs had to be made in space. There were hundreds of needs, without which the economy of Earth would collapse. Today, in a real sense, Earth could exist only by the use of a station in space.
But the station could exist for a longer time without Earth. There was food and supplies for more than a year. They were prepared to wait, if need be.
* * * * *
"You cannot use force," Blane's voice stated flatly. "For the first time, the governments of Earth cannot fall back on destruction when everything else fails. To destroy us would make your economic collapse inevitable now. You cannot go back to your past or the savage rules of your past. You can only meet us honestly and concede the just demands we propose."
Many were surprised at the proposals--the joint work of two years of thought on the _Tsiolkovsky_ and a final flash of insight on the part of Blane. They wanted recognition from the UN that they were an independent territory. They wanted to incorporate as an independent stock company on Earth, under direct UN charter. For that, they were willing to pay reasonable taxes on operations done within any country. They were willing to pay a reasonable price, to be settled by a committee of neutral nations, for the two stations, for the ships--and even for the Russian ships that were destroyed--and for complete sovereignty over Johnston Island, which would now be worthless to Earth. They would pay for this by the issuing of stock, which could be redeemed in time through the profits that were easily provable as more than adequate to meet their debts. And they were to have full control of further ventures and services to be transacted on the station. Weather predictions would be on a subscription basis, research on the station would be by lease, and other services could be adjusted to a fair market value.
There was more, but much of it was only repetition to make sure all was understood. It finished with a simple request for a quick decision, since no more business could be done with Earth until the agreements had been reached.
The President nodded. "You'll agree?" he asked.
"What else can we do?" the Premier asked in return. "He's right. We can't continue today without the services we're used to from space. A series of accidents has left us no choice."