Mr. Spaceship - 2

"And we're still heading out," Winter said, grinning foolishly. "We'll
be going through the first-line defense belt in a few minutes. If they
don't shoot us down--"
"We better radio back." The Pilot clicked the radio to _send_. "I'll
contact the main bases, one of the observation stations."
"Better get the defense belt, at the speed we're going. We'll be into
it in a minute."
"And after that," Kramer said, "we'll be in outer space. He's moving
us toward outspace velocity. Is this ship equipped with baths?"
"Baths?" Gross said.
"The sleep tanks. For space-drive. We may need them if we go much
faster."
"But good God, where are we going?" Gross said. "Where--where's he
taking us?"
* * * * *
The Pilot obtained contact. "This is Dwight, on ship," he said. "We're
entering the defense zone at high velocity. Don't fire on us."
"Turn back," the impersonal voice came through the speaker. "You're
not allowed in the defense zone."
"We can't. We've lost control."
"Lost control?"
"This is an experimental ship."
Gross took the radio. "This is Commander Gross, Security. We're being
carried into outer space. There's nothing we can do. Is there any way
that we can be removed from this ship?"
A hesitation. "We have some fast pursuit ships that could pick you up
if you wanted to jump. The chances are good they'd find you. Do you
have space flares?"
"We do," the Pilot said. "Let's try it."
"Abandon ship?" Kramer said. "If we leave now we'll never see it
again."
"What else can we do? We're gaining speed all the time. Do you propose
that we stay here?"
"No." Kramer shook his head. "Damn it, there ought to be a better
solution."
"Could you contact _him_?" Winter asked. "The Old Man? Try to reason
with him?"
"It's worth a chance," Gross said. "Try it."
"All right." Kramer took the microphone. He paused a moment. "Listen!
Can you hear me? This is Phil Kramer. Can you hear me, Professor. Can
you hear me? I want you to release the controls."
There was silence.
"This is Kramer, Professor. Can you hear me? Do you remember who I am?
Do you understand who this is?"
Above the control panel the wall speaker made a sound, a sputtering
static. They looked up.
"Can you hear me, Professor. This is Philip Kramer. I want you to give
the ship back to us. If you can hear me, release the controls! Let go,
Professor. Let go!"
Static. A rushing sound, like the wind. They gazed at each other.
There was silence for a moment.
"It's a waste of time," Gross said.
"No--listen!"
The sputter came again. Then, mixed with the sputter, almost lost in
it, a voice came, toneless, without inflection, a mechanical, lifeless
voice from the metal speaker in the wall, above their heads.
"... Is it you, Philip? I can't make you out. Darkness.... Who's
there? With you...."
"It's me, Kramer." His fingers tightened against the microphone
handle. "You must release the controls, Professor. We have to get back
to Terra. You must."
Silence. Then the faint, faltering voice came again, a little stronger
than before. "Kramer. Everything so strange. I was right, though.
Consciousness result of thinking. Necessary result. Cognito ergo sum.
Retain conceptual ability. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, Professor--"
"I altered the wiring. Control. I was fairly certain.... I wonder if I
can do it. Try...."
Suddenly the air-conditioning snapped into operation. It snapped
abruptly off again. Down the corridor a door slammed. Something
thudded. The men stood listening. Sounds came from all sides of them,
switches shutting, opening. The lights blinked off; they were in
darkness. The lights came back on, and at the same time the heating
coils dimmed and faded.
"Good God!" Winter said.
Water poured down on them, the emergency fire-fighting system. There
was a screaming rush of air. One of the escape hatches had slid back,
and the air was roaring frantically out into space.
The hatch banged closed. The ship subsided into silence. The heating
coils glowed into life. As suddenly as it had begun the weird
exhibition ceased.
"I can do--everything," the dry, toneless voice came from the wall
speaker. "It is all controlled. Kramer, I wish to talk to you. I've
been--been thinking. I haven't seen you in many years. A lot to
discuss. You've changed, boy. We have much to discuss. Your wife--"
The Pilot grabbed Kramer's arm. "There's a ship standing off our bow.
Look."
* * * * *
They ran to the port. A slender pale craft was moving along with them,
keeping pace with them. It was signal-blinking.
"A Terran pursuit ship," the Pilot said. "Let's jump. They'll pick us
up. Suits--"
He ran to a supply cupboard and turned the handle. The door opened and
he pulled the suits out onto the floor.
"Hurry," Gross said. A panic seized them. They dressed frantically,
pulling the heavy garments over them. Winter staggered to the escape
hatch and stood by it, waiting for the others. They joined him, one by
one.
"Let's go!" Gross said. "Open the hatch."
Winter tugged at the hatch. "Help me."
They grabbed hold, tugging together. Nothing happened. The hatch
refused to budge.
"Get a crowbar," the Pilot said.
"Hasn't anyone got a blaster?" Gross looked frantically around. "Damn
it, blast it open!"
"Pull," Kramer grated. "Pull together."
"Are you at the hatch?" the toneless voice came, drifting and eddying
through the corridors of the ship. They looked up, staring around
them. "I sense something nearby, outside. A ship? You are leaving, all
of you? Kramer, you are leaving, too? Very unfortunate. I had hoped we
could talk. Perhaps at some other time you might be induced to
remain."
"Open the hatch!" Kramer said, staring up at the impersonal walls of
the ship. "For God's sake, open it!"
There was silence, an endless pause. Then, very slowly, the hatch slid
back. The air screamed out, rushing past them into space.
One by one they leaped, one after the other, propelled away by the
repulsive material of the suits. A few minutes later they were being
hauled aboard the pursuit ship. As the last one of them was lifted
through the port, their own ship pointed itself suddenly upward and
shot off at tremendous speed. It disappeared.
Kramer removed his helmet, gasping. Two sailors held onto him and
began to wrap him in blankets. Gross sipped a mug of coffee,
shivering.
"It's gone," Kramer murmured.
"I'll have an alarm sent out," Gross said.
"What's happened to your ship?" a sailor asked curiously. "It sure
took off in a hurry. Who's on it?"
"We'll have to have it destroyed," Gross went on, his face grim. "It's
got to be destroyed. There's no telling what it--what _he_ has in
mind." Gross sat down weakly on a metal bench. "What a close call for
us. We were so damn trusting."
"What could he be planning," Kramer said, half to himself. "It doesn't
make sense. I don't get it."
* * * * *
As the ship sped back toward the moon base they sat around the table
in the dining room, sipping hot coffee and thinking, not saying very
much.
"Look here," Gross said at last. "What kind of man was Professor
Thomas? What do you remember about him?"
Kramer put his coffee mug down. "It was ten years ago. I don't
remember much. It's vague."
He let his mind run back over the years. He and Dolores had been at
Hunt College together, in physics and the life sciences. The College
was small and set back away from the momentum of modern life. He had
gone there because it was his home town, and his father had gone there
before him.
Professor Thomas had been at the College a long time, as long as
anyone could remember. He was a strange old man, keeping to himself
most of the time. There were many things that he disapproved of, but
he seldom said what they were.
"Do you recall anything that might help us?" Gross asked. "Anything
that would give us a clue as to what he might have in mind?"
Kramer nodded slowly. "I remember one thing...."
One day he and the Professor had been sitting together in the school
chapel, talking leisurely.
"Well, you'll be out of school, soon," the Professor had said. "What
are you going to do?"
"Do? Work at one of the Government Research Projects, I suppose."
"And eventually? What's your ultimate goal?"
Kramer had smiled. "The question is unscientific. It presupposes such
things as ultimate ends."
"Suppose instead along these lines, then: What if there were no war
and no Government Research Projects? What would you do, then?"
"I don't know. But how can I imagine a hypothetical situation like
that? There's been war as long as I can remember. We're geared for
war. I don't know what I'd do. I suppose I'd adjust, get used to it."
The Professor had stared at him. "Oh, you do think you'd get
accustomed to it, eh? Well, I'm glad of that. And you think you could
find something to do?"
Gross listened intently. "What do you infer from this, Kramer?"
"Not much. Except that he was against war."
"We're all against war," Gross pointed out.
"True. But he was withdrawn, set apart. He lived very simply, cooking
his own meals. His wife died many years ago. He was born in Europe, in
Italy. He changed his name when he came to the United States. He used
to read Dante and Milton. He even had a Bible."
"Very anachronistic, don't you think?"
"Yes, he lived quite a lot in the past. He found an old phonograph and
records, and he listened to the old music. You saw his house, how
old-fashioned it was."
"Did he have a file?" Winter asked Gross.
"With Security? No, none at all. As far as we could tell he never
engaged in political work, never joined anything or even seemed to
have strong political convictions."
"No," Kramer, agreed. "About all he ever did was walk through the
hills. He liked nature."
"Nature can be of great use to a scientist," Gross said. "There
wouldn't be any science without it."
"Kramer, what do you think his plan is, taking control of the ship and
disappearing?" Winter said.
"Maybe the transfer made him insane," the Pilot said. "Maybe there's
no plan, nothing rational at all."
"But he had the ship rewired, and he had made sure that he would
retain consciousness and memory before he even agreed to the
operation. He must have had something planned from the start. But
what?"
"Perhaps he just wanted to stay alive longer," Kramer said. "He was
old and about to die. Or--"
"Or what?"
"Nothing." Kramer stood up. "I think as soon as we get to the moon
base I'll make a vidcall to earth. I want to talk to somebody about
this."
"Who's that?" Gross asked.
"Dolores. Maybe she remembers something."
"That's a good idea," Gross said.
* * * * *
"Where are you calling from?" Dolores asked, when he succeeded in
reaching her.
"From the moon base."
"All kinds of rumors are running around. Why didn't the ship come
back? What happened?"
"I'm afraid he ran off with it."
"He?"
"The Old Man. Professor Thomas." Kramer explained what had happened.
Dolores listened intently. "How strange. And you think he planned it
all in advance, from the start?"
"I'm certain. He asked for the plans of construction and the
theoretical diagrams at once."
"But why? What for?"
"I don't know. Look, Dolores. What do you remember about him? Is there
anything that might give a clue to all this?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's the trouble."
On the vidscreen Dolores knitted her brow. "I remember he raised
chickens in his back yard, and once he had a goat." She smiled. "Do
you remember the day the goat got loose and wandered down the main
street of town? Nobody could figure out where it came from."
"Anything else?"
"No." He watched her struggling, trying to remember. "He wanted to
have a farm, sometime, I know."
"All right. Thanks." Kramer touched the switch. "When I get back to
Terra maybe I'll stop and see you."
"Let me know how it works out."
He cut the line and the picture dimmed and faded. He walked slowly
back to where Gross and some officers of the Military were sitting at
a chart table, talking.
"Any luck?" Gross said, looking up.
"No. All she remembers is that he kept a goat."
"Come over and look at this detail chart." Gross motioned him around
to his side. "Watch!"
Kramer saw the record tabs moving furiously, the little white dots
racing back and forth.
"What's happening?" he asked.
"A squadron outside the defense zone has finally managed to contact
the ship. They're maneuvering now, for position. Watch."
The white counters were forming a barrel formation around a black dot
that was moving steadily across the board, away from the central
position. As they watched, the white dots constricted around it.
"They're ready to open fire," a technician at the board said.
"Commander, what shall we tell them to do?"
Gross hesitated. "I hate to be the one who makes the decision. When it
comes right down to it--"
"It's not just a ship," Kramer said. "It's a man, a living person. A
human being is up there, moving through space. I wish we knew what--"
"But the order has to be given. We can't take any chances. Suppose he
went over to them, to the yuks."
Kramer's jaw dropped. "My God, he wouldn't do that."
"Are you sure? Do you know what he'll do?"
"He wouldn't do that."
Gross turned to the technician. "Tell them to go ahead."
"I'm sorry, sir, but now the ship has gotten away. Look down at the
board."
* * * * *
Gross stared down, Kramer over his shoulder. The black dot had slipped
through the white dots and had moved off at an abrupt angle. The white
dots were broken up, dispersing in confusion.
"He's an unusual strategist," one of the officers said. He traced the
line. "It's an ancient maneuver, an old Prussian device, but it
worked."
The white dots were turning back. "Too many yuk ships out that far,"
Gross said. "Well, that's what you get when you don't act quickly." He
looked up coldly at Kramer. "We should have done it when we had him.
Look at him go!" He jabbed a finger at the rapidly moving black dot.
The dot came to the edge of the board and stopped. It had reached the
limit of the chartered area. "See?"
--Now what? Kramer thought, watching. So the Old Man had escaped the
cruisers and gotten away. He was alert, all right; there was nothing
wrong with his mind. Or with his ability to control his new body.
Body--The ship was a new body for him. He had traded in the old dying
body, withered and frail, for this hulking frame of metal and plastic,
turbines and rocket jets. He was strong, now. Strong and big. The new
body was more powerful than a thousand human bodies. But how long
would it last him? The average life of a cruiser was only ten years.
With careful handling he might get twenty out of it, before some
essential part failed and there was no way to replace it.
And then, what then? What would he do, when something failed and there
was no one to fix it for him? That would be the end. Someplace, far
out in the cold darkness of space, the ship would slow down, silent
and lifeless, to exhaust its last heat into the eternal timelessness
of outer space. Or perhaps it would crash on some barren asteroid,
burst into a million fragments.
It was only a question of time.
"Your wife didn't remember anything?" Gross said.
"I told you. Only that he kept a goat, once."
"A hell of a lot of help that is."
Kramer shrugged. "It's not my fault."
"I wonder if we'll ever see him again." Gross stared down at the
indicator dot, still hanging at the edge of the board. "I wonder if
he'll ever move back this way."
"I wonder, too," Kramer said.
* * * * *
That night Kramer lay in bed, tossing from side to side, unable to
sleep. The moon gravity, even artificially increased, was unfamiliar
to him and it made him uncomfortable. A thousand thoughts wandered
loose in his head as he lay, fully awake.
What did it all mean? What was the Professor's plan? Maybe they would
never know. Maybe the ship was gone for good; the Old Man had left
forever, shooting into outer space. They might never find out why he
had done it, what purpose--if any--had been in his mind.
Kramer sat up in bed. He turned on the light and lit a cigarette. His
quarters were small, a metal-lined bunk room, part of the moon station
base.
The Old Man had wanted to talk to him. He had wanted to discuss
things, hold a conversation, but in the hysteria and confusion all
they had been able to think of was getting away. The ship was rushing
off with them, carrying them into outer space. Kramer set his jaw.
Could they be blamed for jumping? They had no idea where they were
being taken, or why. They were helpless, caught in their own ship, and
the pursuit ship standing by waiting to pick them up was their only
chance. Another half hour and it would have been too late.
But what had the Old Man wanted to say? What had he intended to tell
him, in those first confusing moments when the ship around them had
come alive, each metal strut and wire suddenly animate, the body of a
living creature, a vast metal organism?
It was weird, unnerving. He could not forget it, even now. He looked
around the small room uneasily. What did it signify, the coming to
life of metal and plastic? All at once they had found themselves
inside a _living_ creature, in its stomach, like Jonah inside the
whale.
It had been alive, and it had talked to them, talked calmly and
rationally, as it rushed them off, faster and faster into outer space.
The wall speaker and circuit had become the vocal cords and mouth, the
wiring the spinal cord and nerves, the hatches and relays and circuit
breakers the muscles.
They had been helpless, completely helpless. The ship had, in a brief
second, stolen their power away from them and left them defenseless,
practically at its mercy. It was not right; it made him uneasy. All
his life he had controlled machines, bent nature and the forces of
nature to man and man's needs. The human race had slowly evolved until
it was in a position to operate things, run them as it saw fit. Now
all at once it had been plunged back down the ladder again, prostrate
before a Power against which they were children.
Kramer got out of bed. He put on his bathrobe and began to search for
a cigarette. While he was searching, the vidphone rang.
He snapped the vidphone on.
"Yes?"
The face of the immediate monitor appeared. "A call from Terra, Mr.
Kramer. An emergency call."
"Emergency call? For me? Put it through." Kramer came awake, brushing
his hair back out of his eyes. Alarm plucked at him.
From the speaker a strange voice came. "Philip Kramer? Is this
Kramer?"
"Yes. Go on."
"This is General Hospital, New York City, Terra. Mr. Kramer, your wife
is here. She has been critically injured in an accident. Your name was
given to us to call. Is it possible for you to--"
"How badly?" Kramer gripped the vidphone stand. "Is it serious?"
"Yes, it's serious, Mr. Kramer. Are you able to come here? The quicker
you can come the better."
"Yes." Kramer nodded. "I'll come. Thanks."
* * * * *
The screen died as the connection was broken. Kramer waited a moment.
Then he tapped the button. The screen relit again. "Yes, sir," the
monitor said.
"Can I get a ship to Terra at once? It's an emergency. My wife--"
"There's no ship leaving the moon for eight hours. You'll have to wait
until the next period."
"Isn't there anything I can do?"
"We can broadcast a general request to all ships passing through this
area. Sometimes cruisers pass by here returning to Terra for repairs."
"Will you broadcast that for me? I'll come down to the field."
"Yes sir. But there may be no ship in the area for awhile. It's a
gamble." The screen died.
Kramer dressed quickly. He put on his coat and hurried to the lift. A
moment later he was running across the general receiving lobby, past
the rows of vacant desks and conference tables. At the door the
sentries stepped aside and he went outside, onto the great concrete
steps.
The face of the moon was in shadow. Below him the field stretched out
in total darkness, a black void, endless, without form. He made his
way carefully down the steps and along the ramp along the side of the
field, to the control tower. A faint row of red lights showed him the
way.
Two soldiers challenged him at the foot of the tower, standing in the
shadows, their guns ready.
"Kramer?"
"Yes." A light was flashed in his face.
"Your call has been sent out already."
"Any luck?" Kramer asked.
"There's a cruiser nearby that has made contact with us. It has an
injured jet and is moving slowly back toward Terra, away from the
line."
"Good." Kramer nodded, a flood of relief rushing through him. He lit a
cigarette and gave one to each of the soldiers. The soldiers lit up.
"Sir," one of them asked, "is it true about the experimental ship?"
"What do you mean?"
"It came to life and ran off?"
"No, not exactly," Kramer said. "It had a new type of control system
instead of the Johnson units. It wasn't properly tested."
"But sir, one of the cruisers that was there got up close to it, and a
buddy of mine says this ship acted funny. He never saw anything like
it. It was like when he was fishing once on Terra, in Washington
State, fishing for bass. The fish were smart, going this way and
that--"
"Here's your cruiser," the other soldier said. "Look!"
An enormous vague shape was setting slowly down onto the field. They
could make nothing out but its row of tiny green blinkers. Kramer
stared at the shape.
"Better hurry, sir," the soldiers said. "They don't stick around here
very long."
"Thanks." Kramer loped across the field, toward the black shape that
rose up above him, extended across the width of the field. The ramp
was down from the side of the cruiser and he caught hold of it. The
ramp rose, and a moment later Kramer was inside the hold of the ship.
The hatch slid shut behind him.
As he made his way up the stairs to the main deck the turbines roared
up from the moon, out into space.
Kramer opened the door to the main deck. He stopped suddenly, staring
around him in surprise. There was nobody in sight. The ship was
deserted.
"Good God," he said. Realization swept over him, numbing him. He sat
down on a bench, his head swimming. "Good God."
The ship roared out into space leaving the moon and Terra farther
behind each moment.
And there was nothing he could do.
* * * * *
"So it was you who put the call through," he said at last. "It was you
who called me on the vidphone, not any hospital on Terra. It was all
part of the plan." He looked up and around him. "And Dolores is
really--"
"Your wife is fine," the wall speaker above him said tonelessly. "It
was a fraud. I am sorry to trick you that way, Philip, but it was all
I could think of. Another day and you would have been back on Terra. I
don't want to remain in this area any longer than necessary. They have
been so certain of finding me out in deep space that I have been able
to stay here without too much danger. But even the purloined letter
was found eventually."
Kramer smoked his cigarette nervously. "What are you going to do?
Where are we going?"
"First, I want to talk to you. I have many things to discuss. I was
very disappointed when you left me, along with the others. I had hoped
that you would remain." The dry voice chuckled. "Remember how we used
to talk in the old days, you and I? That was a long time ago."
The ship was gaining speed. It plunged through space at tremendous
speed, rushing through the last of the defense zone and out beyond. A
rush of nausea made Kramer bend over for a moment.
When he straightened up the voice from the wall went on, "I'm sorry to
step it up so quickly, but we are still in danger. Another few moments
and we'll be free."
"How about yuk ships? Aren't they out here?"
"I've already slipped away from several of them. They're quite curious
about me."
"Curious?"
"They sense that I'm different, more like their own organic mines.
They don't like it. I believe they will begin to withdraw from this
area, soon. Apparently they don't want to get involved with me.
They're an odd race, Philip. I would have liked to study them closely,
try to learn something about them. I'm of the opinion that they use no
inert material. All their equipment and instruments are alive, in some
form or other. They don't construct or build at all. The idea of
_making_ is foreign to them. They utilize existing forms. Even their
ships--"
"Where are we going?" Kramer said. "I want to know where you are
taking me."
"Frankly, I'm not certain."
"You're not certain?"
"I haven't worked some details out. There are a few vague spots in my
program, still. But I think that in a short while I'll have them
ironed out."
"What is your program?" Kramer said.
"It's really very simple. But don't you want to come into the control
room and sit? The seats are much more comfortable than that metal
bench."
Kramer went into the control room and sat down at the control board.
Looking at the useless apparatus made him feel strange.
"What's the matter?" the speaker above the board rasped.
* * * * *
Kramer gestured helplessly. "I'm--powerless. I can't do anything. And
I don't like it. Do you blame me?"
"No. No, I don't blame you. But you'll get your control back, soon.
Don't worry. This is only a temporary expedient, taking you off this
way. It was something I didn't contemplate. I forgot that orders would
be given out to shoot me on sight."
"It was Gross' idea."
"I don't doubt that. My conception, my plan, came to me as soon as you
began to describe your project, that day at my house. I saw at once
that you were wrong; you people have no understanding of the mind at
all. I realized that the transfer of a human brain from an organic
body to a complex artificial space ship would not involve the loss of
the intellectualization faculty of the mind. When a man thinks, he
_is_.
"When I realized that, I saw the possibility of an age-old dream
becoming real. I was quite elderly when I first met you, Philip. Even
then my life-span had come pretty much to its end. I could look ahead
to nothing but death, and with it the extinction of all my ideas. I
had made no mark on the world, none at all. My students, one by one,
passed from me into the world, to take up jobs in the great Research
Project, the search for better and bigger weapons of war.
"The world has been fighting for a long time, first with itself, then
with the Martians, then with these beings from Proxima Centauri, whom
we know nothing about. The human society has evolved war as a cultural
institution, like the science of astronomy, or mathematics. War is a
part of our lives, a career, a respected vocation. Bright, alert young
men and women move into it, putting their shoulders to the wheel as
they did in the time of Nebuchadnezzar. It has always been so.
"But is it innate in mankind? I don't think so. No social custom is