Dr. Futurity (1960) (7 page)

The field, when they reached it, surprised him by its size: no larger than the back yard of an ordinary upper-middle-class home, and not even fully level. On it a ship, like an egg, painted originally a dark blue but now pitted and corroded, was in the process of being prepared. Several field lights had been trained on it, and in the glare technicians were going over it, making what he guessed to be final examinations.

Almost at once he found himself being propelled up a ramp and through the porthole entrance of the ship. There, in a single compartment, he was seated in a reinforced chair, clamped so that he could not stir--and at that point the men let go of him.

The compartment contained, besides himself, a single entity. He had never seen such an object before; he stared at it, feeling a pervasive dread.

The machine stood almost as high as a man, built partly of opaque metals and plastic, and partly--near the top--of a transparent membrane through which he could see activity taking place. In a fluid, something soft, on the order of gray organic material, floated. Out of the top of the machine several delicate projections sprouted, reminding him of the below-surface portions of mushrooms. Fine interlacing of fibres almost too tenuous to be visible.

Pausing at the entrance porthole, one of the government men turned and said, "It's not alive. That business floating around up top, that's a section cut out of a rat brain. It's growing in the medium, but it's not conscious; it's just to simplify building them."

"Easier to cut a section from a rat brain than build a control," another man said, and then both of them disappeared; the lock slipped into place and the hull of the ship became sealed.

Immediately the machine in front of Parsons whirred, clicked, and said in a calm, distinctly human voice, "The trip to the Martian settlements takes approximately seventy-five minutes. You will be supplied with adequate ventilation and heat, but there is no provision for food except in emergency."

The machine clicked off. It had spoken its piece.

Now the ship shuddered. Parsons shut his eyes as the ship began to lift, very slowly at first, and then, abruptly, at enormous speed. The far section of wall had a wide slot for viewing purposes; he saw the surface of Earth rush away, the stars swirl as the ship changed course. Nice of them to let me see, he thought in a dazed, remote way.

Now the machine spoke again. "This ship is so constructed that tampering with any portion of it will produce a detonation that will destroy both the ship and occupant. The trajectory of flight is prearranged, and any tampering with the automatic self-contained beam will cause the same detonating mechanism to become active." After a moment the machine repeated its message.

The swirl of stars that he faced gradually settled down. One spot of light began to grow, and he identified it as Mars.

"By your left hand you will find an emergency button," the machine said suddenly. "If you find yourself deprived of either adequate ventilation or warmth, press that button."

For other kinds of situations, Parsons thought, there probably are no provisions. This ship carries me to Mars, blows up if anyone tries to interfere, gives me air and heat, and that's its job.

The interior, as well as the exterior, had a worn, used quality. It's made this trip many times, he decided. It's carried quite a few people between Earth and the Martian settlements. Back and forth. A shuttle-service, leaving at odd hours.

Mars continued to grow. He guessed at the time,
Half an
hour possibly had gone by. It makes good speed,
he thought.
Perfected
.

And then Mars, on the screen, disappeared.

The stars leaped; he felt a vacuum within him, as if he were falling. The stars settled into place and the feeling departed almost as quickly as it had come.

But, on the screen, he saw no destination. Only black emptiness and the far-off stars. The ship continued to move, but now he had no constant by which to measure.

Across from him, the machine clicked and said in its recorded human voice. "We have passed approximately halfway on the trip."

Something has gone wrong,
Parsons realized.
The ship is no
longer heading toward Mars.
And it did not seem to bother the robot self-regulating mechanism.

He thought in panic,
Mars is gone!

Slightly over half an hour later the machine announced, "We are about to land. Be prepared for a series of concussions as the ship adjusts itself."

Beyond the ship--only void.

This is what they had in mind,
Parsons thought.
Stenog
and the government men. No intention of taking me to any
"prison colonies." This is a shuttle that drops me off to die, out
in space
.

"We have landed," the machine said. And then it corrected itself. "We are about to land." Several humming sounds issued from it and, although the voice had the same measured confidence, Parsons had the intuition that the machine, too, had been thrown off. Perhaps this situation hadn't been intentional--at least, not intended by the designers of the ship.

It's confused, he realized. It doesn't know what to do.

"This isn't Mars," Parsons said aloud. But, even as he spoke, he realized that it couldn't hear him; it was only a self-regulating device, not alive. "We're in the void," he said.

The machine said, "From here on you will be remanded to the local authorities. The trip is over." It fell silent then; he saw its swirling interior die off into immobility. It had done its job--or at least it imagined that it had done its job.

The entrance lock of the ship swung back, and Parsons gazed out into nothingness. Around him, the atmosphere of the ship began to shriek away, rushing out through the open lock. At once, a helmetlike unit sprang from the chair in which he was strapped; the unit dropped into his lap. And, at the same time, the machine returned to life.

"Emergency," the machine said. "Immediately don the protective equipment which has been put within your reach. Do not delay!"

Parsons did so. The straps that held him barely permitted him to get the unit into place. As the last air rushed from the ship, he had the unit over him. Already it had begun pumping; he tasted the stale, cool air.

The walls of the ship glowed red. Undoubtedly, an emergency mechanism was trying to make up for the dissipating heat.

For what he judged to be fifteen minutes the lock of the ship remained open. Then, all at once, the lock slid shut.

Across from him the machine clicked, and inside it the sentient tissue eddied about in its medium. But the machine had nothing to say. No passengers go back, he decided. The ship shuddered, and, through the viewing slot, he saw a flash of light. Some kind of jets had gone into action.

With horror he realized that he was on his way across space once more. From one empty point to another. How many times? Would it go on and on, this meaningless shuttle-service?

Through the viewing slot the stars altered positions as the ship adjusted itself onto its return course. Hope entered him. Maybe, at the other end, he would find Earth. Through some mechanical failure the ship had taken him, not to Mars, but to a random, alternate point; but now the mistake would be rectified. Now he would find himself back where he had started.

Seventy-five minutes later--at least, he presumed it to be-- the ship shuddered and once again unfastened its entrance lock. Once more he gazed out into the void.
Oh, God,
he thought.
And not even the physical sense of motion, only the
intellectual realization that I traveled between far-distant points.
Millions and millions of miles
.

After a time the lock slid shut.
Again,
he thought.
The
nightmare. The terrible dream of motion
. If he shut his eyes, did not look at the viewing slot, and if he could keep his mind from working . . .

That would be insanity,
he decided.

How easy it would be. To sink into an insane withdrawal,
sitting here in this chair. Ignore what I know to be true.

But in a few more hours he would be hungry. Already his mouth had become dry; he would die of thirst long before he died of hunger.

The machine said in the calm voice so familiar to him now, "The trip to the Martian settlements takes approximately seventy-five minutes. You will be supplied with adequate ventilation and heat, but there is no provision for food except in emergency."

Isn't this an emergency?
Parsons thought.
Will it recognize
it as such? When I begin to die of thirst, perhaps?

Will it squirt me with water from taps somewhere in the walls of the ship? Across from him the bit of gray rat tissue floated in its medium.
You're not alive,
Parsons said to himself.
You're not suffering; you're not even aware of this.

He thought about Stenog.
Did you plan this? I can't believe
it. This is some hideous freak accident. Nobody planned this.

Someone took away Mars and the Earth,
he thought.
And
forgot about me. Take me too,
he thought,
Don't forget me; I
want to go along.

The machine clicked and said, "This ship is so constructed that tampering with any portion of it will produce a detonation."

He felt a surge of bizarre hope. Better if the ship blew up, than this. Perhaps he could get loose . . . anything would be better.

In the viewing slot, the distant stars. Nothing to notice him.

While he stared at the viewing slot, a star detached itself. It was not a star. It was an object.

The object grew.

Coming closer, Parsons thought. For what seemed to him an unbearable time the object remained virtually the same size, not getting either larger or smaller. He could not tell what it was. A meteor? Bit of space debris? A ship? Keeping its distance . . .

The machine said, "We are about to land. Be prepared for a series of concussions as the ship adjusts itself."

This time,
Parsons thought,
something is out there. Not
Mars. Not a planet. But--something.

"We are going to land," the machine said, and, as before, began a rapid series of uncertain noises. "We have landed," it said at last.

The lock slid open. Again the void. Where is it? Parsons asked silently. Has it gone? He could do nothing but sit, strapped to his chair.
Please,
he prayed.
Don't go away.

In the entrance lock an opaque surface dropped into place, blocking the sight of stars.

"Help," Parsons shouted. His voice rebounded deafeningly in his helmet.

A man appeared, wearing a helmet that made him look like a giant frog. Without hesitation he sprinted toward Parsons. A second man followed him. Expertly obviously knowing exactly to do, they began cutting through the straps that held him to the chair. Sparks from the seared metal showered throughout the ship--and then they had him loose.

"Hurry," one of the men said, touching his helmet against Parsons' to make a medium for his voice. "It's open only a few more minutes."

Parsons, struggling painfully up, said, "What went wrong?"

"Nothing," the man said, helping him. The other holding what Parsons recognized as a weapon, prowled about the ship watchfully. "We couldn't show up on Earth," the first man said, as he and Parsons moved toward the lock. "They were waiting--the
shupos
are good at it. We moved this ship back into time."

On the man's face, Parsons saw the grin of triumph. He and the man started from the ship, through the open lock. Not more than a hundred feet away a larger ship, like a pencil, hung waiting, its lock open, lights gleaming out. A cord connected the two ships.

Beside Parsons, his companion turned back for the other man. "Be careful," the man said to Parsons. "You're not experienced in crossing. Remember, no gravity. You could sail off." He clung to the cable, beckoning to his colleague.

His colleague took a step toward the lock. From the wall of the ship the muzzle of a gun appeared; the muzzle flashed orange, and the man pitched forward on his face. Beside Parsons, his companion gasped. His eyes met Parsons'. For an instant Parsons saw the man's face, distended with fear and comprehension; then the man had lifted a weapon and fired directly at the blank wall of the ship, at the spot where the gun muzzle had appeared.

A blinding pop made Parsons fall back. The helmet of the man beside him burst; bits of helmet cascaded against his own. And, at the same time, the far wall of the ship splintered; a crack formed and material rained in all directions.

Exposed, but obviously already dying, a
shupo
confronted Parsons. The dwarf figure gyrated slowly, in an almost ritualistic convulsion. The eyes bulged, and then the
shupo
collapsed. Its damaged body floated and eddied about the ship, mixing with the clouds of particles. Finally it came to rest against the ceiling, head down, arms dangling grotesquely. Blood from the wound in its chest gathered in an elongated ball of glistening, bright crimson that froze, expanded, and, as it drifted against the
shupo'
s leg, broke apart.

In Parson's numbed brain the words that he had so recently heard returned.
"The
shupos
are good at it." Yes,
he thought.
Very good
. The
shupo
had been aboard all the time. It made no sound. Had not moved. Had gone on waiting. Would it have died there, in the wall, if no one had appeared?

Both men lay dead. The
shupo
had killed them both.

Beyond the prison ship the pencil-shaped ship still drifted at the end of its cable. Lights still gleamed out. But now it's empty, Parsons realized. They came for me, but too soon; they couldn't avoid the trap.

I wonder who they were.

Will I ever know?

Kneeling down, he started to examine the dead man nearest him. And then he remembered the lock. Any moment it would close--he would be sealed in here, and the ship would start back once more. Abandoning the two dead men he jumped through the lock, grasping at the cable. His leap carried him farther than he had anticipated; for a moment he spun, sweeping away from the two ships, seeing them dwindle away from him. The bitter cold of space licked at him; he felt it seeping into his body. Struggling, he reached out, stretching his arms, fingers . . .