Prelude to Space (2 page)

“Beta” could leave the atmosphere, but she could never escape completely from Earth.
Her task was twofold. First, she had to carry up fuel tanks into the orbit round the
Earth, and set them circling like tiny moons until they were needed. Not until this
had been done would she lift “Alpha” into space. The smaller ship would then fuel
up in free orbit from the waiting tanks, fire its motors to break away from Earth,
and make the journey to the Moon
.

Circling patiently, “Beta” would wait until the spaceship returned. At the end of
its half-million-mile journey “Alpha” would have barely enough fuel to maneuver into
a parallel orbit. The crew and their equipment would then be transferred to the waiting
“Beta,” which would still carry sufficient fuel to bring them safely back to Earth
.

It was an elaborate plan, but even with atomic energy it was still the only practicable
way of making the lunar round-trip with a rocket weighing not less than many thousands
of tons. Moreover, it had many other advantages. “Alpha” and “Beta” could each be
designed to carry out their separate tasks with an efficiency which no single, all-purpose
ship could hope to achieve. It was impossible to combine in one machine the ability
to fly through Earth’s atmosphere and to land on the airless Moon
.

When the time came to make the next voyage, “Alpha” would still be circling the Earth,
to be refuelled in space and used again. No later journey would ever be quite as difficult
as the first. In time there would be more efficient motors, and later still, when
the lunar colony had been founded, there would be refuelling stations on the Moon.
After that it would be easy, and space flight would become a commercial proposition—though
this would not happen for half a century or more
.

Meanwhile the “Prometheus,” alias “Alpha” and “Beta,” still lay glistening beneath
the Australian sun while the technicians worked over her. The last fittings were being
installed and tested: the moment of her destiny was drawing nearer. In a few weeks,
if all went well, she would carry the hopes and fears of humanity into the lonely
deeps beyond the sky
.

Dirk Alexson threw down his book and climbed up the short flight of stairs to the
observation deck. It was still much too soon to see land, but the journey’s approaching
end had made him restless and unable to concentrate. He walked over to the narrow,
curving windows set in the leading-edge of the great wing and stared down at the featureless
ocean below.

There was absolutely nothing to be seen: from this height the Atlantic’s mightiest
storms would have been invisible. He gazed for a while at the blank grayness beneath
and then moved across to the passengers’ radar display.

The spinning line of light on the screen had begun to paint the first dim echoes at
the limits of its range. Land lay ahead, ten miles below and two hundred miles away—the
land that Dirk had never seen though it was sometimes more real to him than the country
of his birth. From those hidden shores, over the last four centuries, his ancestors
had set out for the New World in search of freedom or fortune. Now he was returning,
crossing in less than three hours the wastes over which they had labored for as many
weary weeks. And he was coming on a mission of which they, in their wildest imaginings,
could never have dreamed.

The luminous image of Land’s End had moved halfway across the radar screen before
Dirk first glimpsed the advancing coastline, a dark stain almost lost in the horizon
mists. Though he had sensed no change of direction, he knew that the liner must now
be falling down the long slope that led to London Airport, four hundred miles away.
In a few minutes he would hear again, faint but infinitely reassuring, the rumbling
whisper of the great jets as the air thickened around him and brought their music
once more to his ears.

Cromwall was a gray blur, sinking astern too swiftly for any details to be seen. For
all that one could tell, King Mark might still be waiting above the cruel rocks for
the ship that brought Iseult, while on the hills Merlin might yet be talking with
the winds and thinking of his doom. From this height the land would have looked the
same when the masons laid the last stone on Tintagel’s walls.

Now the liner was dropping toward a cloudscape so white and dazzling that it hurt
the eyes. At first it seemed broken only by a few slight undulations but, presently,
as it rose toward him, Dirk realized that the mountains of cloud below were built
on a Himalayan scale. A moment later, the peaks were above him and the machine was
driving through a great pass flanked on either side by overhanging walls of snow.
He flinched involuntarily as the white cliffs came racing toward him, then relaxed
as the driving mist was all around and he could see no more.

The cloud layer must have been very thick, for he caught only the briefest glimpse
of London and was taken almost unaware by the gentle shock of landing. Then the sounds
of the outer world came rushing in upon his mind—the metallic voices of loud-speakers,
the clanging of hatches, and above all these, the dying fall of the great turbines
as they idled to rest.

The wet concrete, the waiting trucks, and the gray clouds lowering overhead dispelled
the last impressions of romance or adventure. It was drizzling slightly, and as the
ridiculously tiny tractor hauled the great ship away, her glistening sides made her
seem a creature of the deep sea rather than of the open sky. Above the jet housings,
little flurries of steam were rising as the water drained down the wing.

Much to his relief, Dirk was met at the Customs barrier. As his name was checked off
the passenger list, a stout, middle-aged man came forward with outstretched hand.

“Dr. Alexson? Pleased to meet you. My name’s Matthews. I’m taking you to Headquarters
at Southbank and generally looking after you while you’re in London.”

“Glad to hear it,” smiled Dirk. “I suppose I can thank McAndrews for this?”

“That’s right. I’m his assistant in Public Relations. Here—let me have that bag. We’re
going by the express tube; it’s the quickest way—and the best, since you get into
the city without having to endure the suburbs. There’s one snag, though.”

“What’s that?”

Matthews sighed. “You’d be surprised at the number of visitors who cross the Atlantic
safely, then disappear into the Underground and are never seen again.”

Matthews never even smiled as he imparted this unlikely news. As Dirk was to discover,
his impish sense of humor seemed to go with a complete incapacity for laughter. It
was a most disconcerting combination.

“There’s one thing I’m not at all clear about,” began Matthews as the long red train
began to draw out of the airport station. “We get a lot of American scientists over
to see us, but I understand that science isn’t your line.”

“No, I’m an historian.”

Matthews’s eyebrows asked an almost audible question.

“I suppose it must be rather puzzling,” continued Dirk, “but it’s quite logical. In
the past, when history was made, there was seldom anyone around to record it properly.
Nowadays, of course, we have newspapers and films—but it’s surprising what important
features get overlooked simply because everyone takes them for granted at the time.
Well, the project you people are working on is one of the biggest in history, and
if it comes off it will change the future as perhaps no other single event has ever
done. So my University decided that there should be a professional historian around
to fill in the gaps that might be overlooked.”

Matthews nodded.

“Yes, that’s reasonable enough. It will make a pleasant change for us non-scientific
people, too. We’re rather tired of conversations in which three words out of four
are mathematical symbols. Still, I suppose you have a fairly good technical background?”

Dirk looked slightly uncomfortable.

“To tell the truth,” he confessed, “it’s almost fifteen years since I did any science—and
I never took it very seriously then. I’ll have to learn what I need as I go along.”

“Don’t worry; we have a high-pressure course for tired businessmen and perplexed politicians
which will give you everything you need. And you’ll be surprised to find how much
you pick up, simply by listening to the Boffins holding forth.”

“Boffins?”

“Good lord, don’t you know
that
word? It goes back to the War, and means any long-haired scientific type with a slide-rule
in his vest-pocket. I’d better warn you right away that we’ve quite a private vocabulary
here which you’ll have to learn. There are so many new ideas and conceptions in our
work that we’ve had to invent new words. You should have brought along a philologist
as well!”

Dirk was silent. There were moments when the sheer immensity of his task almost overwhelmed
him. Some time in the next six months the work of thousands of men over half a century
would reach its culmination. It would be his duty, and his privilege, to be present
while history was being made out there in the Australian desert on the other side
of the world. He must look upon these events through the eyes of the future, and must
record them so that in centuries to come other men could recapture the spirit of this
age and time.

They emerged at New Waterloo station, and walked the few hundred yards to the Thames.
Matthews had been right in saying that this was the best way to meet London for the
first time. The spacious sweep of the fine new Embankment, still only twenty years
old, carried Dirk’s gaze down the river until it was caught and held by the dome of
St. Paul’s, glistening wetly in an unexpected shaft of sunlight. He followed the river
upstream, past the great white buildings before Charing Cross, but the Houses of Parliament
were invisible around the curve of the Thames.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” said Matthews presently. “We’re rather proud of it now,
but thirty years ago this part was a horrid mass of wharves and mud-banks. By the
way—you see that ship over there?”

“You mean the one tied up against the other bank?”

“Yes, do you know what it is?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“She’s the
Discovery
, which took Captain Scott into the Antarctic back at the beginning of this century.
I often look at her as I come to work and wonder what he’d have thought of the little
trip
we
are planning.”

Dirk stared intently at the graceful wooden hull, the slim masts and the battered
smokestack. His mind slipped into the past in the easy way it had, and it seemed that
the Embankment was gone and that the old ship was steaming past walls of ice into
an unknown land. He could understand Matthew’s feelings, and the sense of historical
continuity was suddenly very strong. The line that stretched through Scott back to
Drake and Raleigh and yet earlier voyages was still unbroken: only the scale of things
had changed.

“Here we are,” said Matthews in a tone of proud apology. “It’s not as impressive as
it might be, but we didn’t have a lot of money when we built it. Not that we have
now, for that matter.”

The white, three-story building that faced the river was unpretentious and had obviously
been constructed only a few years before. It was surrounded by large, open lawns scantily
covered by dispirited grass. Dirk guessed that they had already been earmarked for
future building operations. The grass seemed to have realized this too.

Nevertheless, as administrative buildings went, Headquarters was not unattractive,
and the view over the river was certainly very fine. Along the second story ran a
line of letters, as clean-cut and severely practical as the rest of the buildings.
They formed a single word, but at the sight of it Dirk felt a curious tingling in
his veins. It seemed out of place, somehow, here in the heart of a great city where
millions were concerned with the affairs of everyday life. It was as out of place
as the
Discovery
, lying against the far bank at the end of her long journeying—and it spoke of a longer
voyage than she or any ship had ever made:

The office was small, and he would have to share it with a couple of junior draftsmen—but
it overlooked the Thames and when he was tired of his reports and files Dirk could
always rest his eyes on that great dome floating above Ludgate Hill. From time to
time Matthews or his chief would drop in for a talk, but usually they left him alone,
knowing that that was his desire. He was anxious to be left in peace until he had
burrowed through the hundreds of reports and books which Matthews had obtained for
him.

It was a far cry from Renaissance Italy to twentieth-century London, but the techniques
he had acquired when writing his thesis on Lorenzo the Magnificent served Dirk in
good stead now. He could tell, almost at a glance, what was unimportant and what must
be studied carefully. In a few days the outlines of the story were complete and he
could begin to fill in the details.

The dream was older than he had imagined. Two thousand years ago the Greeks had guessed
that the Moon was a world not unlike the Earth, and in the second century A.D. the
satirist Lucian had written the first of all interplanetary romances. It had taken
more than seventeen centuries to bridge the gulf between fiction and reality—and almost
all the progress had been made in the last fifty years.

The modern era had begun in 1923, when an obscure Transylvanian professor named Hermann
Oberth had published a pamphlet entitled
The Rocket Into Interplanetary Space
. In this he developed for the first time the mathematics of space flight. Leafing
through the pages of one of the few copies still in existence, Dirk found it hard
to believe that so enormous a superstructure had arisen from so small a beginning.
Oberth—now an old man of 84—had started the chain reaction which was to lead in his
own lifetime to the crossing of space.