Murray Leinster (Duke Classic SiFi) by Operation: Outer Space Page B
Authors: Operation: Outer Space
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a sound. It was actually a sensation, which one
seemed to feel all through one's body. It lasted only the fraction of a
second, but while it lasted the stars out the side-ports ceased to be
stars. They became little lines of light, all moving toward the ship's
stern but at varying rates of speed. Some of them passed beyond view.
Some of them moved only a little. But all shifted.
Then they were again tiny spots of light, of innumerable tints and
colors, of every conceivably degree of brightness, stirring and moving
ever-so-slightly with relation to each other.
"The devil!" said Cochrane, raging.
Jones turned to him. And Jones was not quite poker-faced, now. Not
quite. He looked even pleased. Then his face went back to impassiveness
again.
"It worked," he said mildly.
"I know it worked!" sputtered Cochrane. "But—where are we? How far did
we come?"
"I haven't the least idea," said Jones mildly as before. "Does it
matter?"
Cochrane glared at him. Then he realized how completely too late it was
to protest anything.
The man he had seen absorbed in the handling of controls now lifted his
hands from the board. The rockets died. There was a vast silence, and
weightlessness. Cochrane weighed nothing. This was free flight
again—like practically all of the ninety-odd hours from the space
platform to the moon. The pilot left the controls and in an accustomed
fashion soared to a port on the opposite side of the room. He gazed out,
and then behind, and said in a tone of astonished satisfaction:
"This is good!—There's the sun!"
"How far?" asked Jones.
"It's fifth magnitude," said the pilot happily. "We really did pile on
the horses!"
Jones looked momentarily pleased again. Cochrane said in a voice that
even to himself sounded outraged:
"You mean the sun's a fifth-magnitude star from here? What the devil
happened?"
"Booster," said Jones, nearly with enthusiasm. "When the field was just
a radiation speed-up, I used forty milliamperes of current to the square
centimetre of field-plate. That was the field-strength when we sent the
signal-rocket across the crater. For the distress-torpedo test, I
stepped the field-strength up. I used a tenth of an ampere per square
centimetre. I told you! And don't you remember that I wondered what
would happen if I used a capacity-storage system?"
Cochrane held fast to a hand-hold.
"The more power you put into your infernal field," he demanded, "the
more speed you get?"
Jones said contentedly:
"There's a limit. It depends on the temperature of the things in the
field. But I've fixed up the field, now, like a spot-welding outfit.
Like a strobe-light. We took off with a light field. It's on now—we
have to keep it on. But I got hold of some pretty storage condensers. I
hooked them up in parallel to get a momentary surge of high-amperage
current when I shorted them through my field-making coils. Couldn't make
it a steady current! Everything would blow! But I had a surge of
probably six amps per square centimetre for a while."
Cochrane swallowed.
"The field was sixty times as strong as the one the distress-torpedo
used? We went—we're going—sixty times as fast?"
"We had lots more speed than that!" But then Jones' enthusiasm dwindled.
"I haven't had time to check," he said unhappily. "It's one of the
things I want to get at right away. But in theory the field should
modify the effect of inertia as the fourth power of its strength. Sixty
to the fourth is—."
"How far," demanded Cochrane, "is Proxima Centaurus? That's the nearest
star to Earth. How near did we come to reaching it?"
The pilot on the other side of the control-room said with a trace less
than his former zest:
"That looks like Sirius, over there ..."
"We didn't head for Proxima Centaurus," said Jones mildly. "It's too
close! And we have to keep the field-plate back on the moon lined up
with us, more or less, so we headed out roughly along the moon's axis.
Toward where its north pole points."
"Then where are we headed?
seemed to feel all through one's body. It lasted only the fraction of a
second, but while it lasted the stars out the side-ports ceased to be
stars. They became little lines of light, all moving toward the ship's
stern but at varying rates of speed. Some of them passed beyond view.
Some of them moved only a little. But all shifted.
Then they were again tiny spots of light, of innumerable tints and
colors, of every conceivably degree of brightness, stirring and moving
ever-so-slightly with relation to each other.
"The devil!" said Cochrane, raging.
Jones turned to him. And Jones was not quite poker-faced, now. Not
quite. He looked even pleased. Then his face went back to impassiveness
again.
"It worked," he said mildly.
"I know it worked!" sputtered Cochrane. "But—where are we? How far did
we come?"
"I haven't the least idea," said Jones mildly as before. "Does it
matter?"
Cochrane glared at him. Then he realized how completely too late it was
to protest anything.
The man he had seen absorbed in the handling of controls now lifted his
hands from the board. The rockets died. There was a vast silence, and
weightlessness. Cochrane weighed nothing. This was free flight
again—like practically all of the ninety-odd hours from the space
platform to the moon. The pilot left the controls and in an accustomed
fashion soared to a port on the opposite side of the room. He gazed out,
and then behind, and said in a tone of astonished satisfaction:
"This is good!—There's the sun!"
"How far?" asked Jones.
"It's fifth magnitude," said the pilot happily. "We really did pile on
the horses!"
Jones looked momentarily pleased again. Cochrane said in a voice that
even to himself sounded outraged:
"You mean the sun's a fifth-magnitude star from here? What the devil
happened?"
"Booster," said Jones, nearly with enthusiasm. "When the field was just
a radiation speed-up, I used forty milliamperes of current to the square
centimetre of field-plate. That was the field-strength when we sent the
signal-rocket across the crater. For the distress-torpedo test, I
stepped the field-strength up. I used a tenth of an ampere per square
centimetre. I told you! And don't you remember that I wondered what
would happen if I used a capacity-storage system?"
Cochrane held fast to a hand-hold.
"The more power you put into your infernal field," he demanded, "the
more speed you get?"
Jones said contentedly:
"There's a limit. It depends on the temperature of the things in the
field. But I've fixed up the field, now, like a spot-welding outfit.
Like a strobe-light. We took off with a light field. It's on now—we
have to keep it on. But I got hold of some pretty storage condensers. I
hooked them up in parallel to get a momentary surge of high-amperage
current when I shorted them through my field-making coils. Couldn't make
it a steady current! Everything would blow! But I had a surge of
probably six amps per square centimetre for a while."
Cochrane swallowed.
"The field was sixty times as strong as the one the distress-torpedo
used? We went—we're going—sixty times as fast?"
"We had lots more speed than that!" But then Jones' enthusiasm dwindled.
"I haven't had time to check," he said unhappily. "It's one of the
things I want to get at right away. But in theory the field should
modify the effect of inertia as the fourth power of its strength. Sixty
to the fourth is—."
"How far," demanded Cochrane, "is Proxima Centaurus? That's the nearest
star to Earth. How near did we come to reaching it?"
The pilot on the other side of the control-room said with a trace less
than his former zest:
"That looks like Sirius, over there ..."
"We didn't head for Proxima Centaurus," said Jones mildly. "It's too
close! And we have to keep the field-plate back on the moon lined up
with us, more or less, so we headed out roughly along the moon's axis.
Toward where its north pole points."
"Then where are we headed?
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