CHAPTER 8
Stacey's voice was as dry as ever, "Busy, Paul?"
"Just polishing up my talk," he said. "I'm due to lecture in an hour."
"Well, don't be nervous."
"I'd be less nervous if I knew what was going on."
"This might help. First, your corpse was none other than a three-time loser named Clarke and a pot full of aliases, none of which are worth mentioning. As dead as a mackerel."
"What are we going to do about him?"
"It's been done."
"How?"
"Don't ask."
"But isn't this disposing evidence?"
"Sure. But if any crime has been committed, he did it, or attempted to. He is no loss to the community."
"But that is against the law."
"So is kissing a woman who is of no relation to you, in public in this state," chuckled Stacey. "You'll only get involved in a lot of official curiosity if you disclose the death. That will get you a grilling and a mess of suspicion to fight against, while the birds who set him on you will be forewarned. They'll be free to plot further while you are busy defending an innocent stand. Besides," he added with another chuckle, "there is nothing like making them chew a fingernail, wondering just where their plans went afoul. Let them scurry around instead of you. If I guess right, they are not quite certain whether the man now talking to me is Paul Grayson, bona fide, or their little masquerader."
"But why, for the Love of Heaven?"
"Look, mes infante innocente, this is twice that you've met a character made up to resemble you. This means an intended masquerade. I don't know why. But I'll bet a hat that there is a motive to it all."
The last was so obvious that Paul saw no reason to comment. Stacey continued, "One more item before I go away and leave you to your test tubes. Nora Phillips."
"Yes?" came Paul's eager reply.
"Posing as a man making a survey, I, me, myself twiggled on the doorbell at 7111 Bridge Avenue this afternoon, after canvassing the entire neighborhood up to that point to make it look good."
"Go on."
"Nora Phillips is their niece. The elderly gentleman said so. She parked her car there for the time being since her pappy, brother to his wife, is desperately ill on Neosol."
"So?"
"She'll be back, but they did not know when."
"Get her address?"
"Couldn't get too curious. No."
"Damn."
"Why?"
"Somehow, Nora is tied up in this. On my side."
"Okay, I'm going to follow one other lead. Take it easy, Paul, and give the physicists hell."
"I'll try."
"I will begin at the beginning," smiled Paul, wishing he had the air of a professional lecturer and the literary ability of an author, "space was first conquered by rocket propulsion. Eventually a base was established on Luna and the space stations set up. Operating in space, the physicists discovered the supervelocity drive, which like electricity, was used long before people began to understand it.
"The rocket is a clumsy device and ill-adapted to anything but limited, professional use. But the superdrive made space travel practical for the ordinary man. Space was truly conquered then, and today men live on Venus and on Mars. Precariously and uncomfortably, but they live there. Men have spread throughout the solar system, working in mines and medicinal farms and jungles. Their tenure of employment is dictated by the rigors of life on these inimical planets of Sol.
"With the superdrive, explorers chased through the nearer galaxy, seeking a planet suitable for colonization. While most stars have been found to have planets, there was not one found that filled the bill until they located Neosol and Neoterra, both of which resemble Sol and the earth to a fine degree.
"Radio linked the colonies of Sol, and after Neosol was colonized, radio linked its spread-out colonists.
"Forty years ago, Carrington discovered the Z-wave, an outgrowth of the superdrive. Then the instantaneous Z-wave replaced the slow radio transmissions that required teletype and code communications, and voice to voice contacts prevailed throughout the solar system, and throughout the system of Neosol.
"But the Z-wave did not cross the gulf of interstellar space, and years of experimentation followed, all of which failed. Then, twenty years ago, Chadwick Haedaecker suggested the theory now known as Haedaecker's Theory, which tended to show that the Z-wave propagated because of the fields of force generated in the central cores of stars. Since that date, only desultory attempts have been made to test the Z-wave in deep space. Experimentation had stopped, for all practical purposes. About the only people who have given the matter much thought are students of theory, and a couple of hardy souls like myself, who—I have been accused and of which I must admit—hoped to become rich and famous by making some extraordinary discovery.
"I will now advance the idea that I hope will be eventually known as Grayson's Principle.
"The basis of Grayson's Principle is that the Z-wave will not propagate between points that have not previously been linked by electromagnetic waves!"
This caused a storm in the auditorium. A showing of frantic hands flowered above the sea of faces and the hall broke into a growling murmur of muttering voices, discussing pro and con.
The chairman came forward and spoke to Paul: "Shall I call order, or would you prefer to have a mid-lecture discussion?"
Paul smiled nervously. "I was prepared for this," he said. "The rest of this will run better if we get this one point settled. It will be too long from now to the end of my lecture to make these men hold their questions."
"Good!" smiled Thorndyke. He rapped for order. "Gentlemen," he said, speaking over the incomplete attention, "Mister Grayson has just made a rather shocking statement, which is cause for controversy. He has suggested himself that a mid-lecture period of questions will hasten our understanding of his theory."
There was a burst of applause and the flowering of hands went up again.
"Edwin Johnson," said the first man naming himself. "Granting that it takes light one hundred and forty years to cross between here and Neosol, I suggest that the entire galaxy has been coupled by electromagnetic waves for two thousand million years."
"I said 'linked'," explained Paul easily. "This question is one that stumped me for a long time and was possibly the one thing that prevented the advancement of the principle long before. But the detectors we employ to detect those frequencies we term 'light' are not similar to those we use for the longer frequencies of radio, even though both are electromagnetic waves. Light will not travel along a conductor, although it is true that the longer waves will be transmitted through a waveguide made of dielectric that is transparent to them. Ergo, it is the means we use to handle these frequencies that establish the 'linkage' rather than the medium or the wave itself."
"I am Fred Hughes," said the second. "Do you mean to state that the Z-wave has never been known to operate between points not previously linked by radio?"
"That is right."
"You've investigated everything?"
"Mine is negative evidence, I admit. This is why it is hard to establish as truth. But remember, the solar system was linked by radio long before the Z-wave was discovered."
"How about spacecraft?"
"Once the Z-wave linkage is established by its forerunner of radio, it is complete and can not be broken."
"A spacecraft employs radio until it reaches the superdrive point. Then—?"
"I have had no opportunity to check this point as yet. I believe it has to do with the doppler effect. Remember that the selectivity of the radio used in space is such that a doppler shift will not detune it grossly. Obviously, superdrive will completely ruin such tuning."
"But this has been tried?"
"Yes. It was once hoped that we could link to Neosol that way. The connection failed as soon as the ship entered superdrive."
"But interplanetary ships employ Z-wave."
"I have had no opportunity to check this on an interstellar scale. I shall at the earliest opportunity. It is my belief that the radio beacons between earth and Venus, for instance, are maintained at both ends by receiver and transmitter, the receiver being used to control the transmitter and keep the beam properly centered and to check its presence. This contact made in both directions along the spacelanes, maintains the operation of the Z-wave on the ship, running at higher than the speed of light. The radio is, of course, useless. But the Z-wave, propagating at some figure we cannot measure yet, suffers no doppler effect."
"I am Grant Lewdan," said the third. "Has the Z-wave ever been tried in the depths of interstellar space?"
"Yes."
"Did it work?"
"Up to a certain point."
"Then why didn't they pursue it?"
"This answer demands that we all understand the psychology of the human being and the mechanics of the scientific method. I will answer this first by analog:
"Presume for the moment that radio cannot propagate across a space that communication has not crossed previously. Then consider Marconi on his first attempt to send radio waves across a hundred feet of vacant lot. What is the method used in testing an unknown method of communication? The transmitter is started, and the operator either calls or signals by waving his hands, that the transmitter is now working. As soon as the hand signal is seen the receiver is checked, found to be working. Remember, this radio works because of the previous linkage by communication in accordance with our hypothesis. Success is noted.
"Then the distance is increased by many miles from mountain top to mountain top and a blinker system is employed to carry the experimental information back and forth. Again the transmitter is started and the blinker used to inform the other party that he is to watch for the radio's response. Again, it works, since communications have been established. For the third time, the radio equipment is separated by the antipodes of the earth and a telephone or telegraph connection is established. Again the transmitter is started and the signal is sent; again there is success. Now, gentlemen, the inference is that radio will work to a distance encompassing the entire earth.
"Now postulate a spacecraft taking this same equipment to the Moon. Lacking radio, no means of communication are practical. Let us say Venus instead, gentlemen, since a magnesium flare might be used from Luna. So, on Venus, there is no means of communication other than radio, which depends first upon the establishment of other means of communication ere it will work.
"A failure is noted.
"Now," smiled Paul, "this is what happened in deep space. I would like to read an excerpt from the Communications Expedition Number Three:
"'... Two spacecraft were dispatched from Pluto and proceeded outward for approximately one light hour as established by the timing wave from Pluto. The Z-wave was tested and found available ...' here follows a couple of columns of figures regarding signal strength and so on. '... At one hundred light hours, the same test was made and found successful....' At this point, gentlemen, remember that they used the timing wave from Pluto to establish their distance, which established radio communications.
"Now, remember the techniques employed in such tactics. It is not necessary for the spacecraft to wait a hundred hours for the arrival of the wave. The wave is sent forth a hundred hours before the ship gets there so that no waiting time will be necessary. In fact, they tried it at one thousand light hours, since that was the distance previously established by the timing wave from Pluto. Again it worked successfully. The timing wave had been started about twelve hundred hours before, and as usual, it was so-coded that at any point along the line, the ship could stop, listen in, and mark the time. It was, sort of, like a rope with a series of knots in it.
"Having made this approximation, the ships went into deep space, about three light years distant from Sol where they were not closer than three light years from any star. At this distance, the radio signal from Pluto had not arrived, and they had no idea of waiting for three years for it since they did not conceive of Grayson's Principle. But they communicated with one another.
"One light hour, waiting for the timing wave, and it was shown successful. I read again:
"'At ten light hours, there was no success. Our technical officer then spent many hours checking his equipment while the navigating officer used the scooter to run back and forth with Spacecraft BurAst 7,331 to ascertain whether the Z-wave gear was in operation. The arrival of the timing wave distracted his attention for a period of about five minutes during which he established the separation between the two ships. Upon returning to the Z-wave equipment and completing his many investigations as to sensitivity and function, he was satisfied that it was in operating shape. At this point it was tried again, and twenty minutes of two-way conversation ensued, proving that the Z-wave was operative at a distance of at least one hundred and seven point three eight light hours, as established by the timing wave. Second Technical Sergeant Frankford Brown was reprimanded for removing the Z-wave gear from the rack and panel and placing it on the test-bench and thus wasting many hours.
"'The equipment was again tried at one thousand light hours, but no success was found even though ten or twelve hours ensued during the listening test. Because our supplies were now running low, the test was abandoned at this distance and....' Here, gentlemen, follows an account of at least a hundred hours of testing constantly with the two ships at varying distances. Success came sometimes, complete failure at others. There is a complete set of spacial maps, but these show no contours of signal strength nor correlation.
"Only a man who believed that the Z-wave followed radio communications would establish such a correlation."
"And how was this correlation located?" asked Lewdan.
"Because I noted that when failure came, it was noted at distances, 'Approximately ten light hours, ... fifteen light hours ... three light hours.' But when success came, it came at, 'Seven, point nine-eight, or fourteen, point four-two light hours.' In other words, gentlemen, they knew their separation only when success came and they could measure the distance accurately by the radio timing wave."
During this time, the hands were dropping as the answer to one question answered the questions of others. At the end, there were no more hands upraised. Thorndyke then said: "We are now ready to continue with this lecture."
Paul took a gulp of water and started off again:
"I have one other item to bring forth. I have been working with the galactic survey—" and Paul went on for many minutes, explaining in detail what they had been doing and why. He finished up with his determination to test the Z-wave in accordance with his own theory. Then he said: "I have here a recording made over the Z-wave receiver I took with me to Proxima Centauri I. As you know, the interstellar beacon was erected on the top of the Z-wave Central Building. No visual connection seems necessary, but we all know that dielectric or permeabilic coupling serves in many places far better than a conducting link; it is my idea that similar factors to permeability and capacity will be found in the Z-wave. However Z-wave Central is all supplied from one power line. Here is a physical connection.
"Upon my arrival at the Proxima Station, this Z-wave recorder was started with the radio. You will hear, in the recording, which was made through a microphone to pick up the room-sounds as well as the Z-wave broadcast, the arrival of the radio signal from Terra, the timing signals, a few of my own comments made, I must admit, in the stress of enthusiasm, and finally, the terran side of an interplanetary Z-wave conversation between a woman and her man. While I deplore any public airing of the personal affairs of any man and woman, this is of the utmost importance to Civilization, while the subject of her conversation is such that she can have only pride in having it made into history. For," he added softly, "hers is the voice of true, honest affection, faith and trust in her mate, and such is well worthy of a monument in the halls of history!"
There was a round of good-natured applause at this moment. And then the recording rang out:
"... but it won't be long, my dear ... of course, it seems so.... Do that, by all means.... In a month, you say?... I'm very happy about that...." the signal faded and in the background the audience could hear the measured cadence of the radio timing signals, with a few of Paul's own personal comments of exultation. Then the Z-wave signal came in again, "... Terry said so.... How do I know?... By all means, my dear...."
Paul turned the recording off amid the thunderous roar of applause.
CHAPTER 9
With a smile of self-confidence, Paul faced the cheering auditorium and gloried in the praise. It—this moment—was payment in plenty for years of struggle and of being a third-rate voice crying against the stone wall of authority.
He took their cries of praise with a deferent attitude, but remained on the podium, which indicated that he had more to tell. They subsided after minutes of wild applause, and Paul continued:
"Across the galaxy between here and Neosol," he said, waving a hand which caused a wall curtain to rise, showing a planar map of the star region between the two inhabited systems, criss-crossed with red and blue lines, "the galactic survey has a veritable network of radio beacon signals. From star to star they go, directly and in cross triangulation, in collateral paths and in long sweeps. The red lines show what distance these radio signals have progressed as of three days ago; the length of the continuing blue lines show the distance between the stars yet to travel ere contact is made. Such is the separation of stars in our galaxy that the next three years will see greater numbers of final contacts made. I shall be a busy man, for I will be making these final, contacts one by one until the entire pathway—tortuous as it will be at first—is open to Neosol.
"Gentlemen, they drove the Golden Spike in 1869, coupling America's East and West by railroad. Three years, two hours, and forty-five minutes from this very instant, we shall drive the Golden Key home in the Z-wave link between Mother Earth and her distant daughter Neoterra!"
Again came the thunder of applause.
"Thank you," said Paul. "Are there any more questions?"
"One," called a voice from the rear.
"Yes?"
"This recording of the Z-wave was made from Z-wave Central?"
"Yes!"
"Just for the purpose of circumventing any such odium of doubt, is there any method by which you can definitely determine the time of origin of this recorded transmission?"
"Not at the present. It can be established by the radio beacon records that I was on Proxima I at that time—what I hope to do is to have the unknown woman come forward and identify herself and the time she used the Z-wave."
"Then other than that there is no way of proving that this recording might have been made on terra a month before you left?"
"I—"
But Thorndyke interrupted. "Gentlemen," he said, "no man in his right mind would attempt a fraud upon this body. I have no doubt. I firmly believe that Paul Grayson has presented evidence that he has collected in true scientific honesty!"
This brought another round of cheering. And in the midst of it all, the questioner came walking down the aisle toward the platform. Out of the shadows he came, and Paul tensed for the imminent battle of wits, for the questioner was none other than Chadwick Haedaecker.
"Where did you get that recording?" he shouted over the cheers of the crowd.
"On Proxima."
"On the Z-wave?"
"Yes."
"Doctor Thorndyke, may I have the stage for a moment?"
Thorndyke nodded, wondering what this was all about.
Paul stepped aside as Haedaecker took the podium.
"Gentlemen," said Haedaecker, "for some number of months, my young friend here has been avidly attempting to force me into trying experiments made years before. He has a personal, ingrained belief that Haedaecker's Theory is at fault. You have heard his alleged recording—"
"Alleged!" stormed Paul.
Haedaecker held up a hand. Then he pointed out to the audience. "Doctor Haddon, could this message have passed through the Z-wave Central?"
A hush fell on the auditorium. Haddon rose and cleared his throat.
"According to my records, Z-wave Central was inoperative for a fourteen day period immediately following Paul Grayson's departure for Proxima Centauri I. Certain repairs were needed, and the Z-wave equipment was shut down for that period. All Z-wave messages terminating on Terra were shunted through the Auxiliary Tandem Z-wave Station at Oahu, Hawaii. The Proxima Beam was shut down, too, since the radio signal emanating from it would not reach Proxima for four years, and that which Paul Grayson was to measure had been emitted four years ago. It was not deemed reasonable to maintain the beam—"
Paul gulped. "This is preposterous," he roared.
Haedaecker merely smiled. "So is the truth," he said sourly.
Thorndyke said: "Then Doctor Haedaecker, it is patently impossible for the energy relation to have caused the transmission of the Z-wave such as Paul Grayson suggests?"
"Impossible."
Thorndyke faced Paul. "Then why was this farce perpetrated?"
"This was no farce," Paul almost shouted. "Haedaecker has always discouraged anything at all that would cause him to retract his own precious theory. He will lie, cheat, and steal—"
Thorndyke turned to Haedaecker. "Can this be true?"
Haedaecker smiled genially. "Grayson is young and dreamily hopeful," he said blandly. "Grayson has all of the hope and faith for mankind that a Saviour, a Saint, or a complete idiot might have. He believes firmly that if enough people want something to obtain, by sheer effort, will-power, and determination, they can make it so."
"But why was this done?"
"Grayson hoped to stir up enough hope to have a research group, assigned to crack this impossible problem."
"It is not impossible!" Now Paul was shouting.
Haedaecker shook his head. "You have no evidence whatever. You are now where you have always been. You base your argument on a hope and a prayer but have nothing concrete to show for it." Haedaecker faced the auditorium with a raised hand. "I am a physicist," he thundered. "And I have been reviled by my former employee, Grayson, for attempting to suppress any ideas that would show Haedaecker's Theory might be in error. This is a cruel attack. Unwarranted and unkind. Like my fellows, I firmly believe that theory always must be bent to follow fact; that when any theory is confronted by experimental evidence to the contrary, it is the theory that must be changed, because the fact remains indisputable! Let but one man show me the error in Haedaecker's Theory, and it will be relegated to the discard by no one quicker than Haedaecker, myself! God Knows, gentlemen, I despair of offering a theory that stands against the innermost wishes of mankind!"
Thorndyke turned to Grayson. "Where did this recording come from?"
"I made it on Proxima!"
"Possibly," said Haedaecker scathingly, "but by what method?"
"It was made honestly!" shouted Paul.
"Honestly," sneered Haedaecker. "With both Z-wave Central off the air, and the radio beacon inoperative; both important factors in your pet idea were not running at the time you claim that this recording was made!"
Paul shook his head angrily. "If the Z-wave Central and the beacon were turned off," he stormed bitterly, "then how did I receive this on my Z-wave Receiver?"
Haedaecker's voice was wholly scornful. "A well-planned script," he said, "written and acted by an accomplished actress, recorded by Grayson—doubtless, Mister Grayson your plea that this unknown woman on your record come forward for honor and identification might be accomplished. Which of your many girl friends did this?" snapped Haedaecker with his sudden verbal attack.
"No one—" Paul stopped as the familiar voice on his recording went through his brain as it had so often since he heard it on Proxima I: '... but it won't be long, my dear.... Of course, it seems so.... Do that, by all means....' and as the well-remembered voice seemed to speak aloud, Paul recalled another voice, the voice of a most attractive woman, replying to his suggestion that he call her: 'Do that, by all means.'
Then Paul knew. Not only the voice, but the mannerism.
'Do that....'
Not truly a command, but far more than mere acquiescence. That was Nora Phillips' way, her voice, her mannerism.
A cold sweat broke out on Paul Grayson's forehead. Two men had died because of this. Why? True, both were criminals, but what possible attraction could Paul's grand dream of interstellar communications have for a thief, a felon, and a murderer?
Two men had died, and then as Haedaecker's technicians cut off the hoped-for sources of signals from Z-wave Central, Nora Phillips had come forward to supply Paul with the necessary evidence to success.
Why? Certainly she could not hope that his unsupported story would stand up against the certain statement that Z-wave Central was down and out. Besides, there was not time for a spacecraft to get to Proxima I between the time that Z-wave Central went off the air and the time that Paul recorded the signal. Had Nora Phillips been on Proxima?
Someone had!
Someone had been there, lying in wait for Paul Grayson—for what inexplicable reason Paul could not begin to name. And someone else had been there, too, lying in wait for the interference. Someone had irrevocably removed the criminal lying in wait for Paul, and then had blithely furnished Paul with the signal he had been waiting four long years to hear.
The answer was hidden behind the heavy mahogany door at 7111 Bridge Street, despite the placid appearance of a man retired from business, his elderly wife, and doddering manservant. For Nora Phillips had disappeared behind that door.
"What have you to say for yourself, young man?" demanded Thorndyke.
Paul blinked at the chairman. He was completely stunned, absolutely beaten, shocked to the core. He shook his head. "I swear—" he began.
He was interrupted by the shout of "Fraud!" from the rear of the auditorium. Instantly the place was in a violent uproar, those who had applauded the loudest were now shouting for Paul's head.
"Fraud!"
"Throw him out!"
"Liar!"
The stairways at either end of the stage filled with hoarsely shouting men who came up slowly but with determined step, gaining confidence as they advanced.
"Throw him out!" screamed a voice.
"Out!"
"Away!"
Thorndyke hammered on the pulpit with his gavel. He might as well have snapped his fingers at the hurricane. The rap of authority was lost in the disorderly cry of an angry mob. Men of learning, wisdom, education, their civilized veneer hurled away by disappointment, anger, and the smell of fraud, came forward with animal hatred, intellectually naked.
Paul looked wildly around the stage as the foremost of the mob came to the top of the steps. This was the time for escape, whether he was right or wrong, honest or the fraud and liar they called him. No time for argument, only flight.
He faded back against the curtain. They came forward at him, warily awaiting some move of his. Had Paul moved fast, they would have leaped like predators; so long as he oozed back with no overt move, they prowled instead of jumping. Perhaps the only remaining vestige of their lifetime of training was their desire to wait until he struck at them first, that they wanted Paul to strike the blow that would invite them to strike back. This was a mob, lynching mad.
Paul looked over their heads to the fire exit. It was the only avenue of escape, but blocked by twenty madmen. He pressed back against the curtain, wondering if he would get out of this alive.
Then the howling died like the turning off of an overloaded sound amplifier.
For out between the curtains stepped a burly policeman. His nightstick was firm in his right hand, the thong wrapped tight around his wrist. The business end of the heavy stick rested in his left palm. His revolver hung in the holster, its safety strap unsnapped.
He was the very essence of Authority, Big, Uniformed, Immobile.
The advance upon Paul stopped.
Paul breathed a prayer of thanks.
"You're Paul Grayson?" he asked.
"I am."
The policeman's voice was flat, hard, and dry. "Did you know there was a dead man aboard your spacecraft?"
Paul blanched. Stacey had said—
"Uh-huh. Y'do. Paul Grayson, I arrest you for implications in the murder of John Stacey. Better come quietly. And remember that anything you say may be used as evidence against you!"
Stacey!
The world took a quick spin about Paul's head.
Stacey!
There was sudden motion and the quick, lashed Snap! of handcuffs while Paul's tired mind was still racing in the dream-world of complete disbelief. He went woodenly with the policeman.
Behind him, he heard Haedaecker say, "And now it is murder, to boot!"
CHAPTER 10
There is something about a pair of handcuffs far above and beyond the mere chaining of wrist to wrist. Mobility is not decreased, and the flailing of hands against an enemy is not greatly impaired. But the idea of being manacled presents a condition in psychology of complete defeat.
In completely bewildered defeat, Paul Grayson looked down at the chromium handcuffs with an air of blankness. John Stacey—Z-wave—Nora Phillips—
The policeman led Paul Grayson from the hall amid a complete quietness. Only when they were beyond the curtain and heading towards the stage door did the buzz of outraged conversation start, almost covering the pounding of Thorndyke's gavel.
Then the outer door closed behind them and the noise was cut off. Something in Paul's inner mind felt grateful that the car awaiting was a standard model of police car instead of the traditional patrol wagon. There is something even more damning in being carted away in the paddy-wagon.
The completely stunning abruptness; the positive cliff of success from which he had fallen into the chasm of absolute futility shocked Paul into a feeling of unreality. He felt like an outsider, watching a complete stranger being led in docility towards a police car by a uniformed policeman, obviously the perpetrator of some outrageous, illegal, immoral, unethical act. He could not identify this illicit individual with himself. It was a horrible dream—
And in this dreamlike state, Paul took note of a series of completely non-sequitur details which his mind recorded in minute detail. He noted a woman in an outlandish hat; a man in tuxedo with a wrinkle across the facade of his boiled shirt. The sidewalk was rough under his feet. The street was asphalt instead of concrete. Mars and Venus were in quadrature—it must be quite early because Venus sets not too many hours after Sol. There was a light blanked out in an electric sign advertising some obscure brand of cigarettes—Merr cool—and Paul wondered quickly whether the missing space represented 'y' 'i' or 'o' because he did not smoke that brand. A convertible coupe roared past with a redhead's hair blowing back, there was a dent in the left-front hubcap. The police squad car was Number 17. A woman that Paul instantly catalogued as the Boston-Type Dowager sniffed and turned away. A girl giggled as her boy friend led her towards a cocktail lounge. The handcuffs jangled and caused more attention than the presence of the policeman. Down the street a theatre marquee flashed, advertising a stage production called 'The Bright Young Man!' As it caught Paul's eye, the box office closed and the theatre marquee went dark—
Then having noted more of his urban surroundings during thirteen seconds spent in crossing a sidewalk than he had in several years of living there, Paul found himself installed in the front seat of the police car between two burly officers. Paul was not a small man but he felt like a midget between them.
There was no noticeable grinding of gears nor jerkiness as the car swooped away from the curb, and the siren wailed to clear the street before them. Expertly the driver maneuvered through a red light and turned against traffic, swerving in and among the hesitant cars like a fencer.
Then they were beyond the busy thoroughfare and racing down a quiet street, their own siren creating a shrill that could be heard for blocks. Even inside of the car it was loud; outside it must have been terrific.
The radio broke into life: "Attention! Attention! All cars—Attention!"
The driver and the other policeman stiffened slightly. The driver turned another corner onto a traffic street. Three or four blocks along, the bright blue lights of the police station called like a lighthouse, marking the Journey's End.
"Attention! Attention!" said the radio. "All cars be on the lookout for Police Squad Car Seventeen. Stolen—"
The policeman not driving was fumbling in a pocket; found a jangling set of keys and fumbled with them uncertainly. Then Grayson's manacles fell away as the squad car drove up in front of the police station.
"Lively, Grayson," snapped the driver as the car came to a quiet halt.
Still in a complete daze, Paul obeyed stiffly. He followed the driver out of the squad car from the driver's side, squeezing under the steering wheel and forced by the pressure of the other policeman behind him. He was unceremoniously hauled into a waiting sedan, pushed again from behind, and then before he could get his balance the car lurched forward and away.
"That'll kill 'em," chuckled the policeman that had rescued him from the stage.
"Dump their rig and the drunken cops right in front of the station," chuckled the driver of the police car. Both were shucking their blue uniforms. And the driver of the large sedan was not driving like a maniac. He kept to sane speeds, but used side streets.
"Stolen—?" murmured Grayson. Paul was still dazed. Something was going on but he did not know what. He had been ridiculed, charged with murder, arrested, and—but he had not really been arrested for these were not officers of the law. "Wha—what—?" he blurted.
Both of the erstwhile officers laughed. One of them hauled a small flask from his hip pocket and handed it to Paul. "You've had a rough time," he said. "Take a bracer."
Paul took a big swallow; it was good whiskey that burned just right on the way down. The glow in Paul's stomach took some of the troubled puzzlement; some of the daze from him, but the dizziness and the feeling of unreality remained.
"What's it all about?" asked Paul uncertainly.
"You'll find out later."
"Why not now?"
"And spill before the boss tells his tale?" laughed one of the men. "Just pull yourself together, Grayson. Be happy that we got you out of a bad spot."
"I am, but I don't understand."
"You will soon enough. Take it easy."
Paul relaxed. It was obvious that they would tell him nothing. Some of the daze left, but it left Paul with mixed emotions. Convinced of his own innocence of any crime; equally convinced of his correctness regarding Haedaecker's Theory but completely bewildered as to the latest mixup with Z-wave Central; angry about Stacey—Paul Grayson was convinced that the right way to handle false charges was and is to face them firmly and display the fact that you have nothing to fear. He had always felt that the very display of self-confidence and obvious indignation over the accusations would carry some weight in his favor. He had read of cases in the newspapers where the murderer was found with the smoking gun in his pocket and the blood on his hands but still protested complete innocence in a baby-faced, wide-eyed manner, but Paul felt that such protestation could carry no weight because the lawbreaker could not be convincing with the truth in his mind working against him. Like everybody, Paul felt that he was different; this was a different case. They would believe him.
So Paul disliked the idea of running. Running away was itself an indication of guilt. He had never been able to define the proper line between the desire for privacy and the necessity of keeping something under cover. Like many other idealists, Paul felt that any man whose life was blameless should not object to scrutiny.
But in this particular case, even while Paul was objecting to the idea of running; preferring to face the music with his convincing innocence, Paul was also aware that one man facing the anger of a mob can do very little to make them listen. He shrugged as a more pleasant thought came to him. He could easily show proof that his escape was not the flight caused by guilt but the honest fear of bodily harm from a mob incited to lynch-heat by the machinations of a personal enemy.
Paul sat up a bit relieved. He looked out of the window and recognized the street; they were about half way between the middle of the city and the spaceport.
Maybe now he might be able to collect some more information. Still the idealist, Paul could not understand why any man would work violently against a common blessing that could cause no harm. Paul believed that the possibility of opening communications with Neoterra was such a blessing.
But merely starting with a hope and an idea to help Mankind—and make himself famous—Paul had triggered off some inexplicable train of events which included murder, theft, falsification of evidence, impersonation—
Impersonation!
Not only once, but twice—thrice! Twice had Paul been impersonated for some reason or another. Now there had been the impersonation of policemen. Twice this impersonation could have been directed only at Paul's discomfort. Now—
He looked at the two men that sat on either side of him. Friends—or enemies? Had they helped him or had they captured him for themselves? And in either case, what were they going to do with him, after they had taken him—where?
The car turned a sharp corner, slowed in front of a large house, and turned into the driveway.
The address was 7111 Bridge Street!
The elderly gentleman eyed Paul quietly. Stacey had described the man as a doddering old fogy, if this were really Hoagland, or really the same man that Stacey met. But somewhere Stacey's unusually-sharp evaluation of people must have fallen flat, for Hoagland was only one-third of Stacey's description. He was neither doddering nor a fogy. He was old in Grayson's eyes.
He looked sixty-odd. He might have been older, for his type of man tends to retain the appearance of youth. There was a bit of spring to his walk and a set to his jaw; a sharpness to his eyes and a complete self-confidence about Hoagland. He was far from bald, but the hair was white-silver. He wore it carelessly but not unkempt; it was a sort of pride, Paul guessed, to half-mistreat a feature prized and lost to other men.
"Please sit down and relax," he said. His voice was hard and low-pitched and not a trace of cracking-with-age. Instead, it crackled with virility. "You might as well take it easy and save your strength. You're not going anywhere."
"What is this all about?"
"We'll get to that shortly. I have not had this privilege before; I am Charles Hoagland, Mister Grayson. I gather that my boys were timely."
"It was—" Paul started, but stopped lamely. The puzzlement welled up in him again and confusion filled him; confusion that contrasted sharply with this man who seemed to know all of the answers.
"I am glad. A troublesome mob is a dangerous thing. You might have been harmed."
Paul nodded his head quietly.
"Mister Grayson, you are a busy little man."
Grayson stiffened. He did not like the appellation even though he knew that his size was sufficient to give him tolerance at being called little; he did not have to prove otherwise.
"Just what do you want with me?" demanded Paul.
"Mister Grayson, either you are a genius or an idealistic fumbler. We hope to find out which."
"When you find out, will you let me know?" snapped Paul sarcastically.
"Be only too happy to," smiled Hoagland. "So we'll start now. Just how solid are your theories about the Z-wave?"
Paul shrugged. "How solid is any theory about anything?"
"Let's not argue."
"I am not arguing. I am stating a fact."
"You are stating an argument; you have just answered a direct question with a hypothetical proposition."
Paul grunted. "May I ask you a direct question?"
"Ask. I may even answer, depending upon the nature of the question."
"Then, just how solid is your knowledge of science—any science?"
"Sketchy. Some men hire carpenters, some hire accountants, I hire scientists."
"Then let me explain my first reply. Any scientific theory undergoes several transformations before it is an accepted fact. For instance, some phenomenon is caught or observed by some experimenter. To explain the phenomenon, the scientist suggests an hypothesis. To further the art, the hypothesis is expanded so that other experiments can be performed. These have the dubious character of predictions; if such-and-such is the explanation, then if we do this-and-so, then something-that will take place. Physical laws and limitations are set up, and while one group works according to these laws, another group will try to ascertain whether or not the same effect can be produced because of some other proposition. Frequently the original observation produces erroneous evidence, and then the conditions are changed to meet the experimental evidence as such progress is made. Eventually the original hypothesis will become a theory.
"In shorter words," continued Paul thoughtfully, "An hypothesis is a suggestion untested. A theory is an hypothesis which is undergoing test and for which some basis of truth is evident. A fact is a theory for which there is considerably more favorable evidence than unfavorable evidence, and a law is a fact against which no one has ever come up with any evidence to dispute it."
Hoagland smiled tolerantly. "And what is Grayson's Principle, and why is this called a 'principle'?"
"Haedaecker's Theory is that the Z-wave will not cross interstellar space because of the lack of solar activity. Grayson's Principle is that the Z-wave can be made to cross interstellar space under one certain condition, and that this condition is a prime limitation even in intra-solar communications. The 'principle' terminology," smiled Paul, "is like so many other names. Pedantically it is a principle because it is a prime factor. On the other hand, the name has a sort of ring to it when spoken aloud. I have an idea that 'Lorenz' is put before the 'Fitzgerald' because of the auditory ring; ending a name with a sibilant makes the possessive case difficult. 'Planck's Constant' rings better to the ear than 'Planck's Factor' and 'Avogadro's Law' is easier to manipulate than 'Avogadro's Principle.' These are not selected deliberately, they are chosen inadvertently by lecturers who tend to emphasize a phrase by its sound—even the unskilled lecturer will do this; a pure scientist with no grandiose ideas will automatically select a name that presents no lingual tongue-tripping."
Hoagland smiled. "Ah, how we progress behind the scenes; from 'Fission-reaction' to 'A-Bomb' because of headline newsprint space. Semantics was a fine, definitive term until Korzybski got the word involved with dialectics. Possibly Korzybski decided that 'semantics' rang better to the ear than 'Dialectics.' But let's get back to Grayson's Principle. Take it from there, Mister Grayson."
"The main idea is—"
"I know the main idea. That was your hypothesis, unsupported by evidence. What I am interested in is whether Grayson's Principle has what it takes to become Grayson's Theory."
"I—You mean, was I successful?"
"At last you have arrived at the salient point I mean exactly that."
"I don't quite know."
"You received a Z-wave message on Proxima?"
"Yes."
"Then—?"
Paul grunted. "Everybody knows more about this than I do. I received a message. I was then informed that it was impossible for me to have received a message because Z-wave Central was not running."
"How do you account for this message?"
"I can't. Maybe," and here Paul looked Hoagland in the eye, "maybe Miss Nora Phillips can explain."
"Who?"
"Nora Phillips," said Paul sharply. "Or have you never met her?"
"Should I have met her?"
"Look, Hoagland," said Paul evenly, "I don't know what this is all about. You've got the chips and the cards and the dice. Your playfellows accused me of complications in the murder of John Stacey, ergo you must have heard of him. And Stacey's only connection with you is because he was engaged by me to find out what kind of game Nora Phillips was playing with me. Since you know the connection all along the line, you are also aware of the fact that Nora Phillips entered this house, and that Stacey came here seeking her, having informed me of the first fact. So since we're all aware of some of the facts, let's not play any more games than necessary to save face, huh?"
"You talk rather boldly for a man in your position."
"Hell's Eternal Bells, should I grovel in fear? You and whatever other factions are shoving me around obviously want me alive for some obscure reason, otherwise I'd have been eliminated instead of impersonated. So long as I am alive I can continue to hope for the future."
"Oh, we have no intention of eliminating you."
"Then what's this mad game all about?"
"We have no intentions of forearming you, either."
Paul shrugged. "It will be useless for you to deny that all this mess has nothing to do with the Z-wave and Neoterra."
Hoagland eyed Paul humorously. "My young friend, you have the makings of wisdom. I am glad to hear you realize that your only cry to importance is your firm belief in the error of Haedaecker's Theory."
"Maybe you won't mind explaining one small item."
"Maybe."
"If—for some reason—I am in your way because of the Z-wave, why was a man impersonating me, who could only impersonate me for a limited time?"
"Occasionally," said Hoagland loftily, "some broad highway to somewhere must be blocked for a limited time only."
"So I got a crack on the skull that wouldn't last. Eventually a man impersonating me would head for Proxima I to do something there—God knows what—while the real Paul Grayson was free to complain to everybody that he was really not on Proxima I doing his job?"
"Someone slipped. Supposing," Hoagland suggested, "that you were held incommunicado while your double went to Proxima I and performed your job, complete with the automatic motion picture cameras you installed for—ah—posterity and Haedaecker's greatness. Your double returns and hands in his—your—report. Later the man leaves for parts unknown and you are released, complete with the conviction that yelling to the Authorities about your imprisonment would be at variance with the report, the pictures, and the job's completion. Everything is done as your ultimate superior wants it done, and then you go to him complaining that you were held prisoner. Or—would you, Grayson?"
"Well, I—"
Hoagland laughed heartily. "You might if you were the simple, honest soul. But Paul Grayson has been making plans to test the Z-wave on Proxima I for a long time and couldn't afford to have someone asking questions as to why Paul Grayson got himself into a cockeyed mess."
"But what would it accomplish?"
"Stall you for some time."
In the back of Paul's mind there was a picture of a very attractive woman offering up eager lips and the warmth of a vibrant body beneath sheer silk—setting up the clay target. He had to know, he did not want to merely guess the answer, he—but Nora Phillips had turned up just as Haedaecker was getting nasty. Had she turned up to stall Haedaecker? Hoagland wanted the Z-wave business stalled for some reason. Nora's actions appeared to be that of someone bent upon aiding Grayson. Even—in the long run—her falsification of the Z-wave reception on Proxima I was one step in getting mankind interested in the problem of communicating with Neoterra.
"So you erased him? When he failed, I mean?"
Hoagland looked unhappy. "Unfortunate but necessary. However, Joel Walsh was a type of character that Mankind can well do without."
Grayson grunted angrily. "Why not bump him first?"
"Until he proved completely useless, he had a place," said Hoagland coldly. "There's just enough bad in the best of us, to quote an old cliche."
"I suppose when a player has enough pawns he can afford to sacrifice."
"Only useless pawns."
Paul looked sourly cynical. "And I am the White Knight?"
Hoagland smiled affably. "And you balance very badly while sliding down that poker. Again your humility signifies the beginning of great wisdom. I'd hardly call you a Bishop."
Paul snorted through his nose. "If we want to make some more puns," he said flatly, "I'll admit that I've been Rooked. But who is the Queen in this mad game, Nora Phillips?"
"Hardly."
"You mean you'll not tell me the objective. Okay, Hoagland, we'll play one more gambit. I suppose the capture of the White Knight is worth the sacrifice of two pawns."
Hoagland smiled self-confidently. "I call it the capture of a Rook as well as the White Knight for—did you say two pawns?"
Grayson eyed Hoagland distastefully. "Who was the guy on Proxima?"
"Proxima?"
Paul sat back in his chair with the first feeling of returning self-confidence that he had enjoyed since the moment of his downfall in the lecture hall. "Hoagland," he said, "you've made me very happy."
"How?" snapped the other.
"I've always had the conviction that God was a swell Fellow, Who like the rest of us, was still seeking the completely Holy Truth. But happy, understand, in knowing that He did not really know everything because when He did there was no more future, for Him, for us, for anybody. Equally less-than-perfect is the Devil, who does not know everything either. Hoagland, you're just a minor devil."
"What do you mean?"
"There was a guy on Proxima about to impersonate me—or maybe impersonate the impersonation you provided. I can see one faction bumping off parties of the second part. But Hoagland, old devil, if you don't know about the mess on Proxima, you don't know that instead of one conflicting faction against you, you've got two!
"Because the guy you did not know about was polished off by another gang that you do not know about! How do you like them apples?"
Hoagland blew out a breath that sounded like the sigh of Autumn.
CHAPTER 11
Considering that the time elapsed between Paul's first contact with Nora Phillips and his meeting with Hoagland was less than one month, during which Paul lived in an incomprehensible maelstrom, the following ten months were sheer boredom. For Paul was removed from 7111 Bridge Street and taken aboard a spacecraft bound for Neoterra, one hundred and forty light years by distance and three hundred and eighteen days by the fastest spaceliner going. Ten months plus, spent in a shell of metal, completely self-contained. There were no viewports for a ship exceeding the speed of light was enclosed in its own warp of space and one could not see out. There was a broad port-dome for the landing and take-off pilot, but looking out through that dome of glass into the awesome nothingness of supervelocity made men a little bit crazy. Some went stark mad.
Time was measured by ship's clocks and ship's calendars, timed in divide-down networks from the master micro-timer that measured the flight-time in microseconds from the moment of superdrive until the end of the flight.
Paul had a lot of time to think, but nothing to do. Eventually Paul knew that thinking supplied nothing but additional complications introduced by his own mind. By the time the trip was half over, the network of fact and fiction revolving around Nora Phillips was so involved that any single additional fact would have destroyed the whole picture. Nora was either angel or she-devil.
It was the latter reasoning that stopped Paul from brooding over the problem. Paul wanted neither saint nor she-devil. One was untouchable and the other undesirable. Paul wanted an uninhibited loveliness, with the indefinably correct admixture of bawdiness and propriety, of Madonna and Magdalene, of soul and sex—sana mens in sana corpore, as Julius Caesar would have put it.
The fact that the Galactic Network was progressing week by week only gratified Paul, even though he knew that someone else was racing madly back and forth across the star-trails checking the signals in one after the other. All Grayson needed was the initial radio contact, the Z-wave contact could progress from there.
To while away the time Paul called upon his memory to fill in the spaces between the stellar radio stations between Sol and Neosol. He did this with the aid of the pilot's star maps which were made available to him. It was a flat map instead of the three-dimensional space-model necessary for true distances, but it served as well as a Mercator Projection of the earth, which is a spherical body and far from flat.
In the space model, the first link was to Proxima, a sort of test link started some time before the rest. There were four other links that led from Sol to nearby stars, spread out in space-angles from one another. From these, each had three or four lines out and still away from Sol, some crossing the near gap and some crossing back between the other first-step stations until a complete pyramidal cross-connection of solid triangulation was obtained.
Then across the longer reaches of space, long-term links were running between longer-distance stations. These would complete other space-triangulations across the galaxy, year by year until the final radio beam from Sol to Neosol landed, one hundred and forty years from the start.
Each completed link between star and star would improve the surveying of the galaxy and bring Neosol's dimensional error down and down through the banks of figures best stated by exponents of ten. Astronomers work in light years, man works in miles. An error of a 'light month' in one-forty light years is not much error, but an error of 2,000 million miles is still a long way for man to correct-for.
So Paul made a planar chart of the galaxy between Sol and Neosol, and from memory and calculations he filled in, week by week, the completed links.
The first linkage had been computed and started so that a small group of men (of which Paul was one) could race from star to star checking-in the arrival of the radio beam. It took ten days to go from Sol to Proxima, the rest of the network had been started so that—at the best of astronomical calculations—the whole pattern would end up, one after the other, spread apart long enough to enable the group of beam-checkers to go from station to station.
The map would not be fixed. Stars move with respect to one another, and this factor would be part of the measurements. On a star map or planetarium, this motion was impossible to show from one year to the next, these were 'fixed stars.' But for data fed into the Elecalc to determine the time of drive, the angle, and the velocity, the finest measurement of distance was none too good.
But even some grasp of the true immensity of space, with its tiny pinpricks of solid matter scattered sparsely in a vastness of sheer, black nothing, was lost on the travellers between Sol and Neosol. For as far as they were concerned the journey was not much longer than the famous voyage of Columbus. Miles meant nothing; there were too many of them. Time was the essence, and ten long months passed between take-off and the ultimate recovery of their own time and space, where the cheerful stars winked out of a coal-black sky.
The dispersion was not too bad. Neosol was a light-week away, at about a forty-five degree angle from their course and position. The small-copy of the Elecalc went to work in the course computing room and once more the ship took to the silent, black vastness of supervelocity until the second drop into reality. They were a half-million miles from Neoterra on the second hop, and there was no room to use supervelocity now, so the next few hours were spent in matching the galactic drift of Neosol, and finally Neoterra. But after ten months of living in an electric-lighted capsule of metal, a half day of jockeying before landing was pleasant.
But as the ship started to drop down toward the planet, Paul realized with a shock that it was not Neoterra. As space-trained as Paul was, even he could not tell one star or one sun from another until something more featureless is offered for comparison. The planet was definitely not Neoterra, and this Paul knew only because it obviously bore no atmosphere. All he could be sure of was that this star was close to Neoterra as stellar distances went, but which star he had no way of knowing. He knew that the star was not Neosol because none of the planets of Neosol were without atmosphere.
Such an absolutely minimum of negative evidence could only tell Paul where he was not; he was not on a planet of Sol nor Neosol.
As the ship came close to the surface of this planet, Paul noted the radio-relay station below them, and here his recollection bore fruit. This planet was of a star about five light years from Neosol.
He thought carefully. The star from Sol bore no more than a catalog number, being of insufficient size to warrant notice by the ancients who gave the stars their names. Someone had dubbed the planet Harrigan's Horror in dubious honor of Lew Harrigan, who had been the engineer who put up the relay station and had lived in pressure-buildings for several months.
Harrigan himself would be coming to Harrigan's Horror in about two months to check in the arrival of the beam from Neoterra, just as Paul had gone to Proxima ten months before. Just what Hoagland's crew of cutthroats intended to do on Harrigan's Horror, Paul could not determine from the myriad of unpleasant possibilities he could conjure up.
But he knew—and he was not wrong—that they would tell him very soon.
Below them, a half mile or so from the relay station, a small spacecraft stood with its nose in the air. The big spacecraft landed near the small one, and Paul was handed a space suit.
"Get in," said Evans. Evans had been one of the pseudo-policemen back on Terra.
"What's next?" asked Paul.
"Get in—you'll find out."
"Why not let me in on it."
"You'll learn. Get in it or we'll be glad to take you out across this airless planet without a suit."
"That wouldn't do you much good."
"No?"
The man's attitude convinced Paul that this was the termination of any idea of keeping him alive. Up to now they had been saving him. Obviously for this. Paul's faith in the idea that kidnapers do not kill people after keeping them alive for almost a year began to wane. For some reason it had been necessary to keep Paul alive this long, but now—
But Paul had no intention of dying by going out across Harrigan's Horror in his city clothing.
Paul looked across the face of Harrigan's Horror, and blinked. The huge emblazoned registry number was half-hidden around the side of the space ship, but Paul knew every rivet in her. That ship was Paul Grayson's BurAst P.G.1.!
A glimmer of hope came. He got into the space suit and was led across to the smaller ship by Evans. A pilot in the BurAst ship let them in through the airlock and swung his helmet back over his head and greeted Evans glumly.
"Thought you'd never get here," he said.
"When did you take off?"
"Hour after you did."
"Been here long?"
"Hundred and seven hours Sol."
Paul looked around. Everything was in place, everything in order. "What goes on?" he asked.
Evans turned to him. "I don't mind telling you. Hoagland has no intention of letting you or anybody else start this Z-wave business between here and home."
"Then why this stuff? Why this set-up?"
"You've stirred up enough interest to make some men curious. Now you'll stop it."
Paul scowled at Evans. "Look," he said testily, "this Z-wave communications is not going to die with me. Killing one man isn't going to stop curiosity one bit."
Evans laughed. "You've stolen a spacecraft belonging to the Bureau of Astrogation, the one filled with Z-wave gear. A fugitive from justice, you've come to this station, which will be the next radio beacon checked in which is also close enough to Neoterra's Z-wave Central for you to make connection and get whatever contact you need for your Z-wave line across space.
"Now, Grayson, Item One: Your ship is a bit roughed-up because of a hard landing, so you can't take off. You've been very busy laying a line from the station to your ship so you can tap into the radio beacon, and so you've used up quite a bit of your air. Since you have not the keys to this station, you cannot get in there, and besides you'll find that your space suit is inclined to be dangerously leaky. In shorter words you're trapped on this ship for want of air, and you'll find that whatever you think you can think of, several others have thought of it first and done something about it.
"Item Two: Harrigan will not be checking this station upon beam-arrival. Like the rest it is automatic, and it will register. Harrigan is going to be very busy elsewhere. In other words, you'll find that your one chance for salvation is to establish Z-wave communications back to Neoterra so you can call for help.
"Item Three: regardless of what you do about it, you will be found here about four months from now, the victim of asphyxiation, caused by being trapped here. You will have done a major effort toward making your Z-wave gadget work. Having failed in the moment of desperation, the two worlds will hear about it, and men will then discount your wild theories."
"And if I should succeed?"
"You won't. We're better chess-players than that."
"In other words, Harrigan is a friend of yours."
"That's part of it."
"And I suppose when I'm found there will be all sorts of records and data and frantic experimentation to show that I tried and failed?"
"You get closer and closer all the time."
"But you can't stop progress."
"Maybe we don't want progress completely stopped. Only stalled for some time."
"But what reason can you give—"
"We're not stating any reasons, Grayson. We have our reasons and to us they're good ones."
"But—"
"Stow it, Grayson. And—have a good time!"
Paul got a good view of the picture after they left. His masquerader might have returned from Proxima I with honest data about the beam, but Paul Grayson might as well have been found in a wrecked landing on Terra with evidence that indicated complete failure in the Z-wave. There—or here—what difference?
So in the next few hours Paul ransacked his spacecraft in complete futility. He was trapped on Harrigan's Horror. Had Paul been ten times as proficient as he was with tools and calculations, the BurAst P.G.1. still would have remained where it stood snuggled down in the heat-eroded ground of Harrigan's Horror. His spacesuit—the one they left him—was nothing to wear while wandering around on the sunside of a close-in planet. He doubted whether he could cross the distance between the BurAst P.G.1. and the relay station even had he the air to spare.
Of course he had quite a bit of air, both bottled and revitalized from the greenery in the hold. But the greenery was none too healthy and the bottled goods was almost gone. His compressor could have been made to work and Paul could have made it to the station, but for what? To stand there and die? Or to die along the route in a leaky suit? Breaking into a fort was no more problem than breaching a relay station from the ground. They had been built to last for years against wind, erosion, burglars, pirates, and/or the pressures of the inner air against airless planets such as this.
But Paul's problem was not merely escape. He might have tried to make the relay station if this place offered any hope. Even then, Paul might have been able as a last-ditch measure, to break into the relay station somehow.
Assuming that he could break into the station, that would let the air out. The only way one could break into such a station without letting the air out would be through the airlock, and breaking into that sort of bank-vault construction was no easier than cracking the wall without letting the air out.
The nearest radio receiving set was five light years away at Neosol, and if he could beam the radio call, it would take five years—
He looked at the Z-wave equipment and thought. Could it—?
Whatever the rest of the universe thought about Paul Grayson and his idea about the Z-wave, Paul still had faith. Furthermore he knew as much about Z-wave gear as any other man alive, up to and including Haedaecker himself. Evans said that the Z-wave wouldn't work; how bad could they foul Z-wave equipment? Could they foul the junk so bad that Paul wouldn't be able to make repair? Or would they—
Paul tried the radio. Naturally it was silent. But it was not dead. It gave a rattle of cosmic static.
Four thundering blasts came in across the ultra-short wave band, four of the beacon's outgoing transmitters unmodulated, directed at other stations across space to the nearer stars. He tried listening along the frequencies of the local oscillators of the receiving sets set to collect any incoming beacons but he realized that they would not be turned on yet; there was a point in keeping the transmitters on, but there was no use in turning on a receiver four or five years before the signal got there. He hit another transmitter and as he listened to the unmodulated signal, it began to pip in a timing-signal sequence that some technician would use five to fifteen—or more—years from now when it arrived at some other star-station.