Art - Kentaro Kameda
14 - untitled
bad landing / blue desert
sci-fi poster art
Vehicle Design 2
riverside village 2
Through the LEaves
by Chris Morton
The storm ends on the seventh day and the ship pulls in close enough for our shuttle to make the final run in to the island.
I have all my equipment, suffice to say. Telescopes and spare lenses. Two tripods. The main telescope and one other of smaller size, easier to carry and that would stand up to better conditions. I will not tire the recipient with the details (astronomers will know I am using the John Hope models. For non-astronomers this name will mean nothing).
I have food, water, and the means to replenish my rations. I have the opportunity to fish, and the practice. Apparently there are bOar on the island. And mOnkeys.
The shuttle took us in through waves.
And I pulled my crate along the beach, looking at where to set up camp.
I have spare clothes, dried meat, a pillow (the one luxury I allowed myself); torch, knives and fire-sparks. I have a saw, a hammer and nails. No books, no holo-novels; no music.
But I have my knowledge of survival and my sanity remains, despite what they say.
Up above the asteroid is invisible to the naked eye as I drag my crate along the beach of pure white sand. There is a cool breeze while the twin Solaris bear down. Solaris-4 and -5. I must be careful not to get burnt.
This story appears in the collection Adventures in Sci-fi. To continue reading, click here.
A fantastic blend of believable science and great storytelling.
It is the year 2051 and the International Space Institute has just sent two rival astrobiologists to search for extraterrestrial life on Europa, the mysterious ice moon of Jupiter. What they encounter could not only revolutionize science, it might make one of them the most famous person on Earth. Or does the Universe have other plans?
by John Cory
Near the end of his fifteenth orbit as Greenland slipped by noiselessly below, he made the routine measurements that tested the operation of his space capsule and checked the automatic instruments which would transmit their stored data to Earth on his next pass over Control. Everything normal; all mechanical devices were operating perfectly.
This information didn't surprise him, in fact, he really didn't even think about it. The previous orbits and the long simulated flights on Earth during training had made such checks routine and perfect results expected. The capsules were developed by exhaustive testing both on the ground and as empty satellites before entrusting them to carry animals and then the first human.
He returned to contemplation of the panorama passing below and above, although as he noted idly, above and below had lost some of their usual meaning. Since his capsule, like all heavenly bodies, was stable in position with respect to the entire universe and, thanks to Sir Isaac Newton and his laws, never changed, the Earth and the stars alternated over his head during each orbit. "Up" now meant whatever was in the direction of his head. He remembered that even during his initial orbit when the Earth first appeared overhead he accepted the fact as normal. He wondered if the other two had accepted it as easily.
For there had been two men hurled into orbit before he ventured into space. Two others who had also passed the rigorous three-year training period and were selected on the basis of over-all performance to precede him. He had known them both well and wondered again what had happened on their flights. Of course, they had both returned, depending upon what your definition of return was. The capsules in which they had ventured beyond Earth had returned them living. But this was to be expected, for even the considerable hazards of descent through the atmosphere and the terrible heating which occurred were successfully surmounted by the capsule.
Naturally, it had not been expected that the satellites would have to be brought down by command from the ground. But this, too, was part of the careful planning – radio control of the retro-rockets that move the satellite out of orbit by reducing its velocity. Of course, ground control was to be used only if the astronaut failed to ignite the retro-rockets himself. He remembered everyone's surprise and relief when the first capsule was recovered and its occupant found to be alive. They had assumed that in spite of all precautions he was dead because he had not fired the rockets on the fiftieth orbit and it was necessary to bring him down on the sixty-fifth.
Recovery alive only partially solved the mystery, for the rescuers and all others were met by a haughty, stony silence from the occupant. Batteries of tests confirmed an early diagnosis: complete and utter withdrawal; absolute refusal to communicate. Therapy was unsuccessful.
* * * * *
The second attempt was similar in most respects, except that command return was made on the thirty-first orbit after the astronaut's failure to de-orbit at the end of the thirtieth. His incoherent babble of moons, stars, and worlds was no more helpful than the first.
Test after test confirmed that no obvious organic damage had been incurred by exposure outside of the Earth's protective atmosphere. Biopsy of even selected brain tissues seemed to show that microscopic cellular changes due to prolonged weightlessness or primary cosmic-ray bombardment, which had been suggested by some authorities, were unimportant. Somewhat reluctantly, it was decided to repeat the experiment a third time.
The launching was uneventful. He was sent into space with the precision he expected. The experience was exhilarating and, although he had anticipated each event in advance, he could not possibly have foreseen the overpowering feeling that came over him. Weightlessness he had experienced for brief periods during training, but nothing could match the heady impression of continuous freedom from gravity.
Earth passing overhead was also to be expected from the simple laws of celestial mechanics but his feeling as he watched it now was inexpressible. It occurred to him that perhaps this was indeed why he was here, because he could appreciate such experiences best. He had been told the stars would be bright, unblinking, and an infinitude in extent, but could mere descriptions or photographs convey the true seeing?
On his twenty-first orbit he completed his overseeing the entire surface of the planet in daylight. He had seen more of Earth than anyone able to tell about it, but only he had the true feeling of it. The continents were clearly visible, as were the oceans and both polar ice caps. The shapes were familiar but in only a remote way. A vague indistinctness borne of distance served to modify the outlines and he alone was seeing and understanding. On the dark side of the planet large cities were marked by indistinct light areas which paled to insignificance compared to the stars and his sun.
He speculated about the others who had only briefly experienced these sights. Undoubtedly they weren't as capable of fully grasping or appreciating any of these things as he was. It was quite clear that no one else but he could encompass the towering feeling of power and importance generated by being alone in the Universe.
At the end of the twenty-fifth orbit he disabled the radio control of the retro-rockets and sat back with satisfaction to await the next circuit of his Earth around Him.
This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. The etext was produced from Outstanding Science Fiction May 1960. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).
by George O. Smith
The telephone rang and the lieutenant of police Timothy McDowell grunted. He put down his magazine, and hastily covered the partially-clad damsel on the front cover before he answered the ringing phone.
"McDowell," he grunted.
"McDowell," came the voice in his ear. "I think ye'd better come overe here."
"Been a riot at McCarthy's on Boylston Street."
"That's nothing new," growled McDowell, "excepting sometimes it's Hennesey's on Dartmouth or Kelley's on Massachusetts."
"Yeah, but this is different."
"Whut's so different about a riot in a jernt like McCarthy's on a street like Boylston?"
"Well, the witnesses say it wuz started by a guy wearin' feathers instead uv hair."
"A bird, you mean."
"Naw. 'Twas a big fella, according to tales. A huge guy that refused to take off his hat and they made a fuss. They offered to toss him out until he uncovered, and when he did, here was this full head of feathers. There was a general titter that roared up into a full laugh. The guy got mad."
"Yeah. He got mad and made a few swings. 'Twas quite a riot."
"What did McCarthy expect – a dance? When a guy gets laughed at for having feathers instead of hair. … Holy St. Patrick! Feathers, did ye say?"
"Look, O'Leary," growled McDowell angrily, "you've not been drinkin' yourself, have ye?"
"Nary a drop, lieutenant."
"So this bird takes off his hat and shows feathers. The crowd laughs and he gets mad. Then what?"
"Well, he tossed the bartender through the plate glass window, clipped McCarthy on the button and tossed him across the bar and wrecked about fifteen hundred dollars worth of fine Irish whiskey. Then he sort of picked up Eddy, the bouncer, and hit Pete, the waiter, with him. Then, having started and finished his own riot, the guy takes his drink, downs it, and stamps out, slamming the door hard enough to break the glass."
"Some character," glowed McDowell, admiringly. "But what am I supposed to do?"
"McCarthy wants to swear out a warrant for the guy. But before we do, I want to know more about this whole thing. First off, what's a man doing wearing feathers instead of honest hair?"
"Ask him," grunted McDowell.
"Shall I issue the warrant?"
"Yeah – disturbing the peace. He did that, anyway. And if it's some advertising stunt – this feathers business – I'll have some wiseacre in jail in the morning. Look, O'Leary, I'll meet you at McCarthy's in ten minutes." He hung up the phone and snapped the button on his communicator.
"Doc?" he barked. "Come along if you want to. We've got us a guy wearing feathers instead of hair!"
"Trick," growled the doctor. "Go away. No one can grow feathers instead of hair."
"That's why I want you along. Come on, Doc. This is an order!"
"Confound you and your orders." He hung up angrily, and the lieutenant heard him breaking up the poker game as he snapped his own switch closed.
* * * * *
It was ten minutes to the second when the car pulled up before McCarthy's. O'Leary was already inside, talking to a man holding a chunk of raw beef to his eye.
"Now," said McDowell, entering with the doctor on his heels, "what's this about feathers?"
"Swear it, lieutenant. An' I want the devil clapped in jail where he belongs."
"Sure now," said McDowell in a mollifying tone, "and you can prove them feathers were really growin'?"
"Sure," snapped McCarthy. "Here!" and he handed Lieutenant McDowell something slightly bloody. It was a bit of skin, to which was attached three tiny feathers. "Just before he bopped me I got me hands in his scalp to see if they wuz real. They wuz, because they came hard and he howled and went madman."
McDowell handed the specimen to Doc. "Examine it, Doc. One, are they real feathers? Two, is that real human skin, and three, is that human blood?"
"That'll take time," said the doctor looking at the bloody bit. "Bet that hurts, though."
"Hurts?" grunted McDowell. "So what?"
"By which I mean that he'll be visiting a doctor or a hospital for treatment. That's no home-remedy job!"
"O.K.," smiled McDowell cheerfully. "Now look, McCarthy. We'll get right on it. You've got your warrant and can prefer charges. Meanwhile there's nothing I can do here. We'll go back to the station and go to work."
"How about the damages?" growled the owner.
"I'm a policeman, not a civil lawyer," returned McDowell. "Take it to court when we catch our – bird."
"A fine force we got," grumbled McCarthy belligerently.
McDowell grunted angrily and turned to O'Leary. "He don't like us," he said.
"McCarthy, have you been closing promptly at midnight on Saturday night?" demanded O'Leary. "That's a bad law to break, you know."
"I've been lawful," returned the barkeep. "And I'll watch me step in the future."
McDowell laughed and he and the Doc left the place.
* * * * *
Back at the station, reporters met them with questions. McDowell held up a hand. "Look, boys," he said with a grin, "this may be something you can print. It may also be an attempt to ridicule the force. I'll tell you this much: There was a guy apparently wearing feathers instead of hair that started a riot in McCarthy's on Boylston a little while ago. Now if you'll hold off phoning that in until we check, we'll tell you whether the guy was wearing feathers – or growing them! Also – whether he was human. Mind waiting?"
"We'll wait," came the chorused reply.
"Whatcha going to use for lead?" asked one reporter of another.
"I don't know yet. It depends whether he was having a frat initiation or was really one of our fine feathered friends."
McDowell followed the doctor in – and the reporters followed the lieutenant in. Gag or not, thought McDowell, these guys will be as good to me as I am to them. And if it is a gag, we'll show 'em that we know how to find out about such, anyway.
Doc ignored the room teeming with people, and went to work. He made test after test, and then pored through a couple of volumes from his bookcase. Finally he gave that up and faced the group, casting a glance at McDowell.
McDowell said: "This is off the record until I find out what he's got to say. If it's O.K., you get it first hand, O.K.?"
The reporters nodded.
Doc cleared his throat. "The skin is human – so is the blood. Indications are the feathers were growing out of the skin, not merely inserted."
"You're certain?" gasped one reporter.
"I'm reasonably sure," qualified the doctor. "Skin ... well, skin has certain tests to prove it. This stuff is human skin, I'm certain. It couldn't be anything else. The feathers – I tried to classify them, but it will take a professional ornithologist to do that."
"But Doc," queried the reporter, "if that's human skin, how can feathers be growing out of it?"
"Ask me another," said the doctor, puzzled.
"Huh," grunted the reporter. "Man from – ?" He shut his trap but quick, but the words carried enough connotation.
"Look," said McDowell, "you can use that Man from Mars gag if you want to, but don't say we said so. It's your own idea, see?"
"Right, lieutenant," they said, happy to get this much. It would make a bit of reading, this item.
"Now," said McDowell. "Doc and I are going over to Professor Meredith's place and ask him if he knows what kind of feathers these are."
One reporter spoke up quickly. "I'm holding mine until we get Meredith's report," he said. "And I've got a station wagon outside. Come on, lieutenant and Doc – and any of you mugs that want to ride along."
There was a grand rush for the door.
* * * * *
Professor Meredith looked the feather over carefully, classifying it as best he could. He sorted through several books, consulted many notes of his own, and made careful counts of the spines-per-inch along the shaft of the feather. He noted its coloring carefully and called for a general statement as to the color, size, and general shape of the feather.
"This is done somewhat like you file fingerprints," he told the lieutenant. "But here at home I'm stumped. I've never seen that kind before. However, over at the university we have a punched-card sorter. We can run through all known birds and see if any of the feathers agree with this specimen."
This time they took Professor Meredith along with them. Using official sanction, the professor opened the laboratory and entered the building. It was three hours later that the professor made his official statement to the police and to the press.
"This feather is not known to the scientific world," he said. "However, it does exist, and that proves that the scientific world does not know everything there is. I would say, however, that the animal from which this came is not known in any regular part of the civilized world."
"Explain that, Professor Meredith," requested McDowell.
"It is a small feather – fully grown. It is in an advanced stage of evolution. Feathers, you know, evolved from scales and we can tell how far they have come. It must come from a small bird, which is also evidenced by the fact that it is not known to man. There are places in the backwaters of the Amazon where man has not been, and certain spots in Africa and the part of the world near Malaya. Oceania, and others."
"May we quote you on this, professor?" asked the Press.
"Why – yes. But tell me now, where did you get that feather?"
McDowell explained. And Professor Meredith gasped. "I'll revise my statements," he said with a smile. "This feather is not known to exist in the scientific world. If the story is true, that this feather emerged from the scalp of a man, it is a scientific curiosity that would startle the world – and make a mint for the owner in any freak show."
The reporter from the Press said: "Professor, you state that this feather is not known to the scientific world. Is there any chance that this – creature – is utterly alien?"
"Since the disclosure of the affair at Hiroshima and Nagasaki," smiled the professor, "a lot of people have been thinking in terms of attaining the stars – interplanetary travel. As a member of a certain society known as the Forteans, one of our big questions has been this: If interplanetary travel is possible, why hasn't someone visited us? Gentlemen, I'd not like to hear myself quoted as giving the idea too much credulence, but it is something to ponder."
That did it. There was another general rush for the car. There was a wild ride following, in which the man from the Press displayed that he had two things – a careful disregard for traffic laws, plus illegal ownership of a siren. But they delivered Professor Meredith to his home, the policemen to their station, and then the party broke up heading for their respective telephones.
Three hours later Lieutenant McDowell was reading a headline stating: "Hub of world to be Hub of Universe?"
* * * * *
McDowell groaned. "Everything happens to Boston, and everything in Boston happens on Boylston Street. And everything that happens on Boylston Street happens to me."
Doc smiled sourly. "Now what?"
"We've canvassed the medical profession from Brookline to Everett, including the boys on Scollay Square and a bouquet of fellows who aren't too squeamish about their income. Not a sign. Furthermore, that feather specimen was telephotoed to the more-complete libraries at New York, Chicago, Washington, and Berkeley. The Audubon Society has been consulted, as well as have most of the big ornithologists in the world. The sum total is this:
"That feather is strictly unlike anything known. The skin is human – or as one dermatologist put it, is as human as possible considering that it is growing feathers instead of hair. The blood is the same story."
Doc nodded. "Now what?" he repeated, though the sense of his words was different.
"We wait. Boy, there's a big scareline in all the papers. The Press is hinting that the guy is from outer space, having been told that there were intelligent humans here by that series of atom bomb explosions."
"If we were really intelligent, we could get along with one another without atom bombs," grunted the Doc.
"Well, the Sphere claims that the character is a mutant resulting from atom bomb radiation by-products, or something. He quotes the trouble that the photographic manufacturers are having with radioactive specks in their plants. The Tribune goes even further. He thinks the guy is an advance spy for an invasion from outer space, because his gang of feather-bearing humans are afraid to leave any world run loose with atom bombs.
"The ultraconservative Events even goes so far as to question the possibility of a feather-bearing man growing to full manhood without having some record of it. Based on that premise, they build an outer space yarn about it, too."
Doc grunted. "Used to be invasions from Mars," he said.
"They're smarter now," explained McDowell. "Seems as how the bright boys claim that life of humanoid varieties couldn't evolve on any planet of this system but the Earth. Therefore if it is alien, it must come from one of the stars. If it came from Mars it would be green worms, or seven-legged octopuses. Venus, they claim, would probably sprout dinosaurs or a gang of talking walleyed pike. Spinach, I calls it."
Doc smiled. "Notice that none of 'em is claiming that they have the truth? It's all conjecture so far."
"Trouble is that I'm the fall guy," complained McDowell. "It landed in my lap and now I'm it – expected to unravel it myself or be the laughingstock of the country, Canada, and the affiliations of the Associated Press."
* * * * *
The phone rang, and McDowell groaned. "Some other guy wanting to climb on the wagon with us. Been ringing all morning, from one screwbell or another with theories, ideas, un-helpful suggestions as to how to trap the alien, and so forth. My own opinion is to treat him nice, apologize for our rather fool behavior, and see that he don't take a bad statement home with him. If he tells 'em about us from what he's seen – Hello," he bawled into the phone.
"I am Mrs. Donovan, on Tremont Street. I wanted to report that the fellow with the feathers on his head used to pass my window every morning on his way to work."
"Fine," said McDowell, unconvinced. "Will you answer me three questions?"
"First, how do you know – seems he never took his hat off?"
"Well, he was large and he acted suspicious –"
"Sure," growled McDowell, hanging up the phone.
He turned again to Doc. "It's been like this. People who think they've seen him; people who are sure they've had him in for lunch, almost. Yet they missed calling about a character growing feathers instead of hair until there's a big fuss – just as though a guy with a head covered with feathers was quite the ordinary thing until he takes a swing at a guy in a saloon."
Doc said: "You've canvassed all the medics in Boston and environs?"
"In another hour we'll have all the medics in Massachusetts. Give us six hours and we'll have 'em all over New England and part of Canada, New York, and the fish along the Atlantic Ocean."
"Have you tried the non-medics?"
"Chiropodists, and the like. They aren't listed in the Medical Register, but they will often take care of a cut or scrape."
McDowell laughed. "Just like a stranger to go to a foot specialist to get a ripped scalp taken care of."
"Well, it is farfetched, but might be."
"I'm going to have the boys chalk all sorts, and we'll follow up with the pharmacists. Does that feather-headed bird know how much money he's costing the city, I wonder?" McDowell gritted his teeth a bit as the phone rang again. "I wonder what this one has to say," he snarled, and then barked: "McDowell," into the instrument.
"I have just seen the feather-headed man on Huntington Avenue," replied a gruff voice. "This is Dr. Muldoon, and I'm in a drugstore on the corner of Huntington and Massachusetts."
"You've seen him? How did you know?"
"His hat blew off as he came out of the subway entrance here."
The doctor chuckled. "The Boston Elevated, they call it. He headed toward Symphony Hall just a moment ago – after collecting his hat."
"How many people were there?"
"Maybe a dozen. They all faded out of sight because they're a bit scared of that alien-star rumor. He grabbed his hat rather quickly, though, and hurried out of the way as I came here to telephone."
"Stay there," snapped McDowell, "and I'll be right over."
McDowell and Doc jumped into the car and went off with the siren screaming. McDowell cursed a traffic jam at Copley Square and took the corner on one and one-half wheels into Huntington. They ignored the red light halfway up Huntington, and they skidded to a stop at Massachusetts Avenue to see a portly gentleman standing on the corner. He wasted no time, but jumped in the car and introduced himself as Dr. Muldoon.
"He went this way," pointed the doctor. The car turned roughly and started down the street. They combed the rabbit-warren of streets there with no sign of the feather-headed man at all.
McDowell finally gave up. "There are a million rooming houses in this neighborhood," he said sorrowfully. "He could lose himself in any one of them."
"I'm sorry," said the doctor. "It's funny that this cut scalp hasn't caused him to turn up somewhere."
"That's what we'd hoped for," said McDowell. "But either the guy is treating himself or he's got an illegal medic to do the job."
"From what you say – a piece of scalp ripped loose – it is nothing to fool around with. How big was the piece?"
"About as big as a fingernail," grinned McDowell.
"Most dangerous. He might die of infection."
"I wonder if he knows that?"
"I wouldn't know," said Dr. Muldoon.
"Well, I've combed the doctors. Now I'm going after the dermatologists, chiropodists, osteopaths, and pharmacists. I might as well take a swing at the chiropractors, too, and maybe hit that institution down on Huntington near Massachusetts. They might know about him."
McDowell looked up at the second-story offices that bordered Massachusetts Avenue between Huntington and Boylston and shook his head. "A million doctors, dentists, and what-nots. And what is a follicologist?"
"A hair specialist."
"A what?" exploded McDowell. He jammed on the brakes with a hundred and seventy pounds of man aided with some muscle-effort against the back of the seat. The police car put its nose down and stopped. But quick. Traffic piled up and horns blasted notice of impatience until McDowell jumped out, signaled to a traffic cop to unsnarl the mess. Then McDowell raced into the office.
* * * * *
He paused at the door marked: Clarence O'Toole, Follicologist. McDowell paused, listening, for two voices were coming through the door. One was rumbling, low. The other was in a familiar brogue.
"But this hurts," complained the rumble.
"Naturally. Any scalping hurts. But money will ease any hurt."
"But where's this money?"
"You are to get ten percent of my profit for a year. That plus a good head of hair. Isn't that enough?"
"Ordinarily, yes. But I'm in a jam, now. The police are looking for me with blood in their eyes."
"Now, surrender yourself," said the brogue. "Go to this Lieutenant McDowell. Explain the error. Tell them that you were afraid, that you'd been hiding because of the ridicule attendant to the feathers on your scalp. Then go to the press and demand satisfaction for their ridicule, libel; throw the book at them. That will get us the publicity we want, and as soon as the thing is explained, people will come in droves. But first you can explain to McDowell –"
"And start now!" exploded McDowell, bursting in angrily. He pointed the business-end of his revolver at them and waved them back. "Sit down," he barked. "And talk!"
"It was him," accused the feather-headed one. "He wanted me to do this – to get into an argument. To get publicity. He can grow hair – I've been as bald as an onion."
"Sure," drawled McDowell. "The jury will decide." He turned to O'Toole. "Are you a doctor?"
"I am not a licensed Doctor of Medicine."
"We'll see if what you are doing can be turned into a charge of practicing with no license."
"I'm not practicing medicine. I'm a follicologist."
"Yeah? Then what's this feather-business all about?"
"Simple. Evolution has caused every genus, every specimen of life to pass upward from the sea. Hair is evolved from scales and feathers evolved also from scales.
"Now," continued O'Toole, "baldness is attributed to lack of nourishment for the hair on the scalp. It dies. The same thing often occurs in agriculture –”
"What has farming to do with hair-growing?" demanded McDowell.
"I was coming to that. When wheat will grow no longer in a field, they plant it with corn. It is called 'Rotation of Crops.' Similarly, I cause a change in the growth-output of the scalp. It starts off with a light covering of scales, evolves into feathers in a few days, and the feathers evolve to completion. This takes seven weeks. After this time, the feathers die because of the differences in evolutionary ending of the host. Then, with the scalp renewed by the so-called Rotation of Crops."
"Uh-huh. Well, we'll let the jury decide!"
Two months elapsed before O'Toole came to trial. But meantime, the judge took a vacation and returned with a luxuriant growth of hair on his head. The jury was not cited for contempt of court even though most of them insisted on keeping their hats on during proceedings. O'Toole had a good lawyer.
And Judge Murphy beamed down over the bench and said: "O'Toole, you are guilty, but sentence is suspended indefinitely. Just don't get into trouble again, that's all. And gentlemen, Lieutenant McDowell, Dr. Muldoon, and Sergeant O'Leary, I commend all of your work and will direct that you, Mr. McCarthy, be recompensed. As for you," he said to the ex-featherhead. "Mr. William B. Windsor, we have no use for foreigners -"
Mr. Windsor never got a chance to state that he was no foreigner; his mother was a Clancy.
You can check out George O. Smith's wikipedia page here
This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. The etext was produced from Outstanding Science Fiction October 1946. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).
The First Man on the Moon
by Alfred Coppel
The ship lay at a crazy angle on the stark whiteness of the pumice plain. The rocket nozzles were a fused lump of slag; the fire-darkened hull crumpled and warped by the impact of landing. And there was silence … complete and utter silence.
There could be no return. Thurmon realized this. At first the thought had brought panic, but, as the scope of his achievement dawned on him, the fear retreated. Bruised, giddy, half-crazed … the certainty of death held no terrors. Not yet. And it was worth it! Fame … immortality! Glory … in return for the last few years of a blighted, embittered, over-shadowed life. Yes, it was well worth it. And, except for the crash-landing and the certainty of no return, it had all come to pass just as he had planned it for so long.
On his knees he caressed the gritty soil. He lifted his arms toward the Day Star flaming in the day-night of space and knew completion. Tears streaked his stubbled face, and strange noises came from his slack mouth. The ecstasy of success was almost unbearable. For this, he had labored a lifetime. For this, he had murdered a friend. …
Across the abyss, the whole world waited for word. The transmitter in the rocket had survived the crash. The word would come, thought Thurmon … when he was ready to send it. And sending it, he would place the official seal of immortality on his brow. The book would close. But wonderfully, satisfyingly. There would be no other to steal his rightful glory. Only Wayne could have done that … and Wayne was dead. He laughed weirdly within his helmet. So simply done!
The Sea of Serenity stretched out before him in weird magnificence. In the far distance a mountain range rose precipitously from the wilderness of pumice to hump its spiny backbone at the brilliant stars. A limbo of black shadows and stark white talus slopes. Moonscape! Thurmon stumbled to his feet and fought the wave of nausea that surged over him as his equilibrium teetered from the low gravity. Then in an instant his discomfort was forgotten. Standing on the brink of the cosmos, his ego drank of grandeur. All the splendor of Creation lay before him like a jeweled carpet. All his! All for John Thurmon, genius … explorer … murderer! For John Thurmon … first man on the Moon!
With an effort he dragged his eyes from the sky. Slowly, his reason was returning. There was work to do. Wayne must be hidden. The next to come must never know. And it should be done quickly. Time would fly and in the last hours the fear would return. He knew that. Right now his triumph sustained him.
There was the broadcast to look forward to. A billion people waited for his words. It was a sop to his ego, but it could not make him forget that this was costing him his life. On occasion, Thurmon could be realistic, and he knew that, when there was nothing left to do but sit and wait for the end, he would be afraid. Terribly, hideously afraid and alone. It was the only flaw in his plan for immortality. Yet, his life had been a barren thing, devoid of love or any real success. It was little enough to trade. And this was his only chance for lasting fame. He could not let it go.
The plan was working … almost of its own inertia. He was alone. He was on the Moon, where no man had ever been before him. Not even Wayne. Wayne, who designed the rocket and guided it. Wayne, who had stolen every chance Thurmon had ever had for recognition! Well, Wayne was dead now. He had never put a living foot on the soil of the Moon. Only Thurmon had done that. And it was his passport to eternal glory! No one, no one could take that away from him! Weighed in the loaded balance of his mind, it more than compensated for dying alone and on an alien world. In fact, even the dying would add to the legends, and Thurmon would live forever. The first man on the Moon!
He ran his tongue over dry lips and stooped to pick up the thing at his feet. Wayne's corpse was still bloated from internal pressures, and the naked flesh was drying fast to a parchment-like consistency. Moisture was still seeping in awful little globules from the shattered skull where Thurmon's unseen blow had landed.
Thurmon found himself shuddering. The murder had been the hardest part … but now it was done … and all that remained was to give his dead companion a secret resting-place somewhere in the vast expanse of pumice that lay out there under the blistering sun. …
Thurmon's unsteady mind swerved from high elation to sadness. Poor Wayne! He felt he could afford to be generous now. So many years of work so soon to be forgotten. Just one quick blow, and poor, poor Wayne slipped into the limbo of the Earth's forgotten. …
Under the light gravity, he carried the naked, grisly bundle easily. And, as he walked out into the Mare Tranquilitatis, his spirits rose again. How wonderful it was to be certain that no one could steal his triumph! Not even Wayne. Particularly not Wayne. He looked down at the thing in his arms and chuckled. The sound was uncanny within the pyrex bubble of his helmet.
After what seemed a long time, Thurmon stopped and set down his burden. With his pack-spade he set to work digging a trench in the pumice. As he dug, he found himself crooning happily to the corpse. His voice was high-pitched and hysterical, but of course he did not notice it.
"There, there ... Wayne, old friend ... see? I am making a grave for you. The very first grave, Wayne ... and you shall have it, old friend! Yours the grave and mine the glory!" He laughed hilariously at the thought. "I'll say you didn't make it alive. You didn't, did you? But I made it, Wayne. Me! Alone ... all alone! With no help from you, do you hear?"
Thurmon chattered on, the sound of his crazed voice dying within the confines of his helmet, while all around him the eternal silence of the Sea of Serenity continued unbroken. The stars shown steadily in the airless sky, and the sun flamed in impotent splendor, furiously silent.
At last the pit was done, and Thurmon lowered the nude corpse into the shadows. "Goodbye, Wayne. You see, you shouldn't have come here with me. You shouldn't have tried to steal my success. That was a wrong thing. But you're sorry now, aren't you, old friend? Don't feel too badly, Wayne. I'll join you soon. Goodbye, Wayne. Goodbye.…" Laboriously, he shoveled pumice into the pit and tamped it down with his leaded boots. Then he smoothed the surface of the dig until it was as smooth as the rest of the surrounding plain. Satisfied, he turned his back on the grave and started for the rocket.
He sang on the way back, so happy was he to have done with his ghastly companion. Recklessly prodigal of his oxygen supply, he ran toward the open valve of the ship. Breath coming hard, he stumbled into the rocket and across the buckled deck-plates to the radarphone. The tiny atomic batteries hummed as he removed the cadmium dampers. Power flickered the needles of the main set. Thurmon adjusted the selector to "relay" and tuned in his suit radio. Then he returned to sit in the open valve and call the monitoring station.
He smiled with satisfaction as the response cut through the blanket of hissing solar static.
"Hello! Hello, ES-1! This is White Sands! My Lord, we'd given you up for lost! Where are you?"
Thurmon took a steadier grip on his dancing mind and replied:
"Listen carefully. Carefully, you understand? This is John Thurmon. I am on the westernmost edge of the Sea of Serenity on the Moon. Wayne is dead ... he didn't make it. Died during acceleration and I had to dispose of his body in space. Did you get that? I am alone here. The ship crashed on landing. I can't get back ... but it's worth it! I haven't much time left ... but I want everyone to know that I made it. It will be easier now for others ... after I've pointed the way. I'm the first and it's worth it! Did you get that?"
There was a long silence. Finally, the radarman spoke respectfully. "Yes, Thurmon, we got that. Your transmission is being shunted onto the commercial bands. Can you tell us what you see up there? And ... and Thurmon, we all want you to know that our prayers are with you." Tears were flowing on Earth now, Thurmon knew. Tears for a martyr to science doomed to death alone on an alien world. He smiled thinly. Even this tiny taste of deference and respect was heady wine to his frustrated psyche.
Thurmon stepped through the valve and lowered himself to the plain. His heart was pounding triumphantly. Carefully, painstakingly, he began to describe his surroundings, interspersing his words with scientific data. He played the hero well. There was no hysteria recognizable in his voice ... and, if it trembled slightly, there was reason enough for that.
He rounded the bulge of the rocket's nose and looked for the first time at the western edge of the Mare. In the near distance an irregularly-shaped outcropping of rock caught his eye. Transmitting as he went, he made his way toward it.... He drew nearer. And as he did, fear began to stir within him. His steps faltered, but some awful power drew him on. His voice became a shrill rasp in his ears, and on Earth a billion people gasped with horror....
Thurmon shouted the name in fear and threw his arm over his face. But the thing remained. It was real!
"Wayne ... no! IT CAN'T BE! NO...."
But the figure did not move. The vast colossus loomed stark white and naked in the brilliant sunlight. Legs apart, arms folded on its breast, it stared with brooding eyes at the vast emptiness of the lunar plain.
Thurmon howled with terror and fury.
"Damn you! Damn you! Why don't you answer me? I killed you once … I'll kill you again! I'm the first one here! Do you hear me? I'll kill you again!"
He lowered his head and charged. The last thing he remembered was the soundless tinkle of his shattering helmet, and the terrible pain as his skull cracked under the suddenly shifting pressures....
* * * * *
"... And strangely enough, the story of the race's first conquest of space is the story of one man, Sargon, the Lemurian Immortal, who led his people to the Moon in the misty past of Earth's youth. The Lemurians are gone now, but on the westernmost edge of the Sea of Serenity there stands a statue of Sargon. It stands in magnificent isolation, a monument to the first man on the Moon."
You can check out Alfred Coppel's wikipedia page here
This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. The etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1950. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).