If a man from the mid-1920s had picked up today's paper he would have mistaken it for a science fiction magazine. In the same way, if a man from the mid-1960s could be confronted with a national daily from thirty years hence he would shake his head and regard the whole thing as preposterous. Stop. Think. Wonder. Tomorrow's commonplace was today's miracle. Today's commonplace was yesterday's miracle. Most things change. Some change faster than others. Human nature changes most slowly of all. The sword has given way to the gun, but the hand that holds the gun is neither braver nor more cowardly than the hand that held the sword. The gun gives place to the heat ray and the energy blaster, but the hand still belongs to a hero or a coward. The greatest drama of the world is human drama. People are still fundamentally people. Spacemen are people. They will still have our human problems a hundred years hence. This is a story of people in the future facing our basic problems in a more complex environment.
Release date:
February 27, 2014
Publisher:
Orion Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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LESLIE SCOTT, as dour and as north-of-the-border as his name implied; Paul Tregarth, the Cornishman; Dai Morgan from the Welsh mountains; Tim O’Riley from Dublin, and cheerful Cockney, Bob Walters, were waiting in the Wiltshire test range. As they waited they were reading a number of different dailies.
“Och aye, mon, listen to what ‘the Bugle’ has to say,” remarked Leslie, breaking his usual dour silence as he read out loud from the paper in his hand.
“‘Daily Bugle’, Friday July 6th, 1962. Tomorrow, five daring United Kingdom astronauts will attempt to make an orbit of the earth. Professor Jennings’ new fuel, which is still one of the most closely guarded secrets of British space technology, is understood to be loaded in the launching rockets, which are to follow the normal three-stage pattern. A previous unmanned test vehicle landed within two hundred yards of the target area, and it is hoped that when the five volunteers blast off tomorrow conditions will be as satisfactory as they were previously.
“Professor Jennings, who is in charge of the project, has every hope that all details will be completely routine. Messages of encouragement have been flowing in from most of Western Europe and America. If the project is successful it will be a great vindication of Professor Jennings’ new fuel. The five heroes’—” he paused and broke off. “Aye look, here’s the photographs!—‘are Captain Leslie Scott, who is well known for his service to civil aviation. Captain Scott is 43’—that’s not a bad picture!” said Leslie with a grin. “‘Flying Officer Paul Tregarth of Cornwall, who is 39, Dr. Dai Morgan of Cardiff University, who is 37, Professor Tim O’Riley of Dublin University, who is 41, and Captain Bob Walters of London, well-known test-pilot, who is the ‘baby’, of the party at 35.’ I don’t like that picture of you, Bob! It doesn’t show what few hairs you’ve got left.”
“All right, Goldilocks,” returned Walters with a grin, “grass doesn’t grow on a busy street, you know, chum!”
Les Scott lapsed into silent perusal of the paper.
“The ‘Blare’ has got something to say about it as well, me dear,” said Flying Officer Paul Tregarth. “You listen to this! Go’ old West Country paper ‘The Blare’ you can rely on them!”
Nobody challenged his statement and he began to read.
“‘Orbit Day, tomorrow, July 7th, 1962, five hero-astronauts are blasting off into space—’ I like that phrase ‘hero astronauts’ don’t you?”
“Big head!” retorted Leslie Scott with a grin.
“You like it as well as I do,” said Tregarth, “you know you do!”
He was a pleasant soft spoken, quiet Cornish giant. The man had not been born who could not get along well with Flying Officer Paul Tregarth. He was made of the same hero material that had produced Francis Drake and Hawkins.
“What about ‘The Globe’ then,” said Dai Morgan. “Proper sensational it is, listen to this boys. Life and death risk by five astronauts. Gallant heroes blast off in orbit, Scott, Tregarth, O’Riley, Morgan and Walters banking their lives on the Jennings fuel! That does sound, dramatic, don’t it?” He grinned boyishly.
“Look you, if we were half as brave as they said we were, we’d all have so many blooming medals the ship wouldn’t take off, would it, howeffer?”
Jim O’Riley was reading ‘The Daily World’. “Ach, there’s a broth of a picture of me here,” he said. He said it with a broad, lopsided, Irish grin. Tim O’Riley had dancing devil-may-care, blue-grey eyes. He was a kind of epitomisation, a personification, of the ‘wild Colonial boy’. All the wildness of Gaelic and Celtic blood ran in his veins. O’Riley had the typical Irishman’s love of a good fight. Whether he was fighting space, or a man with fists, made very little difference to Tim. “Ah, bejabbers and bedad, that’s a splendid photograph,” he repeated, as much to himself as to the others. “Listen to what ‘The Daily World’ says about us to be sure ‘Five fine men risking life to prove Jennings fuel. I like that! I like being called a ‘fine man’, don’t you now, Bob?”
Cockney Bob Walters grinned,
“I dunno, Bob,” he said, “I don’t often get called a fine man, except by a magistrate!”
“Ach, come off it, you’re as fine as anybody else! And what’s that you’re reading, anyway?”
“Just to be different, I’ve got the ‘Daily News’,” said the Cockney, “they usually give me a good write-up on my ordinary test flights, I wonder what they’re going to say about this one?” Coal black banner headlines leapt off the front of the paper towards him. “Daring test pilot leads the United Kingdom space team into orbit.” “There yare,” said Bob. “Give the devil his due! I like that ‘leads’ bit!”
“Ah, ye know why that is now, to be sure, bejabbers and bedad?” said Tim O’Riley in his rich brogue. “It’s because these science fiction writers are so keen to have a Captain aboard their ships. They can’t understand that a five-man scientific team are going up without an official Captain. Because you’re a test pilot they think that you’re leading it!”
“Why me?” asked Bob. “That was never released, that’s a journalistic innovation!”
“Ah, that’s a splendid phrase for a Friday morning!” commended Tim O’Riley.
“It certainly is, howeffer,” said Dr. Dai Morgan of Cardiff University. “A splendid phrase, look you!”
“Och, it’s a wee bonny word to use,” agreed Captain Leslie Scott.
Tregarth just smiled silently.
The door opened in the astronauts’ rest room and Professor Sebastian Jennings entered.
“Good morning, gentlemen! I trust I see you well!” Sebastian Jennings looked like a tadpole on legs. He had an enormous head which seemed to be in direct ratio to his fantastic intellect.
“Morning, Sebastian,” said Bob Walters. He rather liked Jennings, but he had a wicked sense of humour, and he knew how Jennings loathed his Christian name. Jennings’ eyes narrowed just for a second, for despite his intellect he was rather devoid of that sense of humour which is such a saving grace among lesser mortals.
“Do you want a final run through, chaps?”
“Well, I won’t say ‘no’ to that,” returned Tim O’Riley. “What’s the feelin’ o’ the rest o’ the meetin’?”
“Och, aye, we might as well hear it again,” said Leslie Scott. “We canna think o’ much else, let’s be honest about it.”
“Yes, you tell us again, me dear,” said the rugged Cornishman with a smile.
“I am willing to hear it once more, howeffer,” agreed Dr. Dai Morgan of Cardiff University.
Sebastian Jennings looked round at the range of papers that his colleagues were holding.
“I see that your forthcoming brush with eternity hasn’t dampened your enthusiasm for the glories of worldly fame,” he said just a trifle sardonically.
“I shall never be tired of worldly fame,” said Bob Walters, “never. Oh I shan’t be able to read what they put on me tombstone, and I shan’t be able to read me obituary, but I’m going to read all they say about me while I’m here to enjoy it.”
“Ha, those are very laudable sentiments, to be sure, to be sure, bejabbers and bedad,” said O’Riley.
“I’m inclined to agree moreover, howeffer,” said Morgan.
“While you’re alive is the best time to enjoy life,” said the Cornishman, with a grave country wisdom that was penetrating by the very directness of its simplicity. Captain Leslie Scott, the dour northerner, smiled enigmatically to himself.
“All right, then, gentlemen,” said Sebastian Jennings in a rather professorish sort of voice, “I will go through things again with you, quickly, and perhaps we can have questions at the end. Tomorrow we are due to take off—or rather, you are due to take off, and I am due to blast you off, on the first United Kingdom attempt on manned orbit. Previous attempts proved that one or two men—Russians and the Americans—have been successful, but there is rather more to it than that. We feel that a one or two man crew, even a three man crew, would be inadequate for the heavy duties which would be requi. . .
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