Deadline to Pluto
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Synopsis
The remains of an exploded radio-active planet reach the outer solar system in the course of their plunge across interstellar space. A massive fragment crashes into Pluto. Earth's scientists determine that it is set to mutate into pure energy which will explode Pluto and threaten the equilibrium of the solar system. A mission is quickly mounted for a spaceship to reach Pluto and neutralise the meteorite before it can trigger a chain reaction. The problem is that the crew will have only 110 hours to reach Pluto, which means a constant acceleration and intense, prolonged physical suffering for the crew, The authoritarian Captain Rapier has his hands full to save the mission when mutiny breaks out...
Release date: March 31, 2015
Publisher: Gateway
Print pages: 128
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Deadline to Pluto
John Russell Fearn
The trouble began with the vast cosmic showers of the year 2060. These did not in any way affect the Earth in her journey through the void since she was well away from the disturbance which caught the outer planets. But Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto suffered heavily from bombardment by radio-active meteorites. Some of them were of colossal size and, as far as the astronomers and space navigators could trace, they were the remains of a radio-active planet which had broken up and, in the course of its movement through the Universe entire, the Solar System’s edge had caught the drift of the remains.
Then, when it seemed the cosmic showers had died down there came Meteorite V9T27, the greatest single piece of radio-active material ever recorded—and it struck little Pluto, the outcast planet, dead on.
Earth astronomers using 800-inch reflector telescopes, saw the meteorite hit that lonely world on the rim of the Solar System. The astronomers of various other worlds, all congregated by agreement on a synthetic moon between Jupiter and Mars—where the asteroids lay—had an even better view of the happening, and transmitted their observations back to every civilised planet—which meant Earth, Venus, and part of Mars.
Space radio had never been so active. The information had interest, and danger, and on Earth at least prompt steps were taken by the World Federal Government. To its headquarters, wherein every country on Earth was represented, there was summoned Captain Mark Rapier, at present on leave from the arduous run between Earth and Jupiter, on which route he commanded an ore-carrying freighter.
Most rocket-men and space officials knew Mark Rapier. He was a shortish, massively built man of fifty, square shouldered, erect, with a face as expressionless as though carved out of teak. Few men liked him; women were afraid of him, but in the Space Service his reputation ranked high. Whatever mission was assigned to him he never grumbled—and he never failed.
He entered the controlling office of the Federation’s President with his usual crisp stride and the sentry behind him closed the door. Uniform-cap in hand, Mark Rapier walked across the shining expanse of tessellated metal floor and paused before the immense desk. The President looked up, measuring the man with the inexorable face, grey eyes, and close hair-cut.
“Sit down, Captain Rapier,” the President invited, motioning to a chair.
Rapier obeyed, cap on knees, his back stiffly erect. He carried the cobalt blue of the space-uniform well. He looked as if he had been poured into it.
“Captain, there is a special assignment for you,” the President said finally, sifting through the papers on his desk. “I tell you without hesitation that you have been picked from amongst our not inconsiderable army of space commanders because of your unblemished record. You have never been late on schedule and have never had an accident … That is all that concerns us. How you achieve your purpose each time is—at the moment—your own affair.”
Mark Rapier did not respond, nor did his frozen expression give anything away. There were space men in the lower reaches of the city who would spit on him if he ever came close enough.
“This assignment is particularly dangerous,” the President-continued. “It involves travelling to Pluto, the furthermost planet. So far no journey has ever been made that far, Neptune being the final terminus of the workable space lines. Before I tell you the nature of this assignment I am putting you on your oath as a space commander not to reveal the nature of your mission.”
“I shall always respect my oath, sir,” Rapier responded, and for a man with such a relentless expression he had a voice of singular charm. It was cultured, respectful, and yet had a bite in it. It was a voice which few would dare disobey.
“News has reached us, the President continued, “that a meteorite of abnormal size, technically known as V9T27, has struck Pluto, and it is approximately three-quarters the size of that planet. As is known with these radio-active meteorites, they do not change to pure radio-activity until one hundred and forty-four hours have elapsed. When that mutation is complete they convert themselves into energy, consuming everything around them.”
Rapier nodded attentively. The President looked at him directly.
“It will be apparent to you, Captain, that if this particular meteorite is allowed to mutate within its normal hundred and forty-four hours it will completely destroy Pluto. Transform it into energy. At the moment the meteorite is quiescent, lying on Pluto. In its journey through space it does not mutate because it has reached stability—or, at least, a certain stage of stability—but once in contact with a large mass of matter like a planet it endeavours to balance the energy of the planet with its own and therefore mutates into a new state, transforming itself and the energy of the planet into one new mutation.”
“Which will mean Pluto will cease to be,” Rapier mused. “Yes, Mr. President, I have heard of such radio-active meteorites before. They have destroyed more space machines than enough before the days of repeller-shields. We call them cosmic leeches. They suck the energy of any solid body and therefore annihilate its material structure. Few people seem able to realise that even a chunk of rock has energy, otherwise it would not be matter at all . . However, your instructions, Mr. President?”
“Well, Captain, it is obvious that the disappearance of Pluto into a pure energy state would have dire consequences for us and the other planets in the System. Pluto is small, I know, but he is heavy, and most certainly his gravitational mass is essential to the balance of the Solar System as a whole. His disappearance would cause severe perturbations on Earth, and of course on Mars and Venus as well. We would experience earthquakes, tidal waves, and worldwide disaster until the balance had reasserted itself. So, that meteorite must be destroyed with annihilator-cannons. It can be done—but the question is the time-factor.”
Rapier was silent, reflecting, his thin lips tight.
“Pluto is three thousand three hundred million miles away,” the President added. “You are a space-Captain and know the velocity of a space machine better than I do. What do you think can be done?”
“And radio-active mutation begins in one hundred and forty-four hours from—when?” Rapier asked.
The president glanced at the clock. “That period began at midnight last night. It is now ten o’clock. Which means there are one hundred and thirty-four hours to go.”
“Once we have overcome the initial escape-velocity,” Rapier said, thinking, “we can, with considerable strain, accelerate to five hundred thousand miles a minute in free space. That is the absolute maximum speed—half a million miles a minute. Once we have achieved it there is no strain, of course: it is the terrible inertia created by achieving that speed which will be the trouble. However, if it has to be done it will be done.”
“You will need a crew of the toughest men,” the President commented, and Rapier gave a hard smile.
“If I have your permission, sir, I know exactly where I can find the men I want. What are their wages for the trip? What figure do I name?”
“Treble the ordinary space-rates. That should satisfy them …” The President made calculations for a moment and then added, “Moving at half a million miles a minute it will take you one hundred and ten hours to cover the three thousand, three hundred million miles … Mmm, that would do it comfortably and leave you twenty-four hours in hand.”
“Of which we shall need every minute,” Rapier commented. “No space journey is ever made direct. The unexpected crops up. However …”
He rose to his feet, the sunlight shining on to the back of his square neck and obstinate head.
“If I say I will reach Pluto in one hundred and ten hours, Mr. President, I shall do so. Rest assured. I assume I have carte blanche in regard to my choice of machine, crew, and so forth?”
“Definitely. With triple rate for the journey. You have no scheduled time in which to return: the essential thing is to make the outward trip in time.”
“I will, sir.” Rapier paused for a moment and then asked a question. “Might I ask, sir, why I am to keep our mission a secret?”
“For two reasons. For one thing, all space machines are equipped with space radio. Messages can be—and might be—sent back by members of your crew, stating the nature of your journey. I don’t need to tell you that the information might start a panic amongst the populations of Earth, Venus and Mars. It would, at the very least, create a general exodus of people from the city areas in case of earthquake and tidal wave in the event of your mission failing. On the other hand, destroying a radio-active piece of rock with annihilator-cannons is not an easy task. There is no guarantee but what some of the radiations might not strike down members of your crew—even you yourself—despite the screens on your ship. That I have to leave to you, to devise the best protection possible. A crew warned in advance might think twice before signing up. There you have the reasons, Captain. Quite frankly, you are a suicide squad.”
Rapier gave his thin smile and saluted. “I understand perfectly, sir. You may have complete confidence.”
With that he turned and left the big office. The elevator took him to the ground floor and, afterwards, his official pass secured him prompt air transit to the vast space grounds where there stood every conceivable type of space-flyer. With the overseer beside him he began an inspection of the most likely machines, finally settling on one of the newest giants—the ZN-8. Meticulously, he examined its roomy interior from end to end, checking over the store-rooms and the control room amenities.
“Yes, it’ll do,” he decided finally, glancing at the overseer. “Get the store-rooms fully loaded with provisions and all necessities and have a complete inventory ready for me to examine by eleven forty-five.”
The overseer started. “Quarter to twelve, Captain? But it’s half past ten now!”
“This machine leaves Earth at exactly noon,” Rapier answered. “That is by order of the President. If we are held up through any bungling on your account I shall hold you responsible. You have your instructions, so get every available man to work.”
“Very well,” the overseer grumbled, and without even glancing at him again Rapier left the ship and went . . .
Then, when it seemed the cosmic showers had died down there came Meteorite V9T27, the greatest single piece of radio-active material ever recorded—and it struck little Pluto, the outcast planet, dead on.
Earth astronomers using 800-inch reflector telescopes, saw the meteorite hit that lonely world on the rim of the Solar System. The astronomers of various other worlds, all congregated by agreement on a synthetic moon between Jupiter and Mars—where the asteroids lay—had an even better view of the happening, and transmitted their observations back to every civilised planet—which meant Earth, Venus, and part of Mars.
Space radio had never been so active. The information had interest, and danger, and on Earth at least prompt steps were taken by the World Federal Government. To its headquarters, wherein every country on Earth was represented, there was summoned Captain Mark Rapier, at present on leave from the arduous run between Earth and Jupiter, on which route he commanded an ore-carrying freighter.
Most rocket-men and space officials knew Mark Rapier. He was a shortish, massively built man of fifty, square shouldered, erect, with a face as expressionless as though carved out of teak. Few men liked him; women were afraid of him, but in the Space Service his reputation ranked high. Whatever mission was assigned to him he never grumbled—and he never failed.
He entered the controlling office of the Federation’s President with his usual crisp stride and the sentry behind him closed the door. Uniform-cap in hand, Mark Rapier walked across the shining expanse of tessellated metal floor and paused before the immense desk. The President looked up, measuring the man with the inexorable face, grey eyes, and close hair-cut.
“Sit down, Captain Rapier,” the President invited, motioning to a chair.
Rapier obeyed, cap on knees, his back stiffly erect. He carried the cobalt blue of the space-uniform well. He looked as if he had been poured into it.
“Captain, there is a special assignment for you,” the President said finally, sifting through the papers on his desk. “I tell you without hesitation that you have been picked from amongst our not inconsiderable army of space commanders because of your unblemished record. You have never been late on schedule and have never had an accident … That is all that concerns us. How you achieve your purpose each time is—at the moment—your own affair.”
Mark Rapier did not respond, nor did his frozen expression give anything away. There were space men in the lower reaches of the city who would spit on him if he ever came close enough.
“This assignment is particularly dangerous,” the President-continued. “It involves travelling to Pluto, the furthermost planet. So far no journey has ever been made that far, Neptune being the final terminus of the workable space lines. Before I tell you the nature of this assignment I am putting you on your oath as a space commander not to reveal the nature of your mission.”
“I shall always respect my oath, sir,” Rapier responded, and for a man with such a relentless expression he had a voice of singular charm. It was cultured, respectful, and yet had a bite in it. It was a voice which few would dare disobey.
“News has reached us, the President continued, “that a meteorite of abnormal size, technically known as V9T27, has struck Pluto, and it is approximately three-quarters the size of that planet. As is known with these radio-active meteorites, they do not change to pure radio-activity until one hundred and forty-four hours have elapsed. When that mutation is complete they convert themselves into energy, consuming everything around them.”
Rapier nodded attentively. The President looked at him directly.
“It will be apparent to you, Captain, that if this particular meteorite is allowed to mutate within its normal hundred and forty-four hours it will completely destroy Pluto. Transform it into energy. At the moment the meteorite is quiescent, lying on Pluto. In its journey through space it does not mutate because it has reached stability—or, at least, a certain stage of stability—but once in contact with a large mass of matter like a planet it endeavours to balance the energy of the planet with its own and therefore mutates into a new state, transforming itself and the energy of the planet into one new mutation.”
“Which will mean Pluto will cease to be,” Rapier mused. “Yes, Mr. President, I have heard of such radio-active meteorites before. They have destroyed more space machines than enough before the days of repeller-shields. We call them cosmic leeches. They suck the energy of any solid body and therefore annihilate its material structure. Few people seem able to realise that even a chunk of rock has energy, otherwise it would not be matter at all . . However, your instructions, Mr. President?”
“Well, Captain, it is obvious that the disappearance of Pluto into a pure energy state would have dire consequences for us and the other planets in the System. Pluto is small, I know, but he is heavy, and most certainly his gravitational mass is essential to the balance of the Solar System as a whole. His disappearance would cause severe perturbations on Earth, and of course on Mars and Venus as well. We would experience earthquakes, tidal waves, and worldwide disaster until the balance had reasserted itself. So, that meteorite must be destroyed with annihilator-cannons. It can be done—but the question is the time-factor.”
Rapier was silent, reflecting, his thin lips tight.
“Pluto is three thousand three hundred million miles away,” the President added. “You are a space-Captain and know the velocity of a space machine better than I do. What do you think can be done?”
“And radio-active mutation begins in one hundred and forty-four hours from—when?” Rapier asked.
The president glanced at the clock. “That period began at midnight last night. It is now ten o’clock. Which means there are one hundred and thirty-four hours to go.”
“Once we have overcome the initial escape-velocity,” Rapier said, thinking, “we can, with considerable strain, accelerate to five hundred thousand miles a minute in free space. That is the absolute maximum speed—half a million miles a minute. Once we have achieved it there is no strain, of course: it is the terrible inertia created by achieving that speed which will be the trouble. However, if it has to be done it will be done.”
“You will need a crew of the toughest men,” the President commented, and Rapier gave a hard smile.
“If I have your permission, sir, I know exactly where I can find the men I want. What are their wages for the trip? What figure do I name?”
“Treble the ordinary space-rates. That should satisfy them …” The President made calculations for a moment and then added, “Moving at half a million miles a minute it will take you one hundred and ten hours to cover the three thousand, three hundred million miles … Mmm, that would do it comfortably and leave you twenty-four hours in hand.”
“Of which we shall need every minute,” Rapier commented. “No space journey is ever made direct. The unexpected crops up. However …”
He rose to his feet, the sunlight shining on to the back of his square neck and obstinate head.
“If I say I will reach Pluto in one hundred and ten hours, Mr. President, I shall do so. Rest assured. I assume I have carte blanche in regard to my choice of machine, crew, and so forth?”
“Definitely. With triple rate for the journey. You have no scheduled time in which to return: the essential thing is to make the outward trip in time.”
“I will, sir.” Rapier paused for a moment and then asked a question. “Might I ask, sir, why I am to keep our mission a secret?”
“For two reasons. For one thing, all space machines are equipped with space radio. Messages can be—and might be—sent back by members of your crew, stating the nature of your journey. I don’t need to tell you that the information might start a panic amongst the populations of Earth, Venus and Mars. It would, at the very least, create a general exodus of people from the city areas in case of earthquake and tidal wave in the event of your mission failing. On the other hand, destroying a radio-active piece of rock with annihilator-cannons is not an easy task. There is no guarantee but what some of the radiations might not strike down members of your crew—even you yourself—despite the screens on your ship. That I have to leave to you, to devise the best protection possible. A crew warned in advance might think twice before signing up. There you have the reasons, Captain. Quite frankly, you are a suicide squad.”
Rapier gave his thin smile and saluted. “I understand perfectly, sir. You may have complete confidence.”
With that he turned and left the big office. The elevator took him to the ground floor and, afterwards, his official pass secured him prompt air transit to the vast space grounds where there stood every conceivable type of space-flyer. With the overseer beside him he began an inspection of the most likely machines, finally settling on one of the newest giants—the ZN-8. Meticulously, he examined its roomy interior from end to end, checking over the store-rooms and the control room amenities.
“Yes, it’ll do,” he decided finally, glancing at the overseer. “Get the store-rooms fully loaded with provisions and all necessities and have a complete inventory ready for me to examine by eleven forty-five.”
The overseer started. “Quarter to twelve, Captain? But it’s half past ten now!”
“This machine leaves Earth at exactly noon,” Rapier answered. “That is by order of the President. If we are held up through any bungling on your account I shall hold you responsible. You have your instructions, so get every available man to work.”
“Very well,” the overseer grumbled, and without even glancing at him again Rapier left the ship and went . . .
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