Escape into Space

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

The ship rose on a column of invisible, super-heated steam ejected at incredible velocity. The spread of the blast flattened everything in the immediate vicinity. The surrounding town was wiped out. Immediately on blast off the automatic pilot engaged hi-drive to avoid the attacking missile. This put the ship into negative mass with relation to the normal universe. It was now in M-space. The ship was self-contained. It could keep going till all her occupants died of old age. But where to? Proxima Centauri? Or maybe Alpha Centauri, Riga, perhaps, or Sirius! The universe is a big space. They hurtled on through space and time until they saw the planet, a cloud-hidden ball, as it hung in space a hundred thousand miles below the orbiting vessel. It had seas and clouds, mountains and ice-caps, islands and continents, It had a moon and a yellow G-type sun. Home? Was this their second chance?

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 269

Sample

They left at dawn, heading west and racing the sun, landing as the pale light bleached the stars from the sky. The pilot was young, relaxed. Melgrath, his lone passenger, was neither. He had sat tense and anxious during the two hours plus they had been in the air since leaving Washington. His circulation was bad, his legs prone to cramp. As he stepped from the cabin he stumbled and almost fell.

‘Steady!’ A field-guard caught his arm. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘I can manage.’ He shrugged off the supporting hand and stood blinking in the clear, hard light of the desert. An old, tired, worried man. The product of too little sleep, too little exercise, too much energy spent in trying to do the impossible. ‘My plane,’ he said. ‘I want it serviced for immediate flight.’

The guard nodded. ‘And the pilot?’

Melgrath looked at the young man where he stood in the open door of the cabin. His head was thrown back, eyes narrowed against the sun as he stared at the buildings of the project, the sequoia-tall bulk of the ship. ‘He’s young,’ he said. ‘And probably hungry. Can you fix him something to eat?’

‘We’ll look after him,’ said the guard. ‘And you, sir?’

‘Take me to Geldray.’

Early as it was the head of the project was up and waiting in his office. It was a big place, air-conditioned, littered with files and papers. A place in which to work, not a part of an impressive façade. One entire wall was of glass; the picture-window framing the heart of the project, the tremendous bulk of the ship.

Melgrath had seen it before, seen it when it had been nothing but a skeleton of metal-fabric and it seemed to him that, as the ship had grown, so Geldray had shrivelled. Like a fly, he thought. Caught in a web of his own making. Sucked dry by the monster he had created. It’s taken his health, he told himself. His money. Years of his life. It’s cost his reputation and now it’s going to take his freedom. What the hell made him do it?

‘Jack.’ Geldray came from behind his desk, hand outstretched. ‘It’s good to see you.’ They touched hands. ‘You look all in,’ he said. ‘You want something? Coffee? Breakfast?’

‘No thanks,’ said Melgrath. ‘No time.’

‘There’s time.’ Geldray moved to his desk, pressed a button. ‘Bring coffee,’ he ordered. ‘For two.’ He looked at his visitor. ‘Something must be really hot for you to have come all the way out here. Couldn’t you have phoned?’

‘No,’ said Melgrath flatly. Not with all the bugs there are about. I’m no coward but I’ve no intention of handing them my head on a platter.’

‘As bad as that?’

‘Worse. This is the end, Sam. Finish. The balloon’s burst and it’s every man for himself. I thought you should know.’ It was a relief to have said it, to have delivered the bombshell. ‘Get this straight,’ he added as Geldray made no answer. ‘Your head’s on the block, Sam. It’s only a matter of time before you feel the axe.’

‘Smith?’

‘Who else?’ Melgrath was bitter. The man’s crazy. I’ve been in politics all my life but he’s got me beat. No deals. No compromise. Nothing. He forced Congress to appoint him head of the investigation into government appropriations and expenditure. He heads the Citizens Corps and the votes they command. He preaches clean government and means it. He’s dug up more dirt since he took office than any other twenty senators. He’s a nut,’ he added savagely. ‘A nut!’

‘I doubt it,’ said Geldray. He fell silent as a girl brought in the coffee, continuing as she left. ‘He’s a fanatic,’ he said. ‘A dangerous man. But he knows what he’s doing. Sugar?’

‘Two lumps.’ Melgrath took the cup and sipped at the strong, black coffee. It helped. ‘He’s after blood, Sam,’ he said. The higher they come the better he likes it. You’re his next target and he’s got his finger on the trigger ready to shoot you down.’ He drank more coffee. ‘And he can’t miss,’ he added. ‘He knows and we know that. He’s got you cold.’

‘Maybe.’ Geldray stared thoughtfully at the scene in the window. ‘We’ve been through this before,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t it be fixed?’

‘Not this time.’ Melgrath was emphatic. ‘That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve spent ten days trying. It can’t be done.’

‘There are more ways than one of skinning a cat, Jack.’

‘Assassination?’

Melgrath finished his coffee and set down the empty cup. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘But even if you could get to him you can’t stop what he stands for with a bullet. There are too many ready to take over. You’ve got to face it, Sam. This time the chickens have really come home to roost.’

‘I need time,’ said Geldray. ‘Time!’

‘You haven’t got it,’ Melgrath said bluntly. ‘It’s running out. And so am I.’

‘You?’

‘Sure, why not? I’m in this as deep as you are. If I stay around I’ll be forced to testify against you. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail either. So I’m heading south while I’ve got the chance.’ Melgrath hesitated. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The plane will hold more than one and the pilot knows how to keep his mouth shut. How about coming with me?’

Geldray shook his head.

‘Why not? The ship’s built, isn’t it? You’ve done what you set out to do. What’s the point of waiting around for Smith’s goons? Skip now while there’s still time.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘No? What’s stopping you? Money? I’ve enough salted away for the both of us. Hell,’ added Melgrath generously, ‘it was your money to start with. You’re welcome to some of it back.’

Geldray shook his head; the man simply didn’t understand. A professional lobbyist had to be long on gall and short on imagination. ‘The job isn’t finished yet,’ he explained. ‘It won’t be finished until that ship is off the ground and into space.’

‘Then you’d better get it moving,’ said Melgrath. ‘All Smith needs to do is to get an injunction, freeze the project and ground the ship.’ He stepped to where Geldray was standing and looked past him at the bulk of the vessel. It shone in the light of the newly risen sun. ‘You know,’ he said sourly. ‘That thing out there could be about the biggest headstone a man ever had.’

Not a headstone,’ corrected Geldray. ‘A monument.’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Yes,’ said Geldray softly. ‘There’s a hell of a difference.’

The boy wore olive green pants and blouse, jet black boots and belt. Interlinked C’s shone on his collar. He dropped a sheaf of advertising layouts on the desk, took a step backward, saluted. ‘The mock-ups for the new campaign, sir,’ he said.

‘All right,’ said Edward Smith.

‘Is there anything else, sir?’

‘Not yet.’ Smith flashed his famous smile. ‘Back to the grindstone, son.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The boy saluted again, spun on his heel, marched from the office. Edward Smith watched him go, warmly conscious of his power, the influence he had over others. Give them a uniform, he thought. A slogan to live by. Something to fight against. Mix it with patriotism, xenophobia, a touch of envy. Give them companions. And, as the twig is bent, so grows the tree.

It’s an old formula, he told himself. A simple, basic method of getting to the top and staying there. It had happened in other countries and it could happen right here. The Citizens Corps was growing all the time. Numbers meant the control of a significant vote. Votes meant power. And power, he reminded himself, could be made self-perpetuating. All it took was time and a little manipulation.

He picked up the sheaf of mock-ups, studied them, punched a button on his desk. ‘Mary? Tell Harry to get in here. Fast.’

Smith was engrossed in the mock-ups when Harry Tigue entered. He didn’t look up until the other had plumped himself into a chair and lit a cigar. Then he said. ‘This campaign, Harry. There’s something wrong.’

‘How so?’ Harry was a trained adman who knew his job. He stood up, leaned on the desk, looked at the layouts. ‘It’s got punch, drive, impact and alliteration. CONSUMERS’ CO-OPERATIVE! It fits, Ed. It ties in with the 2C motive—CITIZENS CORPS; CLEAN CONTROL; CONSISTENT CREDIBILITY. It’s got bite.’

‘Maybe.’ Smith leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ve done a good job, Harry, I’m not saying you haven’t, but I don’t like the word “co-operative”. It’s too much like “collective”. Too Commie. We need something else. Something domestic.’

‘Russia’s respectable,’ reminded Tigue. ‘We’ve been allies since ’71.’

‘I know that. But we’re not allies with China and they’re Commie. The Congofederation too. Commie still means “foreigner” to our people.’ He paused, tilting his head, studying the ceiling. ‘Combine,’ he decided. ‘We’ll use the word “combine”. It’s sharper, has more power, less syllables. CONSUMERS’ COMBINE,’ he said. ‘That’s it.’

‘I’ll make the change,’ said Harry.

‘Get the stickers printed and ready for nationwide distribution,’ said Smith. ‘Alert all area officers to sound out prospective supporters. No threats, mind. Just the hint that, if they hope to retain corps members as customers, they’d better display a sticker. Set the initial fee at one hundred dollars – a donation to campaign expenses.’

Tigue nodded. ‘When do you think you’ll be ready?’

‘For the major push?’ Smith lit a cigarette. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Project Star will do it. I’ll expose Geldray and prove the administration rotten with corruption. With that evidence I’ll be able to impeach the President and force new elections. With the support already promised plus the backlash of public opinion we’ll ride home on a landslide.’

Tigue looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said slowly. ‘Don’t underestimate the opposition. Project Star is still a government operation and a part of our outer space research programme.’

‘That,’ said Smith deliberately, ‘is a lie.’ He drew at his cigarette. ‘It’s a lie the public have been forced to swallow but it simply isn’t the truth. Let’s just take a look at the facts.’ He reached for a folder on his desk, flipped the pages. ‘Ten years ago Sam Geldray was rich, wifeless, childless, neutral in politics. Then, instead of buying himself a blonde and having fun in Florida, he got himself appointed head of Project Star.’

‘I know that.’

‘Did you know how he did it? Geldray is no scientist. He had no political affiliations. He had nothing but money. He used it to buy political power and then used that power to launch the project, keep it afloat and keep it solvent. The damn thing’s cost billions! God alone knows how much it’s really cost what with sub-contracts and the like. Project Star is nothing but an excuse for certain politicians and business men to indulge in a mammoth system of robbing the taxpayer!’

‘Calm down,’ said Tigue quietly. ‘You’re not making a speech.’ He flipped the folder with the tip of one finger. ‘Saying it is one thing,’ he reminded. ‘Proving it is another. Can you?’

‘Prove it?’ Smith nodded. ‘I’ve got sworn testimony of undercover deals, bank statements, copies of contracts, the works. I’ve got witnesses. Geldray’s out on a limb. All we have to do is saw it off and down comes the government.’

‘Slow down,’ said Tigue. He was frowning. ‘I don’t get this,’ he mused. ‘Geldray’s no fool. How come he left himself so wide open?’

‘He didn’t,’ admitted Smith. ‘It took digging to find out the real facts. And get this. He met up with two other men at about the time he started laying the groundwork for the project. Jacques Michele and John Dolman. Michele’s a French scientist and …’

‘Not French,’ interrupted Tigue. ‘French-Canadian. There’s a difference.’

‘Forget it,’ commented Smith. ‘From now on he’s French. A foreigner. A man paid by us to do important research. But a foreigner. Remember that.’ Smith crushed out his cigarette. ‘And Dolman? You know him too?’

Tigue shook his head.

‘Ten years ago he was a laugh. Doctor “Doom” Dolman; that’s what the papers called him. He made front-page news during the silly season. He claimed the world was in danger from the effects of released radiation from atomic tests and the like. Naturally, no one took him seriously.’

‘Maybe they should have,’ said Tigue thoughtfully. ‘I could show you figures that backed him up.’

‘Forget them.’ Smith was impatient with his aide. ‘Or rather use them against him. The buggy-whip gimmick,’ he explained. ‘In 1870 any statistician would have told you that, in fifty years, the demand for buggy-whips would be enormous. They based their figures on the population-growth. They didn’t know that anyone would invent the automobile. The point is,’ he added, ‘it doesn’t matter what Dolman believes. We have to make him out as a nut.’

‘And Michele?’

‘I’m not sure about him.’ Smith frowned thoughtfully at the opposite wall. ‘His qualifications are genuine. He could have something in that ship worth every cent poured into the project. But we’ll. . .