Into Deepest Space

Book 0: Fred Hoyle's World of Science Fiction

by Fred Hoyle, Geoffrey Hoyle

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

Sequel to Rockets in Ursa Major From a great distance the Yela's recorded message crackled through on the micro-earpiece: 'For the time being you have won. But I am not defeated so easily.' That had been three years ago, after Dick Warboys had repulsed the invading Yela by firing a lithium bomb into the Sun. But now that threat seems near fulfilment as appalled scientists detect the rapid approach of a vast, engulfing cloud of hydrogen. Can humanity survive on Earth or must selected pioneers abandon it in search of a safer region of the Galaxy? To find the answer Dick and his allies from Space suffer a perilous voyage into the realms that reach the ultimate in understanding the physical universe.

Release date: June 24, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 215

Sample

I SAT AT MY DESK and flicked the last pages of my diary closed. It was now almost three years since I’d returned from the successful mission with Betelgeuse, when he and I had dropped a lithium bomb into the Sun to ward off an attack by the Yela. The lithium bomb produced such a fantastic solar outburst that not only did the Yela spaceships fry, but even to this day the solar system was being bombarded with lethal high-energy particles.

What none of us had realized at the time was that the space around the Earth would be totally uninhabitable for so long. Even Betelgeuse, the Earth’s ally from Ursa Major, was becoming despondent about ever being able to rejoin his fleet of ships, which was still parked somewhere deep in space outside the solar system. Appallingly depressing to him was the lack of communication with his own people, since all radio signals in the solar system were now being absorbed by a flood of electrons in interplanetary space.

The first flush of success from our mission had, of course, been deeply satisfying. I was awarded my present physics post at World Space Headquarters. Betelgeuse and his second-in-command, the ubiquitous Rigel, were given the go-ahead by W.S.HQ. to develop and produce a new breed of ION nuclear engines. These new engines were to power not only existing ships but a whole new generation of ships that were being constructed to Betelgeuse’s specifications.

While he and Rigel were thus busy with their development and construction program, I had spent much of the three years training as an astronaut. Obviously I couldn’t go out to any of the space labs, because of the complete halt in space travel. Instead I busied myself catching up on new developments in physics, but it was a desultory effort. By now, people had forgotten about the Yela and were beginning to resent being earthbound. There was a lot of grumbling that I was the man who stopped space travel—which, in a way, was true. Even a close friend, Colonel Rhodes, had been distinctly cool on my last visit to London.

The only person who didn’t seem to change was Alcyone. She was one of Betelgeuse’s crew. After the lithium bomb affair she had accepted a job as my assistant at W.S.HQ. Whatever seemed wrong with the world, or with my colleagues, she never faltered. She was always there by my side helping and encouraging me.

“What is it?” she asked, bringing me back to reality with a bump.

“I’m becoming morbid. My mind has become cluttered with trivialities. I can’t think.”

“Perhaps you would be better off back in England.”

“Self-pity, that’s what is really wrong with me,” I said with an attempted grin. “Now you mention it, England seems almost in another time and place. No, I don’t think I would find peace of mind there.”

We strolled arm in arm from the characterless concrete building. A short walk brought us to the top of a small cliff. There stretching out before us rolled the deep blue of the Pacific.

The old sites at Cape Kennedy and then at Houston had long ago become politically unacceptable and had been replaced perforce by the present spot in Baja California. The area around Sebastian Vizcarrio Bay became the new World Space Headquarters. Here, among the cactus and the sagebrush, vast areas of concrete, glass and tarmac grew up. The base itself was designed to cater to tens of thousands of spacecraft, while a veritable city, situated a little inland from the space station, had been built to house the flight crews and technicians from the center.

Alcyone and I were lucky in our allocation of an apartment, which had been done by random-number selection. The superb view of the mountains from our quarters helped us to forget the hot arid plain of the launch pads only a few kilometers away.

“You are required on the telephone,” a disembodied voice announced, breaking into the silence.

“Hm?”

“You’re wanted on the telephone, Dr. Warboys.”

For a moment I’d forgotten the find-you-anywhere bleep attached to my overalls.

“Come on,” said Alcyone, giving me a push toward the science block.

I hurried into a small booth near the main entrance and pressed a button on the vision phone.

“Ah, Dick,” said Dr. John Newman, as his face appeared on the screen, “could you drop in to see me for a moment?”

“Certainly,” I grunted. Newman’s image, distorted and elongated by a fault in the phone system, disappeared as he switched the circuit off.

“Newman has something on his mind,” I said, rejoining Alcyone.

We looked at each other for a long moment.

“Better go and hear what he has to say,” Alcyone said at last.

Newman might be wondering why I hadn’t turned in some brilliant new piece of research work. The majority of scientists on the base seemed to turn in scientific papers with a fair amount of regularity. But then it might be something else, something I’d been fearing, half-expecting. I knocked on the door to the Chief Administrator’s supercarpeted office. It slid open.

“Come in,” Newman said, “take a chair. I thought you might be interested in these,” he went on, handing me a folder. Inside was a set of astronomical spectra, obviously of the Balmer series of hydrogen. Nothing struck me as odd, until on the last spectrum I could see that the lines were all systematically displaced from where they would normally have been. Then a closer look at the earlier spectra showed that the hydrogen gas was being steadily accelerated.

“Quite a lot of hydrogen appears to be accelerating toward us,” I said at length.

“Correct. Those plates were taken some weeks ago.”

“Where is the stuff located?” I asked.

“Those prints have just come in, from Malcolm Jones at the Tucson Observatory.”

“Hydrogen!”

“Yes, hydrogen,” grunted Newman. “I remember Betelgeuse telling me that the Yela could move vast quantities of hydrogen around the galaxy.”

“Why wasn’t this noticed before?”

“I suggest you go straight over to Tucson and find out. Check all their records. There’s no point in taking any chances, especially when the Yela might be involved.”

My mind seemed to be clearing rapidly. “Do they have any idea of the quantity involved?”

“Dick, pack a bag and get yourself to Tucson. That’s for you to find out.”

“It could mean a defense alert.”

“That’s exactly what I have to find out,” snapped Newman conclusively.

I sped back to my office.

“What happened?” asked Alcyone, brightly, as usual.

“Some hydrogen has been found, apparently quite close to our solar system.”

“Hydrogen,” said Alcyone slowly, the expression of confidence fading from her face.

“I have to go to Tucson. Do you want to come?”

“No, you go. I must send a message to Betelgeuse.”

“I don’t know whether the Yela is behind it. It could all be a false alarm.”

“Maybe, but Betelgeuse will want to know.”

“I shouldn’t be in Tucson long. It really depends on how complete their records are.”

The VTOL stood on the launch pad shimmering in the brilliant sunlight. It struck me as I stepped aboard that I could have dealt with the investigation just as easily from my own office. However, I was glad of the chance to escape for a brief moment from the general feeling of depression on the base.

Over the years at W.S.HQ. I had learnt enough of flying and navigation to have developed an uncomfortable fear of flying with other pilots. The outer door of the VTOL clicked shut. There was a moment’s pause, then the chemical engines ignited. A few seconds later the sickness I felt in the pit of my stomach was replaced by the steady g force building up as the plane accelerated.

Thirty minutes later the VTOL was hovering over the University of Arizona’s landing pad. Another five minutes and I was greeted by Malcolm Jones, head of the astronomy department at the University. He was dressed in a white shirt, red shorts and the usual western string tie.

“How’s Baja California?”

“Hot and dusty. Well, Malcolm, what’s all this I hear about a wagon train of hydrogen moving into the solar system?”

“Looks like one of these runaway interstellar clouds. Except that the column density is very high.”

I digested this remark as we raced along the monorail to Jones’s office.

“What d’you mean quantitatively by very high?” I asked, once we were seated.

“Well, take a look at these.” Jones handed me a series of computer printouts. “They cover the period from June 2010 to June this year,” he added.

“When were the pictures you sent John Newman taken?”

“Between the twenty-third and thirtieth of August.”

“Two weeks ago,” I murmured, as I ran my eye down the columns of figures in front of me. Slowly the situation clarified. Since June 2010 there had been a steady increase in the quantity of hydrogen just outside the solar system.

“This is quite staggering,” I said at length.

“What?”

“These figures on the quantity of hydrogen. If I’m interpreting all this correctly, it must amount to something like 1015 tons.”

“Yes, something like that. Astonishingly, ten years ago there was scarcely a trace of hydrogen in that direction.” This was exceedingly unpalatable information.

“How did you come by these?” I asked, indicating the sheets in front of me.

“A Ph.D. student working on the chemical nature of the interstellar medium. He wanted all relevant information on the quantity of hydrogen in space around the solar system. Most students would have assumed there was little or none, but not young Bob Sentinel. He was out to find something unusual and he did.”

“Is this hydrogen moving?”

“It would appear to be.”

“In what direction?”

“Inward. Toward the Sun. Toward us. And pretty fast at that.”

“How fast?”

“I did some calculations before you arrived,” Jones replied. “It seems we shall be immersed in this hydrogen within a matter of months—at most. Sooner than that, if it goes on accelerating.”

This confirmed my worst fears. “May I have a copy of these printouts?”

“Take ’em,” said Jones, watching my reactions. “It seems I’m missing something,” he added.

I shook my head. “Betelgeuse was right. The Yela is of a higher intellectual order than I gave it credit for.”

“Which means?”

“I never believed anyone could move vast quantities of hydrogen around space, as we do in the laboratory.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The Yela can destroy the Earth by wrapping a blanket of hydrogen around our atmosphere. Then all it needs do to destroy us is just to press a little of the hydrogen into the atmosphere itself. The hydrogen and the oxygen in our atmosphere combine together with an immense release of heat. The generation of heat causes the gas to rise and more hydrogen is sucked down. Within seconds the whole atmosphere is a raging inferno.”

“What a way to go.”

“For the moment I’d appreciate it if you could keep this to yourself.”

“Of course,” murmured Jones deep in thought.

He was still sunk within himself when an hour later, having collected all the data I needed, I took my leave. The VTOL was no longer on the landing pad. Without hesitation I phoned for a taxi. The excitement inside my brain mounted steadily as I waited. By the time the taxi had landed on the pad in front of me, I’d forgotten where I wanted to go. A moment of deliberation and consultation with the driver revealed that I’d intended to go to the airport. On the way I attempted to bribe the driver to take me all the way to W.S.HQ., but he wasn’t an adventurous man and declined the fare.

I began to sharpen my wits against the problem of how the Yela had managed to collect such a quantity of hydrogen and funnel it toward the solar system. Betelgeuse had told me a lot about the effects of an atmosphere burning off but little concerning the transportation of hydrogen.

“We’re at the terminal,” drawled a voice in my ear.

“What?”

“Airport.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, handing the man my credit card. He laboriously punched the information from the credit card onto his mini-computer. Seconds later a receipt was issued and I was on my way across the airport to hire myself a plane.

“Can I be of help?” said a polite voice from behind the Hertz desk.

“Hm.” I stared at the girl dressed in canary yellow. “Yes, I’d like to hire a plane.”

“Certainly, sir,” she said, handing me a card that listed the different types of aircraft I could hire.

“I’ll have the quickest one you have,” I replied, without looking at her card.

“Your license, please,” she said, starting to type out the necessary data for the firm’s computer. An absurd thought crossed my mind. What would happen if one’s data got lost in the complicated cross-computerization that makes up today’s communication system? Here was this pretty girl busy finding out from a dozen computers whether I was who I said I was. Whether I was in credit. Was my license valid. Who were my parents. Did I suffer from mental illness. The list could go on forever. Betelgeuse, Rigel and Alcyone had never been subjected to cross-computerization. They used a computer to keep themselves alive in their spacecraft, not for tabulating endless statistics.

“Your Apache 3CF will be at Door 5 in ten minutes,” said the girl, handing me a bundle of punched cards, which told me that I was who I thought I was—at least for today.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a pleasant trip.”

A row of public phone booths caught my eye. It took W.S.HQ. quite a while to locate Alcyone, which I found intolerable.

“Hello, Dick,” she said at last, her smiling face appearing on the screen in front of me.

“I’m on my way. Could you find out where Betelgeuse is and let him know that something urgent has cropped up?”

“Is it bad?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back. Oh, and could you let Newman know I’m returning? See you soon.” I pressed the cancellation button and Alcyone’s face faded from the screen.

My mind turned back to the problem of the Yela, but without significant effect. If the Yela couldn’t be stopped, we were finished. It was as simple as that.

I followed a passage down to Door 5, where the small four-seater jet was parked.

“Your cards, please,” said a voice from behind me.

“Hm,” I murmured and turned to be confronted by another girl dressed in canary yellow. I handed over my deck, which she examined and then handed back. I hurried across the tarmac to where a man in canary yellow overalls was standing.

“Good morning, sir. Have you flown one before, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Have a good trip then,” he said, stepping out from the pilot’s door.

I thanked him again and climbed into the narrow seat. On the radio computer I typed out all the relevant details of the aircraft, of myself and of my destination. Then I waited while a gigantic air-traffic control computer somewhere in California sifted through the information. When it had found a clear route, a green light flashed in front of me. I fired up the engines and taxied to the end of the runway. Again I waited. After the computer had checked my flight plan yet again, the throttles of the plane were released by the computer.

As a pilot I have a great desire to get on with the job. When the throttles were released I opened them to full power. With the engines screaming at this abuse, I released the brakes.

Now I had to concentrate on getting into the air. I watched the air-speed indicator rise slowly, and at the same time attempted to keep the plane on a straight and even keel. As the air-speed indicator reached takeoff velocity, I crossed my fingers and slowly eased the plane off the ground. Once airborne my worries were over, since the automatic pilot then took over control. I inched around on my seat until I was relatively comfortable. Disconnected thoughts tumbled through my brain. Over the past three years the edge of my own mental alertness had been worn down by an inability to see things clearly. The success and publicity I’d received had somehow blunted my capabilities. A horrifying reality: success brings complacency, or at least it did with me. I should have let Betelgeuse take the credit and retired back to my personal research.

But this large quantity of hydrogen floating around where it shouldn’t have been was beginning to sharpen my wits. My eye moved over the columns of figures that Malcolm Jones had given to me. The meaning of these numbers filtered back into my consciousness, releasing emotions that slowly turned to anger. It was the same cold anger that had spurred my mind into conceiving the idea of the lithium bomb.

The nose of the plane dipped and started its approach to the landing strip at W.S.HQ. The day was crystal clear, with the shimmering yellows and reds of the arid country to my left and the deep blue of the Pacific to my right.

Suddenly the plane was hurled from its course by terrific turbulence. The automatic pilot seemed about as ready as I was for the emergency. The plane spiraled Earthward. I fought the flying printout sheets from my face. Through the giddiness I was beginning to feel, I managed to turn the automatic pilot off and start to correct the furious descent.

Since my knowledge of . . .