From the ether came mysterious messages announcing that a hitherto unknown Englishman had conquered space, flown to Venus, and is now on his way back to Earth. The fact that science's most highly developed range and frequency finders are unable to pinpoint the actual source of the voice is looked upon as absolute proof that they are hearing from outer space. The aggressive and autocratic quality about the way in which the eccentric Ardath Steele makes his proclamations not only annoys Betty Travers, ace reporter on the Daily Searchlight, but also deciders her to embark on a one-woman vendetta to prove that Steele is an impostor. Even when the spaceship finally lands she remains the only sceptic in a country full of pride in its first space explorer.
Release date:
September 30, 2015
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
100
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On June 27th, 1990, there came the first whisper that hinted at the possibility of space travel having been accomplished. Indeed it was little more than a whisper which first crept into the radio bands encircling Earth. It was, though, a whisper trenchant with meaning for it said: “Wait for it!”
Wait for what? The listening millions of the world assumed some super-advertising stunt was about to burst, but in time the whispering voice became louder and the communications much longer. On June 29th it was possible to hear clearly a clipped, determined voice superimposing itself on normal programmes.
“Peoples of the world, you are listening to Ardath Steele, the only man who ever crossed space to Venus and came back alive! Forget the flying saucers of past and recent years, forget the conjectures and the scientific fiction, for here comes the man who knows! Alone I have reached Venus, explored it, and made the return journey. Soon I shall be with you.”
British high-ups observed that somebody with a definite south England accent was holding up the tradition of the Commonwealth. The Americans averred that some nut was shooting off his face somewheres. Russia remained noncommittal. France ordered a week’s national holiday in honour of the unknown Ardath Steele.
“Who in blue hell,” asked the news editor of the Daily Searchlight, “is Ardath Steele? Ever heard of him, Bet?”
Betty Travers shrugged. She was not a star reporter but she had a good nose for news. Slim, blonde, smartly costumed, she had found herself summoned to the news editor’s department on June 30th, the day after the longest communication so far.
“Never heard of him,” Betty said. “In fact I haven’t made it my business to. Not my assignment.”
“It is now,” the editor told her. “Barclay’s down with mumps or some darned thing and you’re the only one available at present. Cover this business, Bet, and get an exclusive if you think it’s worth it. Whole thing may be some kind of hoax, though I doubt it. I have reports from radio experts who say that detectors show these messages have come from above, possibly a hundred miles up or more.”
“Uh-huh,” Betty acknowledged thoughtfully.
“After all the yap there’s been about space travel for the last forty or fifty years, and nothing accomplished, it would really be something if somebody’s stolen a march and done it. From the look—or the sound—of things this Ardath Steele has done the trick.
“Then why didn’t he announce his departure on the great voyage? Why only the return?”
“I could think of a dozen reasons,” the editor replied, not to be sidetracked from obtaining a story. “He might not have been sure his invention would work and if he’d just stayed put after a lot of ballyhoo he’d have looked mighty silly. Since it evidently did work and he’s now coming back he’s turned into his own publicity agent. Anyhow, find out all you can and if he’s what he seems to be we want the whole story from the day of his birth.”
“Right!” Betty said, snapping her fingers decisively—and went on her way, first objective being to look through “Who’s Who” and see if Ardath Steele happened to be listed. Ten minutes later she realised he was not. Even if he had crossed the void to Venus and back he was not anybody important. Not yet! If, though, he really had conquered space whilst most scientists were still groping with the technicalities of the human frame versus acceleration, he’d be the most famous man the world had ever known.
What to do next? Betty did not quite know. Nothing much she could do until something definite was known. If the last message had come from only a hundred miles up why was Ardath Steele taking such a long time to come down? Which train of thought led Betty to the main London radio headquarters.
“You are sure,” she questioned the chief engineer, “that last night’s message came from about a hundred miles up?”
“A hundred miles is only a rough guess, Miss Travers,” the engineer responded. “Our detectors don’t cover much more than that. The distance could have been thousands of miles if it comes to that. All a detector does is show the direction from which a given transmission is coming, and down on the ground we can finally pinpoint the exact spot. We only know that from somewhere above—certainly a hundred miles away because there are echoes even at the limit of our range—somebody is sending messages.”
“And this person—I mean Ardath Steele, of course—could just as easily be many thousands of miles off, using a powerful short-wave transmitter?”
“Logically, yes. The previous messages, very short, were hardly audible, which means he’s come a lot nearer in the interval.”
“What are the possibilities of a hoax?”
“Pretty remote. We haven’t anything yet which will go up a hundred miles or more and stay there, and even if we had the air ministry would know about it. Nothing’s left this world of ours which could account for this business. All the astronomers are on the watch, of course.”
They definitely were! A twenty-four hour study of the sky was in progress, all observatories linked to each other by radio. But so far there was no sign of the mysterious Ardath Steele making himself seen. When night came to the Western hemisphere again, however—only a brief night since it was midsummer—his voice returned. And this time all ordinary radio transmissions were stopped so he could be heard distinctly. There was little trouble over this. Either he was using a supersensitive microphone or else he had a voice like a champion hog-caller.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the hour is near! The greatest hour in the history of mankind to which in my small way I have contributed my all——”
“Whoever he is,” Betty commented, as with her editor she listened to the broadcast, “he’s wonderfully modest.”
“I shall reach Earth at ten tomorrow morning. I’m having a bit of jet trouble which is making me go round in circles instead of moving straight forward, but I’ll rectify it. A little thing like a faulty jet isn’t going to deter Ardath Steele!”
The editor lighted his pipe slowly and narrowed his eyes.
“Man sounds staring barmy to me, Bet.”
“Not barmy, boss. He’s a good showman, that’s all. A perfect Barnum technique, if you ask me.”
“I have little more to say tonight, my friends. Tomorrow I shall return amongst you and you will realise the enormity of the thing that has been done. I expect to touch down one mile south of the main London airport. In that way I shall not disorganise the legitimate air traffic. Until then, farewell!”
The roaring voice ceased. The editor blew out his cheeks and then put his pipe back between his teeth. He gave Betty a questioning glance.
“And you haven’t discovered anything about him yet?”
“Not a thing. Ardath Steele is just a cliché spoken in a lisp as far as I can see. ‘ ’Ard as Steele’—or am I being too subtle?”
“Much. I don’t pay you to be subtle, m’dear, only to rake in news. Still, I’ll grant this is an unusual assignment, so get your beauty sleep and be prepared to meet this retiring little explorer at ten tomorrow. Meantime I’ll keep in touch with the astronomers for the first news of his appearance.”
Thousands of other newspaper editors had just the same idea. So had the heads of television circuits and the big movie producers. Indeed, during the night there was one of the biggest invasions of London ever known. People poured into the capital from pole to pole, bent on only one thing—seeing Ardath Steele arrive in his spaceship after a sixty million mile journey over the gulf of space.
Throughout the amazing night all those responsible for the world’s news stood by, yawning with boredom as nothing happened. In darkened observatories throughout the western hemisphere astronomers kept watch. Then, at last, towards three in the morning, the first hopeful message was flashed to an eager world. Ardath Steele’s machine had been sighted! It was moving in a straight line, not a circle, so evidently he had corrected the faulty jet.
From that moment onwards cryptic headline statements were radiated from time to time to all those who cared to listen. ARDATH STEELE BEYOND HEAVISIDE LAYER! ARDATH STEELE INSIDE HEAVISIDE LAYER! HERE HE COMES! And at seven on the following morning the announcements faded with the unforgettable statement—IT WON’T BE LONG NOW!
In the tens of thousands, armed with field-glasses and small telescopes, men and women converged on the region around the London airport. It was useless to explain to them that by day it would be impossible to see the approaching spaceship until he was almost upon them. The likelihood was that it would first be heard.
It was! At 9.30 a whistling sound crept into the human buzz on the ground below, and the louder it became the more the human buzz faded out into awed silence. Hands shaded eyes, necks craned, eyes popped. The sky was cloudless and dazzling blue, but as yet there was not even a spot of condensation to reveal the whereabouts of the intrepid spaceman.
Betty Travers had taken up a position near to the mayor and dignitaries of London Corporation. All of them were in their traditional top hats and tailcoats, by no means an appropriate garb for the weather, already doing its best to top the eighty mark. As the whistling note increased the Mayor seemed to realise something must be done and promptly gave orders through a microphone. The result of these orders were not apparent in the vicinity of the Mayor, but some distance away in an area cordoned off by stiff-necked militia and perspiring policemen there were a number of traditionally garbed men spreading out a roll of luxurious carpet on the grass. Why exactly it had been decided that Ardath Steele would alight at that identical spot was not clear. It revealed a startling ignorance of the haphazard laws governing a pioneer’s spaceship.
“He’s coming!” somebody yelled, and pointed skywards.
This was a profound understatement. Ardath Steele’s machine, very much like the flying saucers of an earlier day, was streaking through the blue heaven as fast as a dock labourer heading for a pub at closing time. A flashing glimpse of it and it was gone. The whistling died away. Presumably Steele was already half-way to Australia.
“Must be ’avin’ trouble with his jets again,” said the fat man, apparently finding bright-eyed Betty a delectable fellow spectator.
“S’pose so,” she agreed, and at this moment the whistling came back again with deafening shrillness and the great Ardath Steele popped back again over the horizon from where he had disappeared.
Heads twirled dizzily to watch the spaceship’s gyrations and most people had to decide between stopping their ears or shading their eyes. The din was appalling and the smoke from the machin. . .
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