Smith,E E 'Doc' - Spacehounds Of IPC

Space Hounds of IPC

(A Tale of the Inter-Plantary Corporation)

By Edward E. Smith

CHAPTER 1

The IPV "Arcturus" Sets Out for Mars—

A narrow football of steel, the Inter-Planetary Vessel Arcturus stood upright

in her berth

in the dock like an egg in its cup. A hundred feet across and a hundred and

seventy feet

deep was that gigantic bowl, its walls supported by the structural steel and

concrete of

the dock and lined with hard-packed bumper-layers of hemp and fiber. High into

the air

extended the upper half of the ship of space—a sullen gray expanse of fifty-

inch

hardened steel armor, curving smoothly upward to a needle prow. Countless

hundreds

of fine vertical scratches marred every inch of her surface, and here and

there the

stubborn metal was grooved and scored to a depth of inches—each scratch and

score

the record of an attempt of some wandering cosmic body to argue the right-of-

way with

the stupendous mass of that man-made cruiser of the void.

A burly young man made his way through the throng about the entrance,

nodded

unconcernedly to the gatekeeper, and joined the stream of passengers flowing

through

the triple doors of the double air-lock and down a corridor to the center of

the vessel.

However, instead of entering one of the elevators which were whisking the

passengers

up to their staterooms in the upper half of the enormous football, he in some

way

caused an opening to appear in an apparently blank steel wall and stepped

through it

into the control room.

"Hi, Breck!" the burly one called, as he strode up to the instrument-desk

of the

chief pilot and tossed his bag carelessly into a corner. "Behold your computer

in the

flesh! What's all this howl and fuss about poor computation?"

"Ho, Steve!" The chief pilot smiled as he shook hands cordially. "Glad to

see you

again—but don't try to kid the old man. I'm simple enough to believe almost

anything,

but some things just aren't being done. We have been yelling, and yelling

loud, for

trained computers ever since they started riding us about every one-centimeter

change

in acceleration, but I know that you're no more an I-P computer than I am a

Digger

Indian. They don't shoot sparrows with coast-defense guns!"

"Thanks for the compliment, Breck, but I'm your computer for this trip,

anyway.

Newton, the good old egg, knows what you fellows are up against and is going

to do

something about it, if he has to lick all the rest of the directors to do it.

He knew that I

was loose for a couple of weeks and asked me to come along this trip to see

what I

could see. I'm to check the observatory data—they don't know I'm aboard—take

the

peaks and valleys off your acceleration curve, if possible, and report to

Newton just

what I find out and what I think should be done about it. How early am I?"

While the

newcomer was talking, he had stripped the covers from a precise scale model of

the

solar system and from a large and complicated calculating machine and had set

to work

without a wasted motion or instant—scaling off upon the model the positions of

the

various check-stations and setting up long and involved integrals and

equations upon

the calculator.

The older man studied the broad back of the younger, bent over his

computations, and a tender, almost fatherly smile came over his careworn face

as he

replied:

"Early? You? Just like you always were — minus fifteen seconds on zero.

The

final dope is due right now." He plugged the automatic recorder and speaker

into a

circuit marked "Observatory", waited until a tiny light above the plug flashed

green, and

spoke.

"IPV Arcturus; Breckenridge, Chief Pilot; trip number forty three twenty

nine.

Ready for final supplementary route and flight data, Tellus to Mars."

"Meteoric swarms still too numerous for safe travel along the scheduled

route,"

came promptly from the speaker. "You must stay further away from the plane of

the

ecliptic. The ether will be clear for you along route E2-P6-W4I-K3-Ri9-S7-Mi4.

You will

hold a constant acceleration of 981.27 centimeters between initial and final

check

stations. Your take-off will be practically unobstructed, but you will have to

use the

utmost caution in landing upon Mars, as in order to avoid a weightless detour

and a loss

of thirty one minutes you must pass very close to both the Martian satellites.

To do so

safely you must pass the last meteorological station, Mi4, on schedule time

plus or

minus five seconds, at scheduled velocity plus or minus ten meters, with

exactly the

given negative acceleration of 981.27 centimeters, and exactly upon the pilot

ray Mi4

will have set for you."

"All x." Breckenridge studied his triplex chronometer intently, then

unplugged and

glanced around the control room, in various parts of which half a dozen

assistants were

loafing at their stations.

"Control and power check-out — Hipe!" he barked. "Driving converters and

projectors!"

The first assistant scanned his meters narrowly as he swung a multi-point

switch

in a flashing arc. "Converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100; on

each of numbers

one to forty-five inclusive. All x."

"Dirigible projectors!"

Two more gleaming switches leaped from point to point. "Converter

efficiency

100, projector reactivity 100, dirigibility 100, on each of numbers one to

thirty-two,

inclusive, of upper band; and on each of numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive,

of lower

band. All x."

"Gyroscopes!"

"35,000. Drivers in equilibrium at ten degrees plus. All x."

"Upper lights and lookout plates!"

The second assistant was galvanized into activity, and upon a screen

before him

there appeared a view as though he were looking directly upward from the prow

of the

great vessel. The air above them was full of aircraft of all shapes and sizes,

and

occasionally the image of one of that flying horde flared into violet splendor

upon the

screen as it was caught in the mighty, roving beam of one of the twelve ultra-

light

projectors under test.

"Upper lights and lookout plates—all x," the second assistant reported,

and other

assistants came to attention as the check-out went on.

"Lower lights and lookout plates!"

"All x," was the report, after each of the twelve ultralights of the

stern had swung

around in its supporting brackets, illuminating every recess of the dark

depths of the

bottom well of the berth and throwing the picture upon another screen in

brilliant violet

relief.

"Lateral and vertical detectors!"

"Laterals XP27io—all x. Verticals AJ429O—all x."

"Receptors!"

"15,270 kilofranks—all x."

"Accumulators!"

"700,000 kilofrank-hours—all x."

Having thus checked and tested every function of his department,

Breckenridge

plugged into "Captain," and when the green light went on:

"Chief pilot check-out—all x," he reported briefly.

"All x," acknowledged the speaker, and the chief pilot unplugged. Fifteen

minutes

remained, during which time one department head after another would report to

the

captain of the liner that everything in his charge was ready for the

stupendous flight.

"All x, Steve?" Breckenridge turned to the computer. "How do you check

acceleration and power with the observatory?"

"Not so good, old bean," the younger man frowned in thought. "They figure

like

astronomers, not navigators. They've made no allowances for anything, not even

the

reversal—and I figure four thousandths for that and for minor detours. Then

there's

check-station error . . ."

"Check-station errors! Why, they're always right— that's what they're

for!"

"Don't fool yourself—they've got troubles of their own, the same as

anybody else.

In fact, from a study of the charts of the last few weeks, I'm pretty sure

that E 2 is at

least four thousand kilometers this side of where he thinks he is, that W4i is

ten or

twelve thousand beyond his station, and that they've both got a lateral

displacement

that's simply fierce. I'm going to check up, and argue with them about it as

we pass.

Then there's another thing—they figure to only two places, and we've got to

have the

third place almost solid if we expect to get a smooth curve. A hundredth of a

centimeter

of acceleration means a lot on a long trip when they're holding us as close as

they are.

We'll ride this trip on 981.286 centimeters—with our scheduled mass that means

thirty

six point oh four seven kilofranks plus equilibrium power. All set to go," the

computer

stated, as he changed, by fractions of seconds of arc, the course-plotters of

the

automatic integrating goniometer.

"You're the doctor—but I'm glad it's you that'll have to explain to the

observatory,"

and Breckenridge set his exceedingly delicate excess power potentiometer

exactly upon

the indicated figure. "Well, we've got a few minutes left for a chin-chin

before we lift her

off."

"What's all this commotion about? Dish out the low-down."

"Well, it's like this, Steve. We pilots are having one sweet time—we're

being

growled at on every trip. The management squawks if we're thirty seconds plus

or

minus at the terminal, and the passenger department squalls if we change

acceleration

five centimeters total enroute—claims it upsets the dainty customers and loses

business

for the road. They're tightening up on us all the time. A couple of years ago,

you

remember, it didn't make any difference what we did with the acceleration as

long as we

checked in somewhere near zero time—we used to spin 'em dizzy when we reversed

at

the halfway station—but that kind of stuff doesn't go any more. We've got to

hold the

acceleration constant and close to normal, got to hold our schedule on zero,

plus or

minus ten seconds, and yet we've got to make any detours they tell us to, such

as this

seven-million kilometer thing they handed us just now. To make things worse,

we've got

to take orders at every check-station, and yet we get the blame for everything

that

happens as a consequence of obeying those orders! Of course, I know as well as

you

do that it's rotten technique to change acceleration at every check-station;

but we've told

'em over and over that we can't do any better until they put a real computer

on every

ship and tell the check-stations to report meteorites and other obstructions

to us and

then to let us alone. So you'd better recommend us some computers!"

"You're getting rotten computation, that's a sure thing, and I don't

blame you

pilots for yelling, but I don't believe that you've got the right answer. I

can't help but think

that the astronomers are laying down on the job. They're so sure that you

pilots are to

blame that it hasn't occurred to them to check up on themselves very

carefully.

However, we'll know pretty quick, and then we'll take steps."

"I hope so—but say, Steve, I'm worried about using that much plus

equilibrium

power. Remember we've got to hit Mi4 absolutely all x, or plenty heads will

drop."

"I'll say they will: I know just how the passengers will howl if we hold

them

weightless for half an hour, waiting for those two moons to get out of the

way, and I

know just what the manager will do if we check in thirty-one minutes plus.

Wow! He'll

swell up and bust, sure. But don't worry, Breck—if we don't check in all x,

anybody can

have my head that wants it, and I'm taking full responsibility, you know."

"You're welcome to it." Breckenridge shrugged and turned the conversation

into a

lighter vein. "Speaking of weightlessness, it's funny how many weight-fiends

there are in

the world, isn't it? You'd think the passengers would enjoy a little

weightlessness

occasionally—especially the fat ones—but they don't. But say, while I think of

it, how

come you were here and loose to make this check-up? I thought you were out

with the

other two of the Big Three, solving all the mysteries of the Universe ?"

"Had to stay in this last trip—been doing some work on the ether, force-

field

theory, and other stuff that I had to go to Mars and Venus to get. Just got

back last

week. As for solving mysteries, laugh while you can, old hyena. You and a lot

of other

dim bulbs who think that Roeser's Rays are the last word—that there's nothing

left to

discover—are going to get jarred loose from your hinges one of these days.

When I

came in nine months ago they were hot on the trail of something big, and I'll

bet they

bring it in . . ."

Out upon the dock an insistent siren blared a crescendo and diminuendo

blast of

sound, and two minutes remained. In every stateroom and in every lounge and

saloon

speakers sounded a warning:

"For a short time, while we are pulling clear of the gravitational field

of the Earth,

walking will be somewhat difficult, as everything on board will apparently

increase in

weight by about one-fifth of its present amount. Please remain seated, or move

about

with caution. In about an hour weight will gradually return to normal. We

start in one

minute."

"Hipe!" barked the chief pilot as a flaring purple light sprang into

being upon his

board, and the assistants came to attention at their stations. "Seconds! Four!

Three!

Two! One! LIFT!" He touched a button and a set of plunger switches drove home,

releasing into the forty-five enormous driving projectors the equilibrium

power—the

fifteen-thousand-and-odd kilofranks of energy that exactly counterbalanced the

pull of

gravity upon the mass of the cruiser. Simultaneously there was added from the

potentiometer, already set to the exact figure given by the computer, the

plus-

equilibrium power — which would not be changed throughout the journey if the

ideal

acceleration curve were to be registered upon the recorders—and the immense

mass of

the cruiser of the void wafted vertically upward at a low and constant

velocity. The

bellowing, shrieking siren had cleared the air magically of the swarm of

aircraft in her

path, and quietly, calmly, majestically, the Arcturus floated upward.

Sixty seconds after the initial lift Breckenridge actuated the system of

magnetic

relays which would gradually cut in the precisely-measured "starting power,"

which it

would be necessary to employ for sixty-nine minutes—for, without the

acceleration

given by this additional power, they would lose many precious hours of time in

covering

merely the few thousands of miles during which Earth's attraction would

operate

powerfully against their progress.

Faster and faster the great cruiser shot upward as more and more of the

starting

power was released, and heavier and heavier the passengers felt themselves

become.

Soon the full calculated power was on and the acceleration became constant.

Weight

no longer increased, but remained constant at a value of plus twenty three and

six-

tenths percent. For a few moments there had been uneasy stomachs among the

passengers—perhaps a few of the first-trippers had been made ill—but it was

not much

worse than riding in a highspeed elevator, particularly since there was no

change from

positive to negative acceleration such as is experienced in express elevators.

The computer, his calculations complete, watched the pilot with interest,

for,

accustomed as he was to traversing the depths of space, there was a never-

failing thrill

to his scientific mind in the delicacy and precision of the work which

Breckenridge was

doing—work which could be done only by a man having had long training in the

profession and possessed of almost instantaneous nervous reactions and of the

highest

degree of manual dexterity and control. Under his right and left hands were

the double-

series potentiometers actuating the variable-speed drives of -the flight-angle

directors in

the hour and declination ranges; before his eyes was the finely-marked

micrometer

screen upon which the goniometer threw its needle-point of light; powerful

optical

systems of prisms and lenses revealed to his sight the director-angles, down

to

fractional seconds of arc. It was the task of the chief pilot to hold the

screened image of

the cross hairs of the two directors in such position relative to the ever-

moving point of

light as to hold the mighty vessel , precisely upon its course, in spite of

the complex

system of forces acting upon it.

For almost an hour Breckenridge sat motionless, his eyes flashing from,

micrometer screen to signal panel, his sensitive fingers moving the

potentiometers

through minute arcs because of what he saw upon the screen and in response to

the

flashing, multicolored lights and tinkling signals of his board. Finally, far

from Earth, the

moon's attraction and other perturbing forces comparatively slight, the

signals no longer

sounded and the point of light ceased its irregular motion, becoming almost

stationary.

The chief pilot brought both cross-hairs directly upon the brilliant point

which for some

time they had been approaching more and more nearly, adjusted the photo-cells

and

amplifiers which would hold them immovably upon it, and at the calculated

second of

time cut out the starting power by means of another set of automatically-timed

relays.

When only the regular driving power was left, and the acceleration had been

checked

and found to be exactly the designated value of 981.286 centimeters, he stood

up,

stretched, and heaved a profound sigh of relief.

"Well, Steve, that's over with—we're on our way. I'm always glad when

this part

of it is done."

"It's a ticklish job, no fooling—even for an expert," the mathematician

agreed. "No

wonder the astronomers think you birds are the ones who are gumming up their

dope.

Well, it's about time to plug in on E2. Here's where the fireworks start!" He

closed the

connections which transferred the central portion of the upper lookout screen

to a small

micrometer screen at Breckenridge's desk and plugged it into the first check-

station.

Instantly a point of red light, surrounded by a vivid orange circle, appeared

upon the

screen, low down and to the left of center, and the timing galvanometer showed

a wide

negative deflection.

"Hashed again!" growled Breckenridge. "I must be losing my grip, I guess.

I put

everything I had on that sight, and missed it ten divisions. I think I'll turn

in my

badge—I've cocked our perfect curve already, before we got to the first check-

station!"

His hands moved toward the controls, to correct their course and acceleration.

"As you were—hold everything! Lay off those controls!" snapped the

computer.

"There's something screwy, just as I thought—and it isn't you, either. I'm no

pilot, of

course, but I do know good compensation when I see it, and if you weren't

compensating that point I never saw it done. Besides, with your skill and my

figures I

know damn well that we aren't off more than a tenth of one division. He's

cuckoo! Don't

call him — let him start it, and refer him to me."

"All x—I'll be only too glad to pass the buck. But I still think, Steve,

that you're

playing with dynamite. Who ever heard of an astronomer being wrong?"

"You'd be surprised," grinned the physicist. "Since this fuss has just

started,

nobody's tried to find out whether they were wrong or not . . ."

"IPV Arc turns, attention!" came from the speaker curtly.

"IPV Arcturus, Breckenridge," acknowledged the chief pilot.

"You have been on my ray almost a minute. Why are you not correcting

course

and acceleration?"

"Doctor Stevens is computing us and has full control of course and

acceleration,"

replied Breckenridge. "He will answer you."

"I am changing neither course nor acceleration because you are not in

position,"

declared Stevens, crisply. "Please give me your present supposed location, and

your

latest precision goniometer bearings on the sun, the moon, Mars, Venus, and

your

Tellurian reference limb, with exact time of observations, gyroscope zero-

planes, and

goniometer factors!"

"Correct at once or I shall report you to the Observatory," E2 answered

loftily,

paying no attention to the demand for proof of position.

"Be sure you do that, guy—and while you're at it report that your station

hasn't

taken a precision bearing in a month. Report that you've been muddling along

on loop

bearings, and that you don't know where you are, within seven thousand

kilometers.

And speaking of reporting—I know already that a lot of you astronomical

guessers have

only the faintest possible idea of where you really are, plus, minus, or

lateral; and if you

don't get yourselves straightened out before we get to W4i I'm going to make a

report

on my own account that will jar some of you birds loose from your upper

teeth!" He

unplugged with a vicious jerk, and turned to the pilot with a grin.

"Guess that'll hold 'im for a while, won't it, old egg?"

"He'll report us, sure," remonstrated Breckenridge. The older man was

plainly ill

at ease at this open defiance of the supposedly infallible check-stations.

"Not that baby," returned the computer confidently. "I'll bet you a small

farm

against a plugged nickel that right now he's working his goniometer so hard

that its

pivots are getting hot. He'll sneak back into position as soon as he can

calculate his

results, and pretend he's always been there."

"The others will be all right, then, probably, by the time we get to them

?"

"Gosh, no—you're unusually dumb today, Breck. He won't tell anybody

anything—he doesn't want to be the only goat, does he?"

"Oh, I see. How could you dope this out, with only the recorder charts ?"

"Because I know the kind of stuff you pilots are—and those humps are

altogether

too big to be accounted for by anything I know about you. Another thing—the

E2, which was

wrong, it'd throw you all off on P6, which was right, and so on—a bad hump at

almost

every check-station. See?"

True to prediction, the pilot ray of P6 came in almost upon the exact

center of the

micrometer screen, and Breckenridge smiled in relief as he began really to

enjoy the

trip.

"How do we check on chronometers ?" asked P6 when Stevens had been

introduced. "By my time you seem to be about two and a half seconds minus?"

"All x—two point four I figure it—we're riding on 981.286 centimeters, to

allow for

the reversal and for minor detours. 'Bye."

"All this may have been coincidence, Breck, but we'll find out pretty

quick now,"

the computer remarked when the flying vessel was nearing the third check-

station.

"Unless I'm all out of control we'll check in almost fourteen seconds plus on

W4i, and we

may not even find him on the center block of the screen."

When he plugged in W4i was on the block, but was in the extreme upper

right

corner. They checked in thirteen and eight-tenths seconds late, and a fiery

dialogue

ensued when the computer questioned the accuracy of the location of the

station and

refused point-blank to correct his course.

"Well, Breck, old onion, that tears it," Stevens declared as he

unplugged. "No use

going any further on these lousy reference points. I'm going to report to

Newton—he'll

rock the observatory on its foundations!" He plugged into the telegraph room.

"Have you

got a free high-power wave? . . . Please put me on Newton, in the main

office."

Moving lights flashed and flickered for an instant upon the communicator

screen,

settling down into a white glow which soon resolved itself into the likeness

of a keen-

eyed, gray-haired man, seated at his desk in the remote office of the Inter-

Planetary

Corporation. Newton smiled as he recognized the likeness of Stevens upon his

own

screen, and greeted him cordially.

"Have you started your investigation, Doctor Stevens ?"

"Started it? I've finished it!" and Stevens tersely reported what he had

learned,

concluding: "So you see, you don't need special computers on these ships any

more

than a hen needs teeth. You've got all the computers you need, in the

observatories—all you've got to do is make them work at their trade."

"The piloting was all x, then?"

"Absolutely—our curve so far is exactly flat ever since we cut off the

starting

power. Of course, all the pilots can't be as good as Breckenridge, but give

them good

computation and good check points and you shouldn't get any humps higher than

about

half a centimeter."

"They'll get both, from now on," the director assured him. "Thanks. If

your work

for the trip is done, you might show my little girl, Nadia, around the

Arcturus. She's

never been out before, and will be interested. Would you mind?"

"Glad to, Mr. Newton—I'll be a regular uncle to her."

Smith, E E 'Doc' - Spacehounds Of IPC

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