Jack Vance - Sail 25

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SAIL 25 – Jack Vance (ss)

Re-scanned and proofed by ~sille

SEVERAL YEARS ago Cele Goldsmith edited Amazing Stories. One evening at the home of Poul Anderson she

produced a set of cover illustrations which she had bought by the dozen for reasons of economy, and asked those

present to formulate stories based upon them. Poul rather gingerly accepted a cover whose subject I forget. Frank

Herbert was assigned the representation of a human head, with a cutaway revealing an inferno of hellfire, scurrying

half-human creatures, and the paraphernalia of a nuclear power plant. I was rather more fortunate and received a

picture purporting to display a fleet of spaceships driven by sun-sails. Theoretically the idea is sound, and space

scientists have fang included this concept among their speculations for future planetary voyages. Astrogation of

course becomes immensely complex, but by carefully canting the sail and using planetary and/or solar gravities, any

region of the solar system may be visited— not always by the most direct route, but neither did the clipper ships sail

great-circle routes.

The disadvantages are the complication of the gear and the tremendous expanse of sail— to be measured in square

miles—necessary to accelerate any meaningful mass of ship to any appreciable velocity within a reasonable

time-span.

Which brings me back to my cover picture. The artist, no doubt for purposes of artistry, had depicted the ships with

sails about the size of spinnakers for a twelve-meter, which at Earth radius from the sun would possibly produce as

much as one fly-power of thrust. Additionally the sails were painted in gaudy colors, in defiance of the conventional

wisdom which specifies that sun-sails shall be flimsy membranes of plastic, coated with a film of reflective metal a few

molecules thick. Still, no matter how illogical the illustration, I felt that I must justify each detail by one means or

another. After considerable toil I succeeded, with enormous gratitude that I had not been selected to write about the

cutaway head which had been the lot of Frank Herbert.

SAIL 25

Henry Belt came limping into the CONFERENCE room, mounted the dais, settled himself at the desk. He looked

once around the room: a swift bright glance which, focusing nowhere, treated the eight young men who faced him to

an almost insulting disinterest. He reached in his pocket, brought forth a pencil and a flat red book, which he placed

on the desk. The eight young men watched in absolute silence. They were much alike: healthy, clean, smart, their

expressions identically alert and wary. Each had heard legends of Henry Belt, each had formed his private plans and

private determinations.

Henry Belt seemed a man of a different species. His face was broad, flat, roped with cartilage and muscle, with skin

the color and texture of bacon rind. Coarse white grizzle covered his scalp, his eyes were crafty slits, his nose a

mis-shapen lump. His shoulders were massive, his legs short and gnarled.

"First of all," said Henry Belt, with a gap-toothed grin, "I'll make it clear that I don't expect you to like me. If you do

I'll be surprised and displeased. It will mean that I haven't pushed you hard enough."

He leaned back in his chair, surveyed the silent group. "You've heard stories about me. Why haven't they kicked

me out of the service? Incorrigible, arrogant, dangerous Henry Belt. Drunken Henry Belt. (This last, of course, is

slander. Henry Belt has never been drunk in his life.) Why do they tolerate me? For one simple reason: out of

necessity. No one wants to take on this kind of job. Only a man like Henry Belt can stand up to it: year after year in

space, with nothing to look at but a half-dozen round-faced young scrubs. He takes them out, he brings them back.

Not all of them, and not all of those who come back are spacemen today. But they'll all cross the street when they see

him coming. Henry Belt? you say. They'll turn pale or go red. None of them will smile. Some of them are high placed

now. They could kick me loose if they chose. Ask them why they don't. Henry Belt is a terror, they'll tell you. He's

wicked, he's a tyrant. Cruel as an ax, fickle as a woman. But a voyage with Henry Belt blows the foam off the beer. He's

ruined many a man, he's killed a few, but those that come out of it are proud to say, I trained with Henry Belt!

"Another thing you may hear: Henry Belt has luck. But don't pay any heed. Luck runs out. You'll be my thirteenth

class, and that's unlucky. I've taken out seventy-two young sprats, no different from yourselves; I've come back

twelve times: which is partly Henry Belt and partly luck. The voy-ages average about two years long: how can a man

stand it? There's only one who could: Henry Belt. I've got more space-time than any man alive, and now I'll tell you a

secret: this is my last time out. I'm starting to wake up at night to strange visions. After this class I'll quit. I hope you

lads aren't superstitious. A white-eyed woman told me that I'd die in space. She told me other things and they've all

come true. We'll get to know each other well. And you'll be wondering on what basis I make my recommendations.

Am I objective and fair? Do I put aside personal animosity? Naturally there won't be any friendship. Well, here's my

system. I keep a red book. Here it is. I'll put your names down right now. You, sir?"

"I'm Cadet Lewis Lynch, sir."

"You?"

"Edward Culpepper, sir."

"Marcus Verona, sir."

"Vidal Weske, sir."

"Marvin McGrath, sir."

"Barry Ostrander, sir."

"Clyde von Gluck, sir."

"Joseph Sutton, sir."

Henry Belt wrote the names in the red book. "This is the system. When you do something to annoy me, I mark you

down demerits. At the end of the voyage I total these de-merits, add a few here and there for luck, and am so guided.

I'm sure nothing could be clearer than this. What annoys me? Ah, that's a question which is hard to answer. If you talk

too much: demerits. If you're surly and taciturn: de-merits. If you slouch and laze and dog the dirty work: demerits. If

you're overzealous and forever scuttling about: demerits. Obsequiousness: demerits. Truculence: demerits. If you sing

and whistle: demerits. If you're a stolid bloody bore: demerits. You can see that the line is hard to draw. Here's a hint

which can save you many marks. I don't like gossip, especially when it concerns myself.

I'm a sensitive man, and I open my red book fast when I think I'm being insulted." Henry Belt once more leaned back in

his chair. "Any questions?"

No one spoke.

Henry Belt nodded. "Wise. Best not to flaunt your ignor-ance so early in the game. In response to the thought

passing through each of your skulls, I do not think of myself as God. But you may do so, if you choose. And

this"—he held up the red book—"you may regard as the Syncretic Compen-dium. Very well. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir," said Culpepper.

"Speak, sir."

"Any objection to alcoholic beverages aboard ship, sir?"

"For the cadets, yes indeed. I concede that the water must be carried in any event, that the organic compounds

present may be reconstituted, but unluckily the bottles weigh far too much."

"I understand, sir."

Henry Belt rose to his feet. "One last word. Have I men-tioned that I run a tight ship? When I say jump, I expect

every one of you to jump. This is dangerous work, of course. I don't guarantee your safety. Far from it, especially

since we are assigned to old Twenty-Five, which should have been broken up long ago. There are eight of you

present. Only six cadets will make the voyage. Before the week is over I will make the appropriate notifications. Any

more questions? . . . Very well, then. Cheerio." Limping on his thin legs as if his feet hurt, Henry Belt departed into the

back passage.

For a moment or two there was silence. Then von Gluck said in a soft voice, "My gracious."

"He's a tyrannical lunatic," grumbled Weske. "I've never heard anything like it! Megalomania!"

"Easy," said Culpepper. "Remember, no gossiping."

"Bah!" muttered McGrath. "This is a free country. I'll damn well say what I like."

Weske rose to his feet. "A wonder somebody hasn't killed him."

"I wouldn't want to try it," said Culpepper. "He looks tough." He made a gesture, stood up, brow furrowed in

thought. Then he went to look along the passageway into which Henry Belt had made his departure. There, pressed to

the wall, stood Henry Belt. "Yes, sir," said Culpepper suavely. "I forgot to inquire when you wanted us to convene

again."

Henry Belt returned to the rostrum. "Now is as good a time as any." He took his seat, opened his red book. "You,

Mr. von Gluck, made the remark 'My gracious' in an offen-sive tone of voice. One demerit. You, Mr. Weske, employed

the terms 'tyrannical lunatic' and 'megalomania,' in reference to myself. Three demerits. Mr. McGrath, you observed

that freedom of speech is the official doctrine of this country. It is a theory which presently we have no time to

explore, but I believe that the statement in its present context carries an overtone of insubordination. One demerit. Mr.

Culpepper, your imperturbable complacence irritates me. I prefer that you display more uncertainty, or even

uneasiness."

"Sorry, sir."

"However, you took occasion to remind your colleagues of my rule, and so I will not mark you down."

"Thank you, sir."

Henry Belt leaned back in the chair, stared at the ceiling. "Listen closely, as I do not care to repeat myself. Take

notes if you wish. Topic: Solar Sails, Theory and Practice Thereof. Material with which you should already be familiar,

but which I will repeat in order to avoid ambiguity.

"First, why bother with the sail when nuclear jet-ships are faster, more dependable, more direct, safer and easier to

navigate? The answer is threefold. First, a sail is not a bad way to move heavy cargo slowly but cheaply through

space. Secondly, the range of the sail is unlimited, since we employ the mechanical pressure of light for thrust, and

therefore need carry neither propulsive machinery, material to be ejected, nor energy source. The solar sail is much

lighter than its nuclear-powered counterpart, and may carry a larger complement of men in a larger hull. Thirdly, to

train a man for space there is no better instrument than the handling of a sail. The computer naturally calculates sail

cant and plots the course; in fact, without the computer we'd be dead ducks. Nevertheless the control of a sail

provides working familiarity with the cosmic elementals: light, gravity, mass, space.

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Jack Vance - Sail 25

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