The Science Fiction Anthology. Филип Дик
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Rajcik was thoroughly qualified for his position. But he was only one of fifty thousand thoroughly qualified men who lusted for a berth on one of the fourteen spaceships in existence. Only Stephen Rajcik had had the foresight, appearance and fortitude to court and wed Helga, Old Man Mikkelsen’s eldest daughter.
Rajcik went aft to the cargo hold. Dierdre was carrying transistors this time, and microfilm books, platinum filaments, salamis, and other items that could not as yet be produced on Mars. But the bulk of her space was taken by the immense Fahrensen Computer.
Rajcik checked the positioning lines on the monster, examined the stays and turnbuckles that held it in place, and returned to the cabin.
“All in order, Boss,” he reported to Captain Somers, with the smile that only an employer’s son-in-law can both manage and afford.
“Mr. Watkins, do you read anything?”
Watkins was at his own instrument panel. “Not a thing, sir. I’ll vouch for every bit of equipment in Dierdre.”
“Very well. How long before we reach Point Baker?”
“Three minutes, Chief,” Rajcik said.
“Good.”
The spaceship hung in the void, all sensation of speed lost for lack of a reference point. Beyond the portholes was darkness, the true color of the Universe, perforated by the brilliant lost points of the stars.
Captain Somers turned away from the disturbing reminder of his extreme finitude and wondered if he could land Dierdre without shifting the computer. It was by far the largest, heaviest and most delicate piece of equipment ever transported in space.
He worried about that machine. Its value ran into the billions of dollars, for Mars Colony had ordered the best possible, a machine whose utility would offset the immense transportation charge across space. As a result, the Fahrensen Computer was perhaps the most complex and advanced machine ever built by Man.
“Ten seconds to Point Baker,” Rajcik announced.
“Very well.” Somers readied himself at the control board.
“Four—three—two—one—fire!”
SOMERS activated the engines. Acceleration pressed the three men back into their couches, and more acceleration, and—shockingly—still more acceleration.
“The fuel!” Watkins yelped, watching his indicators spinning.
“The course!” Rajcik gasped, fighting for breath.
Captain Somers cut the engine switch. The engines continued firing, pressing the men deeper into their couches. The cabin lights flickered, went out, came on again.
And still the acceleration mounted and Dierdre’s engines howled in agony, thrusting the ship forward. Somers raised one leaden hand and inched it toward the emergency cut-off switch. With a fantastic expenditure of energy, he reached the switch, depressed it.
The engines stopped with dramatic suddenness, while tortured metal creaked and groaned. The lights flickered rapidly, as though Dierdre were blinking in pain. They steadied and then there was silence.
Watkins hurried to the engine room. He returned morosely.
“Of all the damn things,” he muttered.
“What was it?” Captain Somers asked.
“Main firing circuit. It fused on us.” He shook his head. “Metal fatigue, I’d say. It must have been flawed for years.”
“When was it last checked out?”
“Well, it’s a sealed unit. Supposed to outlast the ship. Absolutely foolproof, unless—”
“Unless it’s flawed.”
“Don’t blame it on me! Those circuits are supposed to be X-rayed, heat-treated, fluoroscoped—you just can’t trust machinery!”
At last Watkins believed that engineering axiom.
“How are we on fuel?” Captain Somers asked.
“Not enough left to push a kiddy car down Main Street,” Watkins said gloomily. “If I could get my hands on that factory inspector ...”
Captain Somers turned to Rajcik, who was seated at the navigator’s desk, hunched over his charts. “How does this affect our course?”
Rajcik finished the computation he was working on and gnawed thoughtfully at his pencil.
“It kills us. We’re going to cross the orbit of Mars before Mars gets there.”
“How long before?”
“Too long. Captain, we’re flying out of the Solar System like the proverbial bat out of hell.”
RAJCIK smiled, a courageous, devil-may-care smile which Watkins found singularly inappropriate.
“Damn it, man,” he roared, “don’t just leave it there. We’ve got a little fuel left. We can turn her, can’t we? You are a navigator, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Rajcik said icily. “And if I computed my courses the way you maintain your engines, we’d be plowing through Australia now.”
“Why, you little company toady! At least I got my job legitimately, not by marrying—”
“That’s enough!” Captain Somers cut in.
Watkins, his face a mottled red, his mustache bristling, looked like a walrus about to charge. And Rajcik, eyes glittering, was waiting hopefully.
“No more of this,” Somers said. “I give the orders here.”
“Then give some!” Watkins snapped. “Tell him to plot a return curve. This is life or death!”
“All the more reason for remaining cool. Mr. Rajcik, can you plot such a course?”
“First thing I tried,” Rajcik said. “Not a chance, on the fuel we have left. We can turn a degree or two, but it won’t help.”
Watkins said, “Of course it will! We’ll curve back into the Solar System!”
“Sure, but the best curve we can make will take a few thousand years for us to complete.”
“Perhaps a landfall on some other planet—Neptune, Uranus—”
Rajcik shook his head. “Even if an outer planet were in the right place at the right time, we’d need fuel—a lot of fuel—to get into a braking orbit. And if we could, who’d come get us? No ship has gone past Mars yet.”
“At least we’d have a chance,” Watkins said.
“Maybe,” Rajcik agreed indifferently. “But we can’t swing it. I’m afraid you’ll have to kiss the Solar System good-by.”
Captain Somers wiped his forehead and tried to think of a plan. He found it difficult to concentrate. There was too great a discrepancy between his knowledge of the situation and its appearance. He knew—intellectually—that his ship was traveling out of the Solar System at a tremendous rate of speed. But in appearance they were stationary, hung in the abyss, three men trapped in a small, hot room, breathing the smell of hot metal and perspiration.
“What shall we do, Captain?” Watkins asked.
SOMERS frowned at the engineer. Did the man expect him to pull a solution out of the air? How was he even supposed to concentrate on the problem? He had to slow the ship, turn it. But his senses told him that the ship was not moving. How, then, could speed constitute a problem?
He couldn’t help but feel that the real problem was to get away from these high-strung, squabbling men, to escape from this hot, smelly little room.
“Captain! You must have some idea!”
Somers tried to