News From Elsewhere (16 page)

Slowly, infinitely slowly, the sun began to sink over distant fire-tipped mountains. Slowly the great ball of Earth loomed against a star-strewn backcloth of total darkness. Captain Harper and his three companions stood silently 
in a deepening green glow, watching the inexorable course of the sun over a ragged horizon.

It was a scene to be remembered as long as they lived—the subtle change stealing over a petrified landscape, the slow, impressive end of their first lunar day.

The survey ship
Prometheus
dropped into orbit four hundred miles above the surface of Planet Five. Altogether there were seven planets in the system. They belonged to the Companion of Sirius, a “white dwarf” which had the distinction of being the first star to be recognized by terrestrial astronomers before it could be seen.

Planet Five was twenty-two million miles from the mother sun. Sirius itself lay far beyond the confines of the tiny system, being another eighteen hundred million miles away. To the crew of the
Prometheus,
it presented a bright, blinding disc, no less impressive than that of its now relatively near Companion. Eventually the
Prometheus
would voyage closer to the great star to survey her single red planet. But meanwhile, the Companion’s system seemed infinitely more attractive—an explorer’s paradise.

When the orbit maneuver had been successfully completed, the crew of four took themselves to the mess deck for a celebration. They had something to celebrate, for, so far as they knew, the
Prometheus
was the first ship to navigate satisfactorily under what was called the relativity drive—in memory of a very great man and a very imperfect theory.

As soon as they took their places at table, the electronic 
cooker disgorged roast chicken and a wealth of elegant tr
immin
gs, and the refrigerator surrendered a magnum of champagne. Only three of the crew, however, were able to savor the luxury of drinking wine eight and a half light-years away from the vineyard that produced it, for the fourth, a positronic robot, preferred to dine infrequently on a large helping of amperes.

Presently Captain Trenoy, physicist, astronomer, and Master of the
Prometheus,
gave a formal toast while Whizbang, the robot, watched with red, expressionless eyes.

“May our explorations be fruitful,” said Captain Trenoy, raising his glass. “May our return be safe, and may the Time Drag not be too heavy on us.”

“Amen,” said Dr. Blane.

He and Dr. Luiss regarded each other gravely as they lifted their glasses in response. They were both thinking about the same thing. TTie journey of eight and a half light-years had taken the
Prometheus
eighteen kinetic months, but the ship had left the solar system fifteen earth-years before. By the time it returned, more than thirty-five earth-years would have gone by, though the crew would have aged a mere three and a half years.

Blane, who combined the duties of psychologist, surgeon, and physician, was contemplating the spiritual effect of being cut off from one’s time and generation. Fortunately or otherwise, it was a problem that would have no reality until the
Prometheus
touched down on earth once more.

Luiss, who held the departments of biochemistry and geology, stared at his champagne and wondered just how long it would take him to go mad.

But such disturbing thoughts slid rapidly into the background as Captain Trenoy, refilling the three glasses, turned the conversation to the immediate problem of touching down on Planet Five. After eighteen months of montonous starflight, during which there was little to do but make routine checks, routine researches, routine conversation, it was pleasant if unnerving to be faced with the necessity for action.

“Here endeth the first lesson,” said the Captain with obscure irony. “And now we’d better fix up some orderly procedure. I am assuming, of course, that you feel we ought to explore as soon as possible.” He gazed at his companions inquiringly.

“No reason why we shouldn’t,” said Dr. Luiss. “I’ve checked Whizbang’s preliminary findings. It doesn’t seem as if there will be much difficulty.”

“I haven’t any objections,” agreed Blane. Then he added with a dry smile, “But in view of our experience of the unusual effects of starsickness, it might be advisable if we sent Whizbang by himself on the first trip.”

“I was about to suggest that myself,” said Trenoy. “It would be an elementary safety procedure. I think, too, that we should fix it so that we can control the landing rocket from here—just in case Whizbang comes to grief. It would be disastrous if we lost a ferry rocket on the first landing.”

“What makes you think I might come to grief, Captain?” boomed the robot. “The findings indicate that it’s going to be a smooth job.”

Trenoy laughed. “You’re as logical as they come, Whizbang,” he said. “But we poor mortals, lacking your mental equipment, tend to be just a little superstitious. To us, as to the primeval savages, the unknown is always a little magical—in spite of science, in spite of reason, and in spite of infallible robots.”

Whizbang made strange noises, which his companions had long since learned to interpret as robotic laughter.

“So I noticed,” he retorted, “when we changed down to planetary drive out of R.D. Dr. Blane, our eminent psychologist, was, I recall, furiously stroking a rabbit’s paw.”

Blane smiled. “No need to feel superior, Whizbang. I saw you playing with a new set of logarithmic notations. It was the first time I’ve ever seen a robot doodling.”

“All right, doodler,” said Captain Trenoy. “Tell us what you’ve discovered about Planet Five, and we’ll decide if there is likely to be difficulty.”

Whizbang recited his information with monotonous efficiency. “Size equates approximately with terrestrial moon. Mass: one over eighty-three point two. Density: three point seven nine. Orbital period: ninety-eight days. Surface: three-fifths solid. Atmosphere: oxygen, helium —forty-five, fifty. Vegetation: low-type scrub with unusual 
predominance of blue. No evidence yet of animal life.”

“Suppose we put you down,” said Luiss. “What would you do?”

“Take out Radiac and test at ground level,” answered Whizbang promptly. “Collect samples and explore to a radius of one hundred yards. Radio verbal report to Captain Trenoy and await instructions.”

“Fair enough,” said Trenoy. “Down you go.”

“I’ve already checked the ferry rocket,” announced Whizbang. “Radiac and sample jars are aboard.” He stood up and stretched his nine feet of steel and duralumin. “Shall I make ready, sir?” he asked formally.

“No time like the present,” said Trenoy. “Go ahead. Come back and tell us five minutes before point of exit.”

The three men stood on the navigation deck of the
Prometheus,
watching the small ferry rocket drift out of the orbit. As it receded in slow motion, Whizbang waved a metal arm cheerily to them from inside his plastiglass dome.

“Are we going to stabilize position over his landing area?” asked Dr. Blane.

“Might as well,” said the Captain. “There’s no reason for playing safe on fuel. Thank God those days are over.”

The ferry rocket, gathering negative speed, dropped like a silver bullet to the vast brown and crimson stretch of lava plains below.

‘The atmosphere is a piece of cake,” said Dr. Luiss happily. “It looks as if we shall be able to throw off our pressure suits and jump about freely at one-sixth gravity.”

“It may be my natural pessimism,” observed Dr. Blane, “but I have an odd notion that Planet Five is altogether too obliging. Something tells me that we are in for a few surprises.”

“I think you’re right,” agreed Trenoy. “There always are surprises in this kind of work. It would be somewhat surprising if there weren’t.” He turned his attention to the two-way radio.
“Prometheus
to Whizbang.
Prometheus
to Whizbang. How are you doing? Over.”

He turned a switch, and Whizbang’s voice came loud and clear. “Whizbang to Captain Trenoy. I’m skating cautiously through the boundaries of the stratosphere at a hundred thousand feet. Velocity five thousand. Fin temperature fifteen hundred. Internal temperature one hundred and three. It’s easy going. Over.”

“What does the surface look like?” asked Trenoy.

“As expected, Captain. Blue vegetation areas change shade slightly, purple to crimson. But this may be due to invisible cloud. Over.”

“Are you using the auto-pilot? Over.” asked the Captain. He heard the robot laugh.

“I am more efficient, sir. The auto-pilot would take three minutes longer. Over.”

“Watch that fin temperature!” snapped Trenoy. “It’s more important than trying to beat the auto-pilot. Over and out.”

“Yes, sir. Over and out.” Whizbang did his best to sound metallically aggrieved.

Seven minutes later he touched the ferry rocket down to a perfect landing.

“Whizbang to
Prometheus.
I have touched down on the agreed area on Planet Five. Landing normal. Fuel consumption subnormal. What are your orders? Over.”

Back on the
Prometheus
, Captain Trenoy gripped the mike, glancing at the two men with controlled excitement. He flicked the switch and spoke to Whizbang.

“Do not move. Describe the landscape. Over.”

“Sunlight strength four,” said Whizbang. “Sky purple to deep blue. Horizon bounded by mountain range. Estimated height of highest peak nine thousand feet. Distance twelve miles. Planetary surface rock; color crimson, brown, black. Nearest vegetation three hundred yards away. Pampas-type grass, four to six feet high; color blue to crimson. Occasional bushes with tendril-type leaves, rising to ten feet; color, yellow to gold. Animal life butterfly type, wing span nine to fifteen inches, multicolored, present in large numbers. Estimated cloud of twenty to thirty circling ferry rocket. Large clouds in constant motion above pampas. Over.”

On the navigation deck of the survey ship the atmosphere of excitement intensified.

“Butterflies!” exclaimed Dr. Luiss. “This is going to be interesting. They’re quite a reasonably developed evolutionary structure. Obviously there will be other examples of animal life—even if they’re only vestigial species relating to the butterflies’ development.”

Dr. Blane laughed. “Maybe we’ll have to take nets with us and dash around like three bug-collecting schoolboys. At one-sixth G, we ought to be able to chase ’em on the wing.”

“Not so fast,” said Trenoy. “Let’s see how they react to Whizbang, and he to them.” He flicked the radio switch and spoke once more to the robot, who sat patiently in the pilot’s seat of the ferry rocket four hundred miles below.

“Prometheus
to Whizbang. Take out your Radiac, your atmospherometer, and the cine-camera. Make five tests for radioactivity—one general and four specific. Find out the pressure and bulk gases, and bring samples back for lab work. Then take your camera and use fifteen minutes of film. Spread it out—panoramic stuff, telephoto, microphoto, and general interest. Also get a butterfly if possible—without harming it. . . . Over.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Whizbang. “When shall I report? Over.”

“Don’t be lazy,” said Trenoy. “Clip the transceiver on your chest. We’ll want a record while you’re operating. Over.”

“As you say, Captain. Would you like a commentary or question and answer? Over.”

“Commentary will do. If I want to ask questions, I’ll break in. Over and out.”

The men on the navigation deck waited for the robot’s monologue to begin. Dr. Luiss went to the manual telescope and began to search the landing area with it. After a moment or two, fancying a shiny dot that he’d picked out was the ferry rocket, he called Captain Trenoy to take a look. Then Whizbang launched into his commentary.

“Transceiver clipped on. I am now descending through oubliette with Radiac. . . . Pressure equalized at nine point nine. . . . Ladder down and entry-port released. I am going down the ladder. . . . General radioactivity normal for oxygen helium at nine point nine. Will now proceed fifty yards from rocket for four radial tests. . . .”

Trenoy switched across. “How are the butterflies reacting to your presence?”

“They don’t appear to have noticed me yet. . . . Am now making first of radial tests. . . . The butterflies have just begun to notice me. The ones circling above the rocket aren’t being tempted, but another cloud of about 
fifty has risen from the pampas. They’re heading straight for me. . . . Now they’re circling overhead. . . .”

“See if you can get one, but don’t alarm them if it can be helped,” said Trenoy.

“They’re fast on the wing, Captain, and they seem to be able to estimate my range. They’re concentrating about twenty feet above my headpiece. . . .”

There was a long pause, then: “Flutter by, butterfly! Flutter, flutter, butterfly. . . . Well, well, well! Cut off my coordinators and call me a computer. ... I think that I shall never see a robot beautiful as me. . . .” For the first time in his existence, Whizbang sounded as if he were trying to sing. It was an unmelodious robotic howl. To the men on the
Prometheus
it sounded midway between ecstasy and insanity.