Apron Chains
Fernando Columbus, Jr. peered into the viewplate at P. Hernandez, one of his best mariners. Hernandez’s voice came out the horn of the all-hail to one side:
“Mr. Director, I have the seventeen bottles of seawater, from the specified depths.”
“Good, Hernandez.”
“And I have charted the wind-speed at all the different prescribed altitudes, using the gas sack as directed.”
“Excellent.”
“Also, I have conducted the current-mapping tests as prescribed.”
“Very good, Hernandez.”
“My equipment state is A-1.”
“Fine.”
“My personnel state is A-2. There has been a little grumbling.”
“That is to be expected, at this stage. It will pick up to A-1 again as soon as you start back.”
“Ah . . . I would like to make a request, Mr. Director.”
“Yes?”
“I . . . ah . . . Mr. Director, I do not wish to return to port just yet.”
Project Director Columbus winced, as with a headache.
“Why?”
“Well, sir. I—That is, I think—Mr. Director, I know I can make it all the way.”
The director gripped the table edge. This again.
“Look, Hernandez, every second mariner we send out knows he can make it all the way. There’s even a name for it: ‘Far-end syndrome.’ Back when Indies Project started, my own great-uncle, one Christopher Columbus, knew he could make it ‘all the way.’”
Hernandez looked baffled. “He was a mariner?”
“One of the first. They didn’t have much education in those days, believe me. And that was using the old K-1 rig, pure sail power, and if you got becalmed, you just sat there. Well, he got this same crazy idea, he was going to go on, and on, and on, all the way across. Velasquez was director back then, and they had a terrific argument. Uncle Chris tried to throw the all-hail overboard, but the crew stopped him. Velasquez appointed the first mate to take over—that’s what they called the alternate mariner in those days—and that was that. If he had gone on, he’d have had to go four times as far as he had gone already, in order to reach the Indies. He wouldn’t have made it. His stores were inadequate. Equipment state was bad. Personnel state was terrible. All the same, he ‘knew he could make it.’ If Marquesas had been a few years later inventing the all-hail, or if the Venetian School had been a little slower getting a geographical analysis of the problem done, it would have been ‘Good-bye, Uncle Chris.’ Luckily for him, Velasquez was on hand to straighten the situation out before it was too late. Since then, we have had others. Ordaz for instance. Apparently he did go on. Lost without a trace. That’s why we have alternates, to prevent such foolishness.”
Hernandez said weakly, “I saw a seagull.”
“You’ve been in a storm. It could have been blown from an island somewhere.”
“Uh . . . I can sort of . . . ‘feel’ land—lots of land, up ahead. It’s sort of looming there, almost. I . . . I know I can make it.”
The director drew a deep breath. His voice came out low, patient, and determinedly sympathetic.
“Hernandez, our advances are made by the patient labor of many people, not by any one man. I realize how you feel. It does credit to you. But your achievement on this is already a significant contribution. There is no possible purpose in your attempting to complete the voyage to the Indies. Geographical analysis demonstrates that the direct sea route is longer, not shorter, than the route around Africa. In place of the curving route around the African continent, you have instead the whole bulge of the Earth to travel across. Consequently, there is no conceivable economic advantage in this route. That is why Indies Project is a scientific fact-gathering operation, under strict budgetary control, and on a minimal-risk basis. The gains have been, and will be, made in improved ship-design, better charts, and refined meteorological and oceanographic analysis. These gains can be realized in a deliberate and systematic way. What we need is the methodical performance of assigned tasks. Heroics, such as those of the unfortunate Ordaz, are unnecessary. It would be pointless—wouldn’t it?—to try to start now a voyage that is still longer, from where you are at present, than it would have been if, when you started out, you had gone around Africa?”
“I . . . I guess so.” Hernandez glanced away at the horizon, then shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”
“All right. The objectives of your mission are completed, Hernandez. I suggest you start back.”
Hernandez scratched his head, then nodded, and said, “All right, Mr. Director.” He dropped the cover over his viewplate. The snap from the all-hail told the director the connection was broken. The director shoved back his seat, to see Diaz, the medical man, leave his big viewplate.
***
Diaz said cheerfully, “Typical far-end syndrome. But Hernandez is in good shape, physically and mentally. His color is good. Eyes are clear. Disposition is basically lousy, of course, but whose isn’t?”
The director smiled and sat back.
“No harm then, in letting him complete the mission?”
“No. None. Do him good.”
“What do you suppose causes this ‘far-end syndrome?’”
Diaz pulled up a chair. “It’s beyond me. As long as we can get them out of it, I guess it doesn’t matter. Oh . . . I suppose it’s actually a form of psychic inertia. After you go on and on, and on, toward the Indies, I suppose there’s a natural hesitation to turn back, away from the Indies. If it weren’t for Marquesas’ all-hail, there’s no telling how many we’d lose.”
The director nodded. “When you stop to think of it, it’s amazing how much we owe to Marquesas—and to the Venetian School, of course. But then, without Marquesas, I doubt that the Venetian School would have hung together.”
“Probably never have been founded in the first place.” Diaz sat back, hands clasped behind his head. “It’s a funny thing, when you think of it, how much the world has changed in roughly the past hundred years. And when you trace it back, sooner or later, you usually arrive at one man—Marquesas.”
The director nodded.
“I read an interesting piece on that very topic. It was called ‘The Unvenetian World,’ or something like that. The basic assumption was that Marquesas had died in that shipwreck, instead of barely getting ashore near Venice. It then followed, and it was logical, that the Turks would have taken Constantinople, and Europe would still be split up in odd bits and pieces, all fighting each other. The steam carriage, the all-hail, the viewplate, the snafaraz, the flashscraper—all of that would have gone down with Marquesas. If Science had started up, without Marquesas, it would still have run smack into the Church. The likelihood of another person with both scientific and diplomatic genius was nil. Without Marquesas’ particular viewpoint, many of those devices never would have come about. Other things would have been devised, filled the need, and eliminated the search that led to their discovery. The whole world would have been different. It’s an incredible thought.”
“No more incredible than the facts. Did you know, when he made it ashore, Marquesas was too weak to drag himself out of the water? A peasant girl, waiting for her lover, saw him and pulled him out. Now, if he had come in at a slightly different place, if the girl had been looking the other way, or if her boyfriend hadn’t been late because of taking a wrong turn on the path—good-bye, Marquesas. Everything would have been different.”
The director nodded.
“My great-uncle Chris would have gone ‘on to the Indies,’ for one thing. But then, you wonder, could things actually have turned out differently. Could Marquesas have drowned? Could the peasant girl’s boyfriend have taken the right turn on the path? Could an individual create such a change in history?”
Diaz nodded. “I would say, that was such a slender, delicately-balanced thing, that . . . yes, that could have turned out differently. But now, could a similar individual decision, or even accidental action, at the present day, have an equal effect on the course of history?” He shook his head. “No. Quite impossible. We have, after all, reached a time when the course of history is already determined. The mass-effect of innumerable tendencies quite outweighs any possible individual action. It’s too bad for romance, I suppose, but this is the Day of the Organization. Individuals don’t matter much, one way or the—”
***
The all-hail gave its whistling note, signifying contact, and the director sat up.
“I wonder who that is.”
“Not Hernandez again, let’s hope.”
“Surely not . . . Contact! India Project, Director Columbus speaking.”
“Contact! Tenochtitlan. Mariner Ordaz speaking.”
“Who? Ordaz? But you didn’t—we haven’t heard from—”
“That’s right. I didn’t obey your damned silly schedule. I went on.”
“Wait a minute, now. Hold it. By now you must be almost to Cathay? What’s your equipment state? Personnel state?” He turned aside. “Quickly, Diaz! Get him on the big viewplate! He sounds in bad shape. Probably cracking up . . . Contact! Contact! Are you still there, Ordaz?”
“Yes, I’m here. I told you, I could sense land ahead!”
“Yes, yes. Certainly. Of course, you could, Ordaz. Now, calm down. Where is the viewplate? The viewplate, Ordaz. Do you have it? If you are too weak to find your position, just lay the plate in its gimbaled on-deck mount, so the leads don’t get crushed. Leave it face up, and we’ll roughly calculate your position for you, and let you know when we have it. Now, don’t worry about our punishing you for disobeying orders. We view your action purely in a clinical sense. You were temporarily insane, that’s all. So just relieve your mind about that. We want to help you, Ordaz.”
Ordaz’s voice came across somewhat faint, as if he had turned his head to speak to someone else.
“Listen to that. What did I tell you? Did you hear it?”
“Uncover the viewplate. Let’s see what happens then.”
“Just a minute . . . Contact! Are you there, Mr. Director?”
“I am here, Ordaz. But the question is, where are you? Now, we are prepared to do all we can. But you must get a grip on yourself. You must overcome this hysteria. Do not fear because of the immense spaces surrounding you. We are with you! Take hold of your courage with both hands! Get a grip on yourself! We will face this together!”
A bad word came out the horn of the all-hail.
The viewplate flared with color.
The director found himself looking down from a height at a city of low blocky buildings topped with parapets, with towering pyramids rising on every hand. The streets were filled with bustling people, hurrying to and from a great square where a busy trade was being carried on, while swift canoes bearing garden produce flashed up the canals that interlaced the city. The canals led in from a big lake where flowery islands floated, rising and falling with a rippling motion on the gentle swells. Snow-capped volcanoes rose in the background, and the turning of the viewplate brought new scenes to view, to leave the director dizzy.
***
“Mr. Director,” came Ordaz’s voice, “how many times have you told us the purpose of the project was to accumulate data in order to improve our ships and our knowledge of the ocean. But what for, except to get some use out of the knowledge? I could never get a clear answer to that. Finally, I saw the reason. The human race, Mr. Director, has a short memory, and is ruled by fashion. The Greeks, for instance, tried to reason all things out in their heads. Experiment was not in style with them. We, having discovered the value of experiment, are busily accumulating mountains of data. With us, you see, reason, as such, has gone out of style.
“Now, once I saw that, I realized that your arguments about Science, and collecting data, were merely a statement of what was in fashion at present. Like the ladies’ latest mode of piling up their hair. It had nothing to do with sense, utility, or anything else. It was just the style. It would be sacrosanct until it got so overblown it was ridiculous to everyone, and then it would be discarded—the good part along with the bad—and some new style would come in.
“Well, I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Director, for not waiting for all that to take place. I just decided to use a little reason, and a little trial-and-error, that were in style back before reason, and a little intuition, that was in style back there somewhere, and a few scientific data that looked useful—there’s nothing wrong with Science, as such—and just try it and see what happened. Now, what do you suppose? The things that were out of fashion worked just as well as those in fashion. Even prayer works, Mr. Director. Fashions don’t sway God any more than they do facts.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure—”
“And so, we just continued west. It was just a short distance, compared to what we had already covered, and here we were.”
“Here you what?”
“Here we were. You see the scene. We found a new continent, or perhaps an old one. Perhaps this, indeed, is fabled Atlantis.”
The director craned around to look at Diaz, staring wide-eyed at his own big viewplate.
“Hsst! Diaz! What do you make of this?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like delirium. But—”
The director said to Diaz, “Do you suppose a return to routine might straighten him out?”
“Ah . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know.”
“Worth a try.” The director straightened up.
“Ordaz!”
“Yes, Mr. Director?”
“Enough of this nonsense. All this chatter is to no purpose. Now, do you have your samples in the water bottles? Have you taken your current readings faithfully? Is your gasmaker still in condition to send up the gas sacks? All of this is very important, you know. Science advances insensibly by many little steps with the accumulation of data. Your small bit is part of the very—”
“Mr. Director, we have discovered a continent! Surely that is more important—”
“If true, it would admittedly be one more datum. However, Cathay is not a new continent.”
“This is not Cathay.”
“Not the known part of Cathay.”
“Not Cathay at all!”
“The projected course, allowing for time-lapse, places you near Cathay.”
***
There was a brief silence. Then Ordaz said, “Did I mention that when we arrived here, we were greeted as gods? For a practical man, this puts quite a useful handle on the situation.”
The director craned around at Diaz.
“Off his head?”
“Sounds like it. Poor devil. After a voyage like that, who can wonder?”
Ordaz said, “Did I also mention that this place groans under the weight of gold in it? That my friend, Emperor Cacama II, has a tremendous army, and powerful fortifications, and that his ancestors in Taxcuco gave great emphasis to the arts and sciences—emphasis which is starting to bear fruit. You regard all this as of no more significance than so many water bottles?”
“No, now of course, Ordaz, your little bit, added to the rest, is significant.”
“ ‘Little bit’ ?”
“The important thing, however, is to complete your voyage as planned. Do not be concerned that you will suffer any punishment, or reduction in grade . . .”
“Punishment!”
“. . . As we will simply regard this, as I say, in a clinical light. Temporary insanity. That is, as long as you straighten up now. But our concern for your welfare, while very great, is nevertheless limited by—”
“So you expect us to just drop everything and fill water bottles, eh? What can I say to get it across? Did I mention that we are not only regarded in the light of gods or demigods, but that some really beautiful maidens—”
Diaz said pityingly, “Completely off his nut. Typical. The whole crew is probably the same.”
“I suppose,” came Ordaz’s voice sarcastically, “that our discovery will not change your schedule at all?”
“Certainly not. The direct voyage, even to Cathay, is too long to be practical—as witness your own experience.”
“And the fact that Cacama, purely in self-defense, is building a big navy—”
“Very interesting. But more interesting yet, your location, off Cathay, would fill a gap in our charts, and—”
“Why waste breath?”
The viewplate went blank, and the snap from the all-hail told of the breaking of the connection.
“Poor fellow,” said the director. “There goes his last link with sanity.”
“Too bad,” said Diaz, “that his account was untrue. For a moment there, he had me wondering.”
The director shook his head.
“No, I didn’t believe him for a moment. It was easy to tell that what he said was false. It had to be false. It would have been too big a discovery. Advances now are made only by small steps, owing to the enormous extent of our knowledge, which dwarfs any conceivable new discovery. After all, when one is whirled across the continent at the speed of steam, it is obvious, isn’t it, that nothing could go much faster? Where are the new discoveries to come from? And there is a further proof.”
“What is that, sir?”
“Never have we had so many devoted highly-trained workers laboring in so many fields, and guided by men of such impressive qualifications. If any startling new revolutionary discoveries were to be made, they would make them.”
Diaz nodded, and selected a chair.
“It must,” he said, “have been wonderful to live, like Marquesas, in a great age of discovery.”
The director nodded and sat back with a sigh.
“We were born,” he said, “in the wrong era. This is just not the right century for it. Marquesas had all the fun.”