Trip One

by EDWARD GRENDON

 

When this story was first published in July, 1949, the idea of interplanetary flight was as fantastic as interstellar flight is today. Then the news of the first Sputnik was flashed around the world. In that moment the fictional problem discussed in this story became an actual one—as anyone following the news of our space program will realize. 

 

WHEN SHE WAS all ready to go we were afraid to send her. Sometimes it's like that; you have problems and you worry about them for years. Then they are all solved for you and it's the big chance. It's what you have been waiting for—and then it falls apart. It wouldn't be so had except for the letdown. They build you up and knock you down. 

The ship was beautiful. A hundred and ten feet long and shaped like a hammerhead shark. She was named the Astra. One problem after another had been settled. Propulsion was the first big one to be put away. Ingeline took care of that. Ingeline was the fuel that Walther developed in Germany just at the end of the war. He developed it so that a submarine could outrun a destroyer. Thank God the Nazis never had a chance to use it, but plenty of uses were developed later. 

The second problem we solved was cosmic rays. We had sent up rocket after rocket carrying sheep and monkeys until we figured out how to protect them. The other problems went fast— oxygen, navigation, landing, and the rest. We had the backing of the United Nations Science Foundation and those boys were good. We had sent the ship around the Moon as a test under gyroscope control, full of chimpanzees and orangutans as test freight. Every one of them came back in perfect condition. The automatic cameras got some photographs of the moon's other side. The photographs looked just like this side of the moon to everyone but the astronomers, but we didn't care. We were looking forward to the big one—Mars Trip One. Everything had been checked and set and now it was all off. 

When Jerrins over at the Research Council phoned me I had an idea it was bad news. Jerrins and I knew each other pretty well and I knew from the tone of his voice that something was wrong. 

"I'm coming over, Jake," he said. "Just hold everything until I get there." 

We were set to pull out for Mars in twenty-nine hours so we were pretty busy. "What do you mean, hold everything?" I asked him. "Hold what?" 

"Just that. Hold everything. You might as well stop loading supplies because you ain't goin' nowhere. Be over in an hour," and he hung up on me. 

I didn't get it. Ten years' work, twenty million bucks spent, and we weren't going. I figured I'd better not tell the boys and just let them go on loading up. It couldn't do any harm to wait an hour. 

Fifty minutes later Jerrins pulled in. I knew he'd flown from Washington rather than try to explain by phone, but I couldn't think about anything. I yanked him into the office, slammed the door, opened it, and yelled, "No visitors or calls," in the general direction of the switchboard, and slammed the door again. 

"O.K., Warren, what's the dope?" I asked. 

He sat down, lit a cigarette, and said: "The trip's off for good. It's final, irrevocable and that's all there is to it. I've been with the U.N. Subcommittee on Interplanetary Travel all afternoon. There is no question about it. Finis. Period. Stop." 

Finally he told me the whole story. "It's this way, Jake," he said, "it's not a question of not wanting to go. Everyone wants the trip to be a success. It's a question of being afraid to go. And I agree. There's too much risk." He stopped for a moment. "You didn't know it and I didn't know it until now, but a lot of the biology boys have been worrying themselves sick ever since the planning really got started. We haven't thought much about their problems and they have one big one. The U.N. has let us go on beating our brains out because they wanted space travel and they hoped a solution would be found. They wanted space travel so bad that they were willing to put all this money and energy into it in the hope that something could be done; some answer would be found at the last minute. But the Bio boys report no can do." 

He stopped, lit a cigarette, leaned across the desk, and shoved it into my mouth. Then he leaned back, lit himself another, and went on. 

"They let the moon trip go because we weren't landing anywhere. That's O.K. with them. "As long as the ship just stays in space it can come back and land, but once it's landed on another planet, it can't ever come back here. That's final. The U.N. is agreed on it and we work for them. As a matter of fact, I agree with them myself." 

I started to sputter, thought better of it, leaned back, and tried to focus my mind. A: Jerrins was a good man and wasn't crazy. He was sorry for me. Come to think of it, I was sorry for him. This must have nearly killed him. B: Our bosses weren't crazy. They were bright, trained men whom the U.N. had selected. Space travel was strictly a U.N. proposition. It was too explosive for any single nation to get to Mars first and the U.N. had the power now to take over. Ergo there must be a good reason why we couldn't go. Also I knew it concerned the microscope and dissection gang. That was all I knew and I was chief engineer in charge of building and was going to be—would have been—chief engineer and captain on Mars Trip One. So—I relaxed, stamped out my cigarette butt, and said to Jerrins: "Well?" 

He grinned. "You collected yourself fast. It's this way. Do you remember what happened to the Incas? They were a pretty big gang until the Spaniards came in with European diseases. The Spaniards had built up a fairly good immunity to them but the Incas died like flies. They had no immunity. By the same token the Spaniards died of yellow fever, dengue, and what-not, stuff the Incas had some immunity to." He was speaking very slowly now. "There were diseases in Europe and diseases in South America and they killed people from the opposite continent. People who hadn't built up immunities by selective breeding and by little doses of the disease when they were children. If there were diseases on two different continents that were deadly, what about diseases on two different planets? Suppose you can land on Mars. Suppose you can get back. How will you know you're not carrying something that will kill you six months later? Or sterilize you? Or kill off the whole human race? When can you ever be sure something isn't incubating inside the crew that will make them ten thousand times worse than Typhoid Mary ever was?" 

He stopped and didn't say anything for three or four minutes. Neither did I. Outside, the sounds of loading still went on. What he said made sense. Good sense. You couldn't come back. Not ever. A trip to Mars was potential death for every human being. You couldn't risk the human race. I'd always assumed the biologists could handle their end of the job and had left it to them. But I could see now why my medics had seemed worried lately. There didn't seem to be any answer to this problem. 

"So, Jake," he said finally, "I ain't goin' nowhere and it can be conjugated as a regular verb. You ain't goin' nowhere, we ain't goin' nowhere, and they ain't goin' nowhere. It will be on the radio in a little while. You better tell the boys before that. They'll have their chance at trips later. The U.N. has O.K.'d research trips so long as they just float around. The astronomers will want more photographs of the other face of the moon, some close-ups of Mars, and so forth. But the ship—she stays on the ground for the present." 

He got up, patted me on the shoulder, and walked out. Sixty seconds later I heard his helicopter taking off. 

After twenty minutes of sitting there silently by myself, I stood up and went over to the mirror. I looked at myself in it and thought, Look here, Jake, you're a big boy now and can take a disappointment. Call the gang in and get it over with. I walked out to the switchboard and patted the operator on the shoulder. 

"Hook me up to the loudspeaker, Evie. Entire plant and grounds. Give it to me in my office and then get me some extra chairs in there. About twelve will do." 

Three minutes later my voice was booming out over the grounds and shops: "Attention, attention. Chief Engineer Weinberg speaking. I want all crew personnel, all chiefs of departments, and all chiefs of sections in my office immediately. All other loading personnel take a thirty-minute break. All crew personnel, department, and section chiefs in my office immediately. All others take a thirty-minute break. That is all." 

The men who crowded into my office were a widely varying lot. They were all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors. They had three major factors in common. Each was intelligent, each was highly trained in his own field, and each wanted the Mars trip to be a success, with a desire that was passionate and devoted. They filed in, tense, laughing, joking, worried. They distributed themselves on the chairs, lit cigarettes or pipes, and waited. They knew me and knew that if I called them at this late hour something important was up. It was too early for formal speeches and they all knew I would never dream of making one in any case. It was too late for instructions, they all knew their jobs perfectly by this time. They hoped it was nothing but they knew better. 

Twenty minutes later they understood. The medical section had understood as soon as I had started to talk. They had known about this for a long time but were under orders from their U.N. chief to keep their mouths shut and wait. It took the others a little longer to get it. They listened silently, thought, asked a few questions, and finally just sat there looking at me. I looked at them for a long minute and suddenly realized something that made me feel wonderful. They were disappointed but not beaten. Most of them had been on this job between three and ten years. They had worked, talked, eaten, and slept Mars Trip One. But when they were told it was off they weren't in shock, they weren't in tears, they weren't licked. And this wasn't the refusal of a bunch of fanatics to face the facts. This was a team of highly trained specialists who had faith in their brains and ability and in the knowledge of their sciences. This was the cream of humanity and they knew where they were going. I remembered Donn Byrne saying: "There is a wisdom beyond wisdom and a faith beyond faith." 

The men were determined. They believed that man could not be permanently stopped by anything in the universe. And it wasn't conceit or intellectual snobbishness. Man was heading for the stars and they knew it. They had conquered other obstacles, here was one more. Each had seen apparently insuperable barriers appear in his respective science time and time again but none had halted progress for long. Man had kept expanding intellectually, emotionally, and morally in spite of real and imagined hurdles. He was also going to expand and settle the planets and then the stars and these men knew it. They were hardheaded, scientifically trained dreamers and that's an unbeatable combination. 

I felt myself relaxing and grinned at them. "Here are your instructions: All perishable supplies are to he battened down. Those supplies on board are to be left there, those in the warehouses left where they are. Put everything on the loading ramps away, either in the ship or back in storage. Use your own judgment. Tell the work crews to report for instructions each morning. They'll get paid for eight hours so long as they report in, whether or not there's a job for them. Then you make any phone calls you want to. But every mother's son of you is to be back here in one hour. Maybe the U.N. is licked but we've got a lot of thinking to do before we are." 

They filed out and I sat back and tried to think. My thoughts went 'round and 'round. 

Ten minutes later I realized I was defeating my own purpose. There had been attempts to think this through from the top down before. This was a job for teamwork. I went out to the switchboard again. Evie was still there but her ear was glued to the radio. As I came in she flicked it off and looked at me and started to cry. 

"Relax Evie," I told her. "Don't believe everything you hear on the radio. Those broadcasters are a bunch of defeatists." 

She looked up startled, stopped crying, and eyed me questioningly. She had mascara all over her checks and looked adorable. I patted her on the shoulder and said: "I want a big conference table moved into my office. More chairs and try to get comfortable ones this time. Leave the other chairs in there. Put them against the wall or something. Then phone all the alternates and tell them I want them as quick as they can get here. Phone Jerrins at the U.N. Research Council and tell him I'd like him to fly back here as soon as he can make it. Then get the kitchen on the phone and tell them I want plenty of hot coffee and sandwiches and I want good sandwiches—not just bread and a thin slice of ham. On second thought just get coffee from them. Call a delicatessen in town and get the sandwiches there. We're going to have us a conference. There will be all the crew, the chiefs, and the alternates so figure out how much food we'll need and get twice as much. Then phone supply and tell them I want a small portable air conditioner in my office inside of fifteen minutes. And you'll probably be needed all night so make any phone calls you need to get yourself a relief at the switchboard, grab some notebooks and pencils, and come inside when you're finished. And tell the relief that she will probably be needed out here all night, too." 

Evie is a dependable gal as well as being ornamental so I knew she'd get everything done. I walked down to the snack bar and bought a few cartons of cigarettes. On the way back I stole ash trays and pads of blank paper from all the empty offices. When I got back the conference table and chairs were in and the boys from supply were plugging in the air conditioner. I scattered my armload of supplies around the table and waited. I was glad I'd thought of the air conditioner. These boys could no more hold a conference without smoking than they could think without doodling, but I'd never believed in the efficacy of a low oxygen content to increase efficiency. 

And the alternates were a good idea, too. Every crew member including myself had an alternate. The alternates were just as involved as we were and just as highly trained. If one of us couldn't go, the alternate was all ready to take his place. Having them would double our number and should increase the probability of our finding a way out of this. Jerrins, too, would help. He had a razor-sharp mind and we had worked together enough to know we complemented each other. Also, if we developed anything good, he was the man to sell it to the U.N. I was glad I'd asked him to come. 

Five hours later we were still at it. The room was as jammed as the ash trays. We had batted around a dozen ideas like big tanks of acid on the moon into which we'd dunk the ship on the way back to cleanse her; and an observation ward into which we'd dunk the crew. Or small boats and suits to be worn on Mars when the landing parties went out while the big ship floated in space. Later the small boats and suits would he jettisoned on Mars. Every plan went haywire on one major count. You couldn't guess at the characteristics of possible bacteria, viruses, fungi, and what-not, that you might encounter. Jerrins and the four committee members he'd brought back kept pointing up that there was no way of guessing at the staying or spreading powers of these hypothetical critters. The U.N. Medical Commissioner in charge of Interplanetary Travel kept hammering at it. And you couldn't take chances. 

One thing that struck me about these boys was that no one ever suggested we use an idea in spite of possible risks. They didn't mind risking their necks but if there was the slightest chance of bringing back infection, they dropped the idea like a hot potato. They were going to get the trip off somehow but not one of them was a sloppy thinker. A good bunch. 

No one figured out the final idea. It came gradually to us all at about the same time. Carruthers, the biologist, said something or other and that was all. We stopped talking for awhile and thought it through. We looked from one to the other, to Jamieson, our physicist and atmosphere expert, who nodded "yes" to LaRoux, our agronomist, to Seivers, our psychologist, and then to the U.N. medic. All nodded "yes." No one said anything until Evie put down her pencil and notebook, stood up very deliberately, and come over and kissed me on the cheek. Then the uproar began. 

We have a nice little community here on Mars. We've been here twelve years now. We moved out of the Astra four years back. The air is still a bit thin but our big atomic plants are constantly working reconverting the iron oxide this planet is covered with. Plants are growing, we have a truck farm that's not doing badly and a nursery school that's doing even better. 

The U.N. psychologists and medics finally selected a hundred and twelve of us to come. Those psychologists were really rough. Every test and interview technique they could figure out. We are now nearer one hundred and fifty. Evie and I have two kids of our own and the oldest has all the makings of a good engineer. 

Of course, we can never go back, nor can our children—but, if their children are O.K., they can go back to earth. We figure that if no bad diseases emerge in three generations, things are pretty safe here. Then we'll set up regular travel. We'll never see that ourselves but it will happen. A ship floats around Mars every three years and we communicate by heliograph. They drop supplies and mail and we blink back messages. Each time they come they drop a lifeboat with one couple on it. That way they check if any new diseases have emerged and the rest of us have gradually built up immunity to it. We've had our diseases, especially the first year, and some of them were weirdies all right, but our medical staff dealt with them quickly and effectively, thank God. 

There is the same quality of team-work here that we so clearly had back in those first planning days. It's a good little culture we have here and it's part of a dream—a good dream. The last papers we had two years ago said a party planned to try for Venus soon. And some day the stars.