scientific Utopias on suitable worlds, and all
that sort of thing. But the immediate aim is purely technical: we must find out what
the planets are like before we decide how to use them.”
The office became quiet; for a moment no one seemed inclined to speak. For the first
time Dirk realized the true importance of the goal toward which these men were working.
He felt overwhelmed and more than a little frightened. Was humanity ready to be pitchforked
out into space, ready to face the challenge of barren and inhospitable worlds never
meant for Man? He could not be sure, and in the depths of his mind he felt profoundly
disturbed.
Four
From the street, 53 Rochdale Avenue, S.W.5, appeared to be one of those neo-Georgian
residences which the more successful stockbrokers of the early twentieth century had
erected as shelters for their declining years. It was set well back from the road,
with tastefully laid out but somewhat neglected lawns and flower beds. When the weather
was fine, as it occasionally was in the spring of 1978, five young men might sometimes
be seen performing desultory gardening operations with inadequate tools. It was clear
that they were doing this merely as a relaxation, and that their minds were very far
away. Just how far, a casual passer-by could hardly have guessed.
It had been a very well kept secret, largely because the security organizers themselves
were ex-newspapermen. As far as the world knew, the crew of the “Prometheus” had not
been chosen, whereas in actuality its training had begun more than a year ago. It
had continued with quiet efficiency, not five miles from Fleet Street, yet altogether
free from the fierce limelight of public interest.
At any time, there were not likely to be more than a handful of men in the world who
would be capable of piloting a spaceship. No other work had ever demanded such a unique
combination of physical and mental characteristics. The perfect pilot had not only
to be a first-class astronomer, an expert engineer and a specialist in electronics,
but must be capable of operating efficiently both when he was “weightless” and when
the rocket’s acceleration made him weigh a quarter of a ton.
No single individual could meet these requirements, and many years ago it had been
decided that the crew of a spaceship must consist of at least three men, any two of
whom could take over the duties of a third in an emergency. Interplanetary was training
five; two were reserves in case of last-minute illness. As yet, no one knew who the
two reserves would be.
Few doubted that Victor Hassell would be the ship’s captain. At twenty-eight, he was
the only man in the world who had logged over a hundred hours in free fall. The record
had been entirely accidental. Two years before, Hassell had taken an experimental
rocket up into an orbit and circled the world thirty times before he could repair
a fault which had developed in the firing circuits, and so reduce his velocity enough
to fall back to Earth. His nearest rival, Pierre Leduc, had a mere twenty hours of
orbital flight to his credit.
The three remaining men were not professional pilots at all. Arnold Clinton, the Australian,
was an electronic engineer and a specialist in computers and automatic controls. Astronomy
was represented by the brilliant young American Lewis Taine, whose prolonged absence
from Mount Palomar Observatory was now requiring elaborate explanations. The Atomic
Development Authority had contributed James Richards, expert on nuclear propulsion
systems. Being a ripe old thirty-five, he was usually called “Grandpop” by his colleagues.
Life at the “Nursery,” as it was always referred to by those sharing the secret, combined
the characteristics of college, monastery and operational bomber station. It was colored
by the personalities of the five “pupils,” and by the visiting scientists who came
in an endless