Authentic Science Fiction, No. 23 — page 54: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

104 THE SINGING SPHERES in the higher levels of the ship where the scientific panel sits in permanent session, and even controllers daren’t interrupt the deliberations of these great brains save for some really ex- traordinary event. I wondered if, when the controller told them, the panel might have any explanation of that fantastic apparatus, with its countless thousands of intertwined tubes and its electrodes across which pictures of events yet to come formed upon a tenuous electronic screen built from living force. His voice sounded unemotional again, and I knew by the tone that subsequent words were in process of being perma- nently recorded for the archives. “Present your report, with fullest details, immediately.” | When it was over, he said, “Every precaution must be exer- cised at take-off. Make immediate structural, electrical and mechanical check of the scout ship. Emphasis to pilot that there is no margin for error.” Hartnell made some sarcastic comment, whereupon Tubby said: “Don’t take it as a personal criticism—they aren’t con- © cerned so much about our skins as the information and the films we’re carrying.” Continued uncertainty proved unnerving. “Come on,” | said. “Let’s get it over.” The controller had one last word. “Report immediately for rendezvous instructions when scout ship is clear of Kardoon’s gravitational field. That is all’ J heard a faint, almost im- perceptible click as the recording gear was switched out, then | he added, rather surprisingly, ‘““Good luck.” This touch of informality between controller and field squad —whose relations are normally tinged with guarded hostility —seemed to call for acknowledgement. “Thanks,” I said. a “We'll need it.” Hartnell locked in the firing relays and we adjusted safety belts. I began to sweat again. Coloured lights winked along the control panel mockingly, while every swing of dial needles THE SINGING SPHERES 105 ticked away another second of my life. Then the big, red warning lamp flashed—slicing off the pre- Jaunching intervals. An ignition indicator clicked over. Hartnell snapped the last switch and leaned back in the pilot’s chair. “That’s that,” he said. “I’ve done all I can. Now the ship’s taken over—wait for it!” Thunder of firing jets sounded dully on our ears and the entire vessel began to tremble. Id lived though such events dozens of times before and paid scant attention. On this occasion my eyes bulged with trying to watch all the reaction meters at once, but instead of needles and dials I saw only a sombre landscape and three graves. The safety belt across my chest seemed so tight that it constricted breathing. Next instant, thrust tightly into the chair by acceleration, I knew we had left the ground. Somehow, we continued to exist through succeeding minutes. Each moment I expected the pressure to ease, de- noting a serious engine failure; my mind rapidly traversed such gruesome possibilities as a sudden fatal swing brought about by atmosphere vanes cracking away from the hull. But nothing untoward happened. The ship left Kardoon’s atmosphere safely, Hartnell kept acceleration at maximum and we knew a warm, indescribable feeling of relief. I looked again at the meters. Whatever might go wrong now, our velocity ensured that we were not destined to fall back upon those cruel brown rocks. I freed my safety belt and took a deep breath. “Well,” I said, quietly, “so it didn’t happen after all!” Tubby wriggled uneasily. “Our names are mud already over that political business. What’ll the controller say?” Hartnell laughed. “Don’t you like the idea of going back to the ship? Are you sorry the Wise Ones’ prophecy flopped?” comic (OY 900KS:com