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Title: Where are you, Mr. Biggs?
Author: Nelson S. Bond
Release date: July 11, 2024 [eBook #74021]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Weird Tales, 1941
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHERE ARE YOU, MR. BIGGS? ***
Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?
By NELSON S. BOND
_That gangling frame, that easy, fluent grin--lost
in the nameless depths of the crypts of space!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales September 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We're supposed to be an Earth-Mars lugger, but when we got to Mars
Central spaceport, the bug-pounder there gave me this solar-gram from
Terra. It said:
"PROCEED URANUS IMMEDIATELY PICK UP CARGO GALLIUM."
So I shoved a frantic for the Old Man over the ship audio, and pretty
soon he came lumbering up to my radio room, picking his teeth and
scowling like a man with only a half a tummyfull of victuals.
"It's a fine state of affairs," he snarled, "when a skipper can't even
finish his dinner in peace! Well, what's the matter now, Sparks? You
seeing pink rhinoceroses again? 'Cause if you are--"
[Illustration: "Well, what's the matter now, Sparks? Seeing pink
rhinoceroses again?"]
"I'm not," I told him with quiet dignity, "and they aren't pink rhinos,
they're lavender lobsters, and anyway, I haven't had a drink for
months. Or maybe it's since yesterday? Anyhow, here's the grief." And I
gave him the wire.
He read it. Read it, your Aunt Nelly--he screamed it out loud.
"_Uranus!_" he bellowed. "_This_ crate make _that_ trip? They must be
stark, staring mad!"
"Them," I agreed, "or me. Flip a coin. What shall I do, Skipper? Tell
'em we can't do it? Tell 'em--?"
"No, wait a minute." Cap Hanson's brow looked like a freshly ploughed
field. I knew why. The _Saturn_ is an old lugger. And by old, I _do_
mean ancient. It was built before the turn of the century, and by all
laws of logic and reason should have been taken off the spaceways long
ago, only that Cap Hanson and our screwball First Mate, Lancelot Biggs,
had demonstrated time and time again, and in startlingly devious ways,
that the old scow was still spaceworthy.
But if the _Saturn_ were removed from active service, the chances were
ten to one that Hanson would be junked with her. Which was Reason
Numero Uno--and a damned good one--why the skipper couldn't risk
refusing this order.
"We'll go, Sparks," he said slowly. "We've got to. But I could wring
his scrawny neck, blast his jets!"
I didn't have to ask whom he meant. "Scrawny neck" would mean only one
inmate of our void-perambulating asylum. Lancelot Biggs. Genius and
crackpot, scarecrow and sage--and soon to become son-in-law of the
skipper.
I said, "But why blame Biggs for this, Skipper? Is it his fault if the
Home Office has gone squirrelly?"
"It is," grumbled Hanson savagely. "I never should have agreed to let
Diane marry him. He started this mess at my house. Colonel Brophy and
him was having dinner with me and Biggs told Brophy all about that new
'velocity intensifier' he invented--"
I shuddered. "You mean the gadget which got us all bolixed up in the
negative universe? Till Hank Cleaver came from the past to get us out?"
"That's it. Well, he told Brophy about it, bragged that it would make
the _Saturn_ the fastest ship in the ether. And now," Hanson groaned,
"just because he shot off his big face, we've got to push this leaky
old tin-can to Uranus!"
I said consolingly, "Well, maybe everything will be all right, Skipper.
I admit Mr. Biggs is a bit of a whacky-pot, but he's pulled us out of
plenty of tough spots before. Like the time he thwarted Red Hake and
his pirate crew. And the time he beat the _Slipstream_--"
Hanson stared at me somberly.
"Nope, I guess you ain't. You couldn't have."
I said, "Which? Couldn't have what, sir?"
"You mustn't have seen Mr. Biggs on this shuttle."
It was the first time I had realized it, but he was right! And that
was funny, because Mr. Biggs and I were old buddies. We were bunkmates
once, even. I said, "Well, lift my gravs! Come to think of it, I
haven't? Why, Skipper? I guess maybe it's on account of he's busy
planning to get married so soon?"
Hanson made sounds like a man being garrotted.
"Marriage! Don't talk to me about marriage! Bert, what does marriage do
to a man?"
"Marriage," I replied promptly, "makes the mare go. Or, no--that's
money, isn't it? I give up, sir. What?"
"It's supposed," boiled Hanson, "to make him settle down. Only it
ain't. Not in Biggs' case. It's having just the opposite effect. Making
him flighty as a coot. Lancelot ain't been worth a tinker's dam on this
trip. He can't do a single thing right! Remember our take-off, Sparks?
From Long Island port? The one where we--"
"--lifted gravs two full minutes before schedule?" I finished. "Don't I
just! I almost did a swan dive through the aft bulkhead. Why? Did he--?"
"Mmm-hmm! And he also plotted the course that took us nine degrees
off trajectory. _And_ he heaved the ship into a Van-Maeden spiral by
signaling for a double-jet port blast in midspace. _And_ he--" Hanson
paused, panting with wrath. "But why go on? The point is, the very
thought of marriage has ruined him. And we can't depend on him to
help us with this assignment. And Uranus is a long way from here. A
_lo-o-oong_ way!"
I winced. I said, "Look, Skipper--must you say it thataway? With
icicles in your voice, I mean?"
* * * * *
But orders is orders. We lifted gravs as commanded at 11.20 Martian
Constant Time--that's 3-X-9 Solar Relative--and pointed our prow toward
the spot in space where, some billion and a half odd miles away, Uranus
was lounging about a wan and distant Sun like a gigantic snowball. That
is, we attempted to point our prow in that direction. Cap Hanson's
astrogation came a cropper on this problem. He called me to the control
turret. He asked, "Sparks, have you seen him?"
"You mean Mr. Biggs? No, sir."
"Well, go find him. In the first place, none of us except him know how
to chart to intersect Uranus' orbit, and in the second place, we don't
know how to operate that crazy velocity intensifier of his'n, and--"
Fretfully. "--and in the third place, I don't like this in the first
place!"
So I made a tour of the ship, and found him where I should have looked
first. In his own cabin, raptly fondling a cabinet photograph of
Diane Hanson--soon-to-be Biggs. He glanced up as I entered, and his
phenomenal Adam's apple, an auricular escalator if I ever saw one,
bobbed in greeting.
"Hello, Sparks," he said dreamily, and held out the picture for my
inspection. "She's lovely, isn't she?"
I said, "Don't look now, Mr. Biggs, but that cheery little noise you've
been ignoring is the audio buzzer beside your elbow. It's for you. The
skipper wants you top-side."
Biggs looked startled.
"Me? But there must be some mistake. I'm off duty until tomorrow
morning."
"Guess again," I told him. "It so happens that you are the only mugg--I
mean officer--around here who knows how to finagle that velocity
intensifier of yours. So you're elected. After all, if we're going to
Uranus--"
That got him. He popped off his hip pockets like a thunderbolt from the
blooie!
"What! Uranus!"
"Okay," I said gloomily. "And you watch yours." I stared at him
curiously, though. "What's the matter; didn't you know?"
"Know! Of course not! B-but--" His fluid larynx did handsprings. "But I
can't go to Uranus! I told her I'd be home in ten days!"
I said, "Then she'd better not hold her breath till you get there. You
led with your chin, Lieutenant, when you told the president of our
belovéd corporation about your new invention. He'd decided to give
it a work-out. And as near as I can figure--" This was what had been
worrying me from the start. "It will take us about ten months to get to
Uranus, and another twelve to get back!"
But, surprisingly, it was my dejection that snapped Biggs out of his.
The impatient-bridegroom-look disappeared from his eyes, and he grinned.
"My goodness, no, Sparks! Don't you understand the operation of my
velocity intensifier?"
"I'm a bug-pounder," I told him. "I understand the space code, and dots
and dashes, and Ampies, and I know four languages. That's par for the
course."
"It's really quite simple. My velocity intensifier is exactly what
the name implies--a device that is attached to the hypatomic motors
for the purpose of "stepping up" our normal velocity. It's based on
the principle of energy-conservation. A series of parallax-condensers
absorb all waste energy, pass it through multiple amplifiers, rotors
and--"
"--and all points west!" I finished. "It's no go, Lieutenant. That's
one of the languages I don't talk. Give it to me in words of one
syllable. How long will it take us to get to Uranus and back?"
"Considering the mean distance of Uranus," answered Biggs quietly, "as
approximately 1,560,000,000 miles, and if we traveled at our hitherto
'normal' rate of speed, 200,000 m.p.h., it should take us 7,800 hours,
or 325 days, to reach there. And slightly longer to return to Earth."
"Ten months!" I wailed. "I knew it!"
"But," continued Biggs proudly, "with this velocity intensifier
attachment, our potential speed is restrained by only one factor. The
limiting velocity of light, or 186,000 miles per second!
"In other words, the _Saturn_ is now capable of a top speed of more
than 650,000,000 miles per hour!"
I gasped. I said, "Huh? You mean," I said, "the trip to Uranus will
take only a little more than two hours?"
Biggs smiled complacently.
"Theoretically, yes; actually it will take somewhat longer. You see, we
must allow time for acceleration, for a condensation-charge to build
up in our super-chargers before setting the V-I unit in operation, and
for deceleration upon reaching our objective. Also, we are forced to
remain below the 'limiting velocity' as a measure of safety. Else we
may suffer another translation into the negative universe, as we once
did before I learned how to control the intensifier.
"But we will make excellent time. Ninety-six hours should see us
landing at New Oslo. And--" His pale eyes lighted. "And, gracious, this
is wonderful! Diane will be surprised. If they're going to let me use
the V-I unit, we'll return to Earth by way of Uranus in less time than
it would ordinarily take to make the Earth-Mars shuttle!"
"But only," I pointed out, "if, when, and as you go make that gadget
gadge. While we're gnawing the avoirdupois Cap Hanson's up there biting
his fingernails to the knuckle. So shall we join the laddies?"
So he patted Diane's picture good-by, and we went.
* * * * *
Like I figured, Hanson was practically meat for the looney-bin by the
time we reached the bridge. He manhandled Biggs avidly and propelled
him to the plot-table. "Where've you been, Biggs?" he demanded. "No,
don't tell me now. Get going on them figgers. They don't make sense to
me, nowise! And when do we turn on that thingamajigger of your'n? Bert,
where'd you find him? Shut up, you blabbermouth! Don't you know better
than to talk when a space officer is cogitating? Can I help, Biggs?"
The one-man wordstorm was deafening. But it didn't seem to phase Biggs.
He plunked himself down at the pilot's desk, scribbled for awhile, and
came up with an orbit chart for Second Mate Dick Todd, seated at the
control-board.
Then he heaved a volley of orders over the audio to Chief Engineer
Garrity, and that was that. He relaxed. The skipper said nervously,
"Is--is that all?"
"That's all, sir," said Biggs.
The Old Man looked dubious.
"I don't hear nothing unusual," he said.
"You will in a minute," said Biggs. "Ah! There it goes now!"
And darned if it didn't! One minute my ears hummed with the familiar
drone of the hypatomics, the next, a weird and piercing whine rose in
high, shrill crescendo, torturing our ear-drums for a brief instant
until it lost itself in an oblivion of super-sonic inaudibility.
That was all. No moment of oppressive weight as if we were lifting
gravs at extra gees, no thunderous bellow of rockets, no anything. The
ship rode easily, freely. I must have looked disappointed. To Biggs I
said, "Too bad, sir."
"Eh, Sparks?"
"Too bad it didn't work," I said.
Biggs chuckled.
"But it did work, Sparks. We're now traveling at a speed in excess of
five hundred million miles per hour!"
Cap Hanson gulped and looked green. "F-five--?"
"That's right, sir. If you don't believe me take a peek through the
viewpanes."
I moved to the fore-wall, slid back the metal slide that covered
the quartzite viewpane. Space lay before us--but _what_ space!
Not the dark, velvety pall, brightly agleam with an infinitude of
starry jewels, that all spacemen know. This was a blotched, striped
crazy-quilt of color! Crimson, ochre, emerald--all the hues of the
rainbow, of the Aurora. It was beautiful in a mad, fantastic way;
there was a faery, magic loveliness to that swift-streaming space that
fascinated and at the same time chilled me with dread.
Hanson's eyes bulged, and his voice was fearful.
"We--we've done it again, Biggs! Busted clean out of our universe into
something else!"
"No, sir. This is our universe. But we are seeing it as no man has
ever seen it before. Our speed is so great that we are seeing the
'landmarks' of space with a distorted viewpoint. Our relationship--or
I should say relativity--is no longer to Earth, or any of its sister
planets, but to the Greater Constant, the fundamental motion of the
universe itself.
"Thus, at one and the same time, we see the planets as they _are_ and
as they _were_; they are no longer mere points in space, they are
streaks of color." And he grinned. "The stars, too. Pretty, aren't
they?"
Cap Hanson made weak motions at the viewpane.
"Close it, Sparks! It's giving me the meemies! So if you're right,
Biggs--then what? How do we know when we get to Uranus, or near it? If
it's just a streak of color?"
"You must reconcile yourself to an entirely new system of astrogation.
Up to this time, pilots have just jetted along until they found
their goal, then set course for a landing. But with the V-I unit in
operation, we 'fly blind' and set our course by strict, mathematical
figuring. I have given Mr. Todd a plot-chart. Four days hence when I
cut out the V-I unit and return to normal operation on the hypos, we
will find Uranus immediately beneath us. And now, if you'll excuse me--"
"Wait a minute!" said the skipper. "Suppose we was to meet up with
something in space? Like a rogue asteroid?"
Biggs shrugged.
"That hazard is neither heightened nor decreased," he said. "Our
monitor-beams will still shunt off the smaller ones. As for the
larger--well, you know as well as I that we have never yet found a
method of overcoming that danger. It is one of the chances we take when
we don space blues. As far as I'm concerned, I'd just as soon not see
it coming as to watch it grow larger and larger in the _perilens_--"
Well, he was right there. So since Hanson was fresh out of questions,
Biggs hoisted hips back to his quarters. My guess is that he went back
to billy-dooing with Diane's picture. What's yours?
* * * * *
I could build this up if I wanted to, and offer you a blow-by-blow
account of what happened in the next quartet of days. But why bother?
The truth is--nothing did. The V-I unit continued to chug along like
a dream; our old crate went flashing through space like a quantum
with a hot date; tempus squirmed; and me--I was in seventh heaven. I
don't mean fifth or sixth, either. This was the easiest shuttle I had
ever made. We were traveling so fast, and the V-I unit surrounded the
_Saturn_ with such a force-field, that my radio was utterly useless.
So I got a vacation with pay. I ate and slept with what you might call
'monotonous regularity', and I spent all of my waking hours curled up
with a good (i.e. torrid) book.
And at the end of four days, Mr. Biggs disconnected his V-I unit, as
called for on his plot-chart, and just like he said, there was Uranus
gleaming beneath us! So we landed and spent a night swapping yarns and
drinks with the S.S.P. officers garrisoned at New Oslo, then we took
on a hold-full of gallium, and tootle-oo to the refrigerated seventh
planet.
And (this gets tiresome, doesn't it?) we accelerated for a day and a
half, then Biggs plotted a course, pushed a button, and once again we
were free-wheeling through colorful and star-spangled space.
Life was swell, and life was wonderful, and if there was any fly in my
celestial ointment it was the fact that after the first week Lieutenant
Romeo "Lovesick" Biggs got tired of staring at his fiancée's image and
insisted on strolling up to my turret to tell me (1) what a wonderful
girl she was, (2) how much he missed her, and (3) how he was simply
going to _die_ if he didn't see her again soon.
Which boring details I had (1) known for years, once having had a
heart-throb for Diane myself, (2) figured from his conversation, and
(3) high hopes that he would. Quietly!
So somehow it was the afternoon, ship's time, of the fourth day of the
return shuttle and Biggs was in my turret, not to mention my hair,
and I was hearing for the thousandth time about he wasn't worthy of a
gal like Diane, when all of a sudden bells jangled all over the ship,
lights flashed the DANGER! signal, and my turret-audio broke into
frantic voice, and the voice was that of the pilot on duty, our Third
Mate, Bud Wilson.
"Sparks, is Biggs there! Yes? Get him here _quick_! And find the Old
Man! Hurry! For God's sake--"
We were out of there like a flash--make that _two_ flashes--and
pounding through the corridors, up the ramp to the bridge. We met Cap
Hanson on the way. The three of us burst into the control-room to find
Wilson tearing his hair, and Dick Todd, sweating, white-faced, poring
over diagrams on the chart-board.
Somebody yelled, "What's the matter?" and I can't tell you who, because
it was probably all of us. And Dick's eyes were haggard pockets in his
face.
"_Jupiter!_" he said.
"What about it?" yelled the skipper. "Talk, man!"
Todd shoved the chart at Biggs, pointed with a finger that wobbled.
"It's on our trajectory! Right before us _now_! We can see it--Look!"
And he threw back the shield, and my heart gave an awful lurch. For no
longer was the scene before us one of changing, iridescent beauty--the
entire pane was covered by a gigantic, menacing platter. A monstrous
missile of death. The planet Jupiter--dead on our course!
Lancelot Biggs' face, which had been keen and alert a moment before,
was suddenly a dull, blank mask of horror. Strangled words fought their
way from his throat.
"I--I didn't realize! I forgot all about Jupiter when I plotted the
return course! I--"
"Forgot!" roared the skipper. "Great comets--forgot!" Then his wrath
died in anxiety. "Do something. Turn off that blasted unit of yours so
we can loft over her--"
But Todd shook his head.
"That's no use, Skipper. I thought of that. We're too close. We're
caught in her gravitational attraction anyway. Even if we were to turn
off Biggs' device, there still wouldn't be time to get the rockets hot."
"Lanse--" began the skipper. Then, "Where did he go?"
* * * * *
Because Biggs had turned, suddenly, and raced from the room! Fled,
still clutching the space-chart. Fled, and not a word of advice, regret
or hope. And with him went our last dwindling hope of salvation.
Dick Todd's voice was thin.
"Maybe he has an idea, sir?"
Hanson grasped at the thought as a drowning man.
"That's it, Todd. He'll pull us out of this. He's never failed us in
the past--"
But even this wishful expression was doomed to swift contradiction.
For at that moment the bridge audio flashed, and the voice of a sailor
clacked from somewhere below.
"Captain Hanson, sir? There--there's trouble down here! Lieutenant
Biggs has violated regulations, sir! He knocked down two men and forced
his way into the auxiliary lifeboat! He--he's locked the door, sir.
What shall we do?"
In the moment of silence that followed, I saw something I hope I shall
never be forced to look upon again. I saw a proud man wilt before my
eyes; I saw a strong man age ten years in as many seconds.
The man was Captain Hanson. The strength sloughed from his shoulders;
pain burned deep furrows in his eyes; I could barely hear the whisper
that crept from his lips.
"A coward!" he husked. "The man my daughter loves--a coward!"
And there was nothing I could say to refute the accusation. Lancelot
Biggs' action had branded him more damningly than any mere words. A
crisis had come--and it had found him wanting. He had deserted his
comrades, his ship, and had fled to a lifeboat. Perhaps even now he was
getting ready to cast off.
In a swift burst of comprehension, I thought I could understand the
reason for this last, unreasonable defection. Lancelot Biggs had met
difficulties before and without flinching.
But that was an old, a different, Biggs. Love had come into his life
now. Love, and a woman, and all the dreams that happy men dare wish
upon.
And these things, staunch and noble in themselves, had weakened the
moral fibre of Biggs. Weakened it to the point where, in the face of
danger, nothing was important except that he live to return to the arms
of his loved one.
These things I could understand. But I could not forgive them. Because
love or no love, fear or no fear, a spaceman has a tradition to live up
to. And Lancelot Biggs had tossed into the discard the very tradition
now upheld by Dick Todd as he said, quietly, "Shall I advise the men,
sir?"
And by Captain Hanson who said, "Yes, Todd. And--and order Garrity to
cut off Mr. Biggs' intensifier. We may die, but we can die trying to
escape. And a slower speed will give us more time--"
"Yes, sir," said Todd, and moved toward the audio. But he had barely
reached out his hand toward it when sharp speech rasped from its black
throat in remembered tones.
"Stop, Todd! Don't give that order, Skipper!"
It was the voice of Lancelot Biggs!
* * * * *
Captain Hanson had subdued his rage once. But now his face crimsoned,
his great hands clenched, and fury was a ponderable vigor in his voice.
"_You!_ Where are you, sir!"
"In the life-skiff," replied Biggs imperturbably.
Almost insolently, I thought. As if he knew he were speaking from the
only place of possible security in a doomed ship. "Todd, do as I say
and do it fast! There's no time to lose! Tell Chief Garrity to turn the
verniers of my V-I unit _all the way_ to the red line on the extreme
right! Understand?"
Once again Hanson's roar interrupted.
"Come back here, you coward, and die with your fellow-officers like
the man you once pretended to be! What do you mean by skulking in a
hideaway, giving orders aboard _my_ ship?"
"Shut up!" bellowed Biggs. And it was not just his audacity in speaking
thus to a space commander that shocked me, it was the razor-edged
intensity of his voice. "Todd--give that order immediately! For God's
sake, act! We've no time to lose!"
Todd's eyes sought mine. He knew, as well as I did, that the skipper
was too furious to give an intelligent command.
"That--that's the limiting velocity, Sparks!" Todd choked. "Biggs must
be insane. We'll be translated again into the negative universe. And no
way to get back--_ever_!"
I didn't have to answer. Biggs answered.
"I've taken care of that, Todd! Now, do as I say! Hurry, hurry!"
And--well, am I a fool? After all, Lancelot Biggs and I are old
buddies. Once we were bunkmates, even. There came back to me a measure
of the confidence I had once had in him. And I nodded to Todd.
"Try it, Dick. We've got nothing to lose and everything to gain. Give
the order."
He did. Chief Garrity must have been startled but he was too good a
spaceman to argue an order from the bridge. He said, succinctly, "Aye,
sirr!" And then--
I felt the rocking plunge. The moment of brief, incredible dizziness of
frightful speed being intensified to the limiting velocity of light.
My head whirled, but somehow I managed to turn, stare at that ominous
viewpane. And what I saw there brought a shocked cry from my lips!
White--white--dazzling white--then grayness! No other scene than dim
and vacant void, gray, infinite, impenetrable. A glimpse of the lost
universe--the matrix negative wherein are flung such mad things as
attain a speed beyond that of the limiting velocity.
Then crackling across the room agonizedly, "We're clear, Todd? We're
through?"
And Todd replying dazedly, "I--I don't know what you mean."
"The chronometer, man! Has it touched 9.14?"
"Yes, sir. But--but we're slipping into the negative, Lanse! We've
escaped one death to find another!"
But there was infinite sadness to Lancelot Biggs' denial.
"No you're not, Todd. You're going back to your own universe--now. When
you feel the ship lurch, turn the V-I unit dial back to where it was
before. Ready? _Now!_"
And there came, inexplicably, a swift unsteadiness, a lurching halt of
the ship. At that instant Todd spoke to Garrity, Garrity obeyed, and--
We were once again traveling smoothly on our proper course. But
Jupiter--monstrous missile of solid, terrible death--was no longer
before us! _It was behind us!_
* * * * *
As we saw that, Captain Hanson laughed aloud. And vast was the joy of
that laughter. Relief, happiness, sheer triumph. And apology. And he
cried:
"You've done it, son! Forgive me for doubting you. We're safe! I don't
know how, but--come on in, boy, and tell us all about it!"
But there came no answer. Only the echo of our own harsh breathing, the
dry scrape of our own feet shuffling restlessly. And new terror loomed
suddenly in the Old Man's eyes.
"Biggs!" he cried. "Lanse, my boy! Lanse!"
And then--
It was like the faintest, winnowed chaff of sound, breathing from far,
far away. A voice speaking. To us. A voice that said:
"--can't come back ... Skipper.... Sparks will understand. Tell him ...
mass-energy ... relationships. And tell ... Diane ... I love...."
That was all. And my brain reeled beneath the import of those fading
words. Suddenly I _knew_! I didn't need to hear Cap Hanson screaming
wild orders to the sailors on the aft deck below, nor to hear their
answer.
"He's not here, sir. He cast off the auxiliary a moment or so ago."
I _knew_!
* * * * *
Later, I told them. My explanation was short, for the solution was
simple. Simple, once you grant that a man can possess infinite loyalty,
infinite courage, in one lean and gangling frame.
"Biggs saw," I said, "that there was only one way to save us all from
death. Oh, he had blundered, yes, but we all blunder sometimes. But not
all of us pay the penalty as willingly, as bravely, as he did.
"Jupiter was upon us. Within minutes we would have crashed into the
greatest of the solar planets. Only Biggs saw a way out. And that
was--to make the speed of our ship _exactly_ approximate the speed of
light at the moment of impact!"
Dick said, "But how--"
"He told us the answer. Mass-energy relationships. You know the
fundamental theory of the Lorentz-Fitzgerald contraction. Objects
moving in space are contracted along their major axis in direct
proportion to their speed, with the limiting velocity, the speed of
light, as their ultimate limit. In other words, at the precise speed of
light, this ship existed in only a _unilateral_ dimension!"
Hanson said, "You mean we--hurled over Jupiter?"
"No, sir. _We went right through it!_ At that tremendous speed, our
dimension-extension was zero. Hence it did not affect, nor was it
affected in any way by, the bulk and mass of Jupiter.
"It's as though an exceedingly fine wire, moving at lightning speed,
were to be propelled through a cake of ice. Only in our case, the
'wire' was of zero dimension, and the cake of ice--Jupiter--did not
even recognize that it had been penetrated.
"But--" I shook my head. "But Mr. Biggs realized what this daring
scheme meant. It meant that in addition to our size being reduced to
the infinitesimal, our mass would be raised to the infinite--for that
is the corollary of the contraction theory.
"There had to be some way of getting us back to our normal shape and
size. The only possible method was by the forcible alteration of
our mass. And--Biggs adopted this method. He placed himself in the
life-skiff, gave the necessary orders from there. Then, after the
danger had been averted, he deliberately cast off from the _Saturn_,
tossed himself away from us, a living sacrifice to the mathematical
gods, that we might be safe."
Todd said, "Our mass, for a moment, was infinite--but when he, however
briefly, broke clear, it became _less_ than infinite, giving us a
chance to cut the motors--"
"That's right."
Hanson's eyes were round and wild and fearful.
"But then--where is he! We've got to turn around right away. Find him!
We can't go back without--"
I shook my head.
"It's no use, Skipper. He may be in this universe, infinitely small,
traveling at infinite speed; he may be in some other universe undreamed
by man. He may be living, he may be dead. But wherever he is--he is
gone forever from the ken of man. Lancelot Biggs is--dead. So far as
man is concerned, he is dead."
Dick Todd said something then. His words were not clear. They were
choked, and he didn't finish the quotation. But I caught the first part.
"'Greater love hath no man'," he said.
And the skipper coughed, and his eyes were red, and he turned away
like a broken, aged man.
"Amen," he said. "Amen!"
* * * * *
So--Lancelot Biggs is gone. Dead, perhaps. Or in another existence,
undreamed, unrecognized, by we who spin our fiery trails along the
spaceways. And it is a strange, strange thing that he, who of all men
looked least like a spaceman, should have lived and died the greatest
of them all.
Tomorrow or the next day I must tell Diane. Hanson will not do it
because he can't.
He dares not face her when she hears. And I, myself, would sell my soul
to be free of that sad duty. But I was Lancelot Biggs' best friend, and
this is the least last thing I can do in his memory.
There is nothing else to say. He is gone. Will I ever see him again?
That gangling frame, that easy, fluent grin--lost in the nameless
depths of the crypts of space. There seems nothing else to say
except--good-by.
And so I say it to the stars. The far-flung stars amongst which,
somewhere, is the finest man I ever knew.
Is it good-by, Mr. Biggs?
Or is it only "au revoir"?
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