No Moving Parts

== NO MOVING PARTS ==
=== By Murray F. Yaco ===
Originally published in Amazing Science Fiction Stories May 1960 
Hansen was sitting at the control board in the
single building on Communications Relay Station 43.4SC, when the emergency
light flashed on for the first time in two hundred years. 
With
textbook-recommended swiftness, he located the position of the ship sending the
call, identified the ship and the name of its captain, and made contact. 
"This
is Hansen on 43.4SC. Put me through to Captain Fromer." 
"Fromer
here," said an incredible deep voice, "what the devil do you
want?" 
"What
do I want?" asked the astonished Hansen. "It was you, sir, who sent
the emergency call." 
"I did
no such thing," said Fromer with great certainty. 
"But
the light flashed--" 
"How
long have you been out of school?" Fromer asked. 
"Almost
a year, sir, but that doesn't change the fact that--" 
"That
you're imagining things and that you've been sitting on that asteroid hoping
that something would happen to break the monotony. Now leave me the hell alone
or I'll put you on report." 
"Now
look here," Hansen began, practically beside himself with frustration,
"I saw that emergency light go on. Maybe it was activated automatically
when something went out of order on your ship." 
"I
don't allow emergencies on the Euclid Queen," said Fromer with growing
anger. "Now, if you don't--" 
Hansen
spared himself the indignity of being cut off. He broke contact himself. He
sighed, reached for a book entitled _Emergency Procedure Rules_, and settled
back in his chair. 
Fifteen
minutes later the emergency light flashed on for the second time in two hundred
years. With its red glow illuminating his freckled excited face, Hansen
triumphantly placed another call to the Euclid Queen. 
"This
is Hansen on 43.4SC. Let me speak to Captain Fromer, please." 
"Er--the
Captain has asked me to contact you. I'm the navigator. I was just about to
call you. We have a small problem that--" 
"I'll
speak to the Captain," Hansen repeated grimly. 
"Now
see here. I'm perfectly capable of handling this situation. Actually, it's
hardly even an emergency. You were, it seems, signaled automatically
when--" 
"If
you'll check your emergency procedures," Hansen said, holding his thumb in
the Rule Book, "you'll note that the Relay Station Attendant contacts the
Captain personally during all emergencies. Of course, if you want to
violate--" 
"Look,
old man," said the navigator, now sounding on the verge of tears,
"try to realize the spot I'm in. Fromer has ordered me to handle this
thing without his assistance. He seems to feel that you have a grudge of some
kind--" 
"If
you don't put me in touch with Captain Fromer in five minutes, I'll put through
a call to Sector Headquarters." Hansen signaled off contact. If he knew
nothing else about the situation, he knew that he had the upper hand. 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Five
minutes later Captain Fromer called him back. "I am calling in accordance
with emergency procedures," Fromer said between clinched teeth. "The
situation is this: We are reporting an emergency--" 
"What
class emergency?" Hansen interrupted. 
"Class?"
asked Fromer, obviously caught off guard. 
"Yes,
Captain. There are three classes of emergencies. Major class, which would
include death and injury. Mechanical class, including malfunction of Hegler
units and such. And General class--" 
"Yes,
yes, of course, General class by all means," Fromer said hurriedly.
"You see, it's hardly even an emergency. We--" 
"Just
what is the nature of the trouble, Captain?" 
"Why,
uh, well it seems that we were doing a preliminary landing procedure check, and
..." 
"Yes,
go on." 
"Why,
er, it seems that we can't get the door open." 
It was
Hansen's turn to be taken aback. "You're pulling my leg, sir." 
"I
most certainly am not," Captain Fromer said emphatically. 
"You
really mean that you can't open the door?" 
"I'm
afraid so. Something's wrong with the mechanism. Our technical staff has never
encountered a problem like this, and they advise me that any attempt at repair
might possibly result in the opposite situation." 
"You
mean not being able to get the door closed?" 
"Precisely.
In other words, we can't land." 
"I
see. Then I'm afraid there's nothing I can do except advise Sector Headquarters
to send an emergency repair crew." 
Captain
Fromer sighed. "I'm afraid so, too. How long will it take for a message to
get there with your transmitting equipment?" 
"Two
days, Captain. At a guess, there'll be a ship alongside within the week. You'll
be maintaining your present position, I assume?" 
"Oh,
we'll be here, all right," Fromer said bitterly. Then he cut contact. 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
As the
single occupant of a large asteroid with nothing but time and boredom on his
hands, Hansen was enjoying the whole situation immensely. He allowed himself
the luxury of several dozen fantasies in which his name was mentioned
prominently in galaxy-wide reports of the episode. He imagined that Captain
Fromer was also creating vivid accounts--of quite another sort--that would soon
be amusing several hundred billion news-hungry citizens of the Federation. 
When the
repair ship arrived, it came, to Hansen's astonishment, to the asteroid, and
not alongside Fromer's ship. He soon found out that there was someone else who
shared the Captain's embarrassment. 
"I'm
Bullard," said a tall, thin, mournful man. "Mind if I sit?" 
"Help
yourself," Hansen waved a hand toward the meager accommodations. He had no
idea why a Senior Engineer was being so deferential, but he enjoyed the feeling
of power. 
"You're
probably wondering about a lot of things," Bullard began sadly.
"Frankly, we don't have any ideas about how we can fix Captain Fromer's
door." He waited to let that sink in. Then he continued: "It took us
three days back at the base to find out that when these ships were built,
almost five hundred years ago, nobody bothered to include detail drawings of
the door mechanism." 
"But
why? You certainly know how to build--" 
"We
know how to build Star Class ships, sure. We've built a few in the past century
or two. There's never been need for replacement, really. These ships are
designed to last forever. The original fleet was conceived to fill the System's
needs for a full thousand years." 
"But
the doors on the few ships that have been built. How--" 
"The
ship's we've built were exact duplicates of Captain Fromer's ship--except for
the door." Bullard's long face radiated despair. "No one ever
questioned why the door mechanism wasn't included in the original plans. We
simply designed another type--a different type--of door." 
"Well,
you certainly can find out how this particular door works, can't you?" 
"I
hope so," Bullard said, wringing his hands. "But we have a couple of
other problems. Number one, Captain Fromer has an extremely important passenger
aboard. None other than His Exalted Excellency, R'thagna Bar. He is--or was--on
his way home after concluding a treaty of friendship with the President of the
Federation." 
Hansen
managed a whistle. 
"Furthermore,"
Bullard continued, "His Excellency _has to be home soon_ to get there in
time for the mating season. This occurs once in a lifetime, I'm told, and this
is his only chance to continue the ancestral rule--" 
"Wait
a minute," Hansen said. "Are you trying to say that you can't solve a
simple problem like getting him home and getting him out of the ship? You can
always cut it in two, can't you?" 
"These
ships were made to last forever," Bullard explained. "The hull is, of
course, pseudo-met, but, not the kind of pseudo-met used for other
applications. In short, about the only way you'll get in that ship is to
vaporize it." 
"But
can't you simply disassemble the door mechanism? My God, how complicated can it
be?" 
"We're
going to try to do just that," Bullard said without a trace of confidence.
"As far as the complication goes, let me say just this: it's full of
moving parts." 
"What
are you getting at?" Hansen asked. 
"Just
this. These ships are perfect mechanisms. There is hardly anything in them that
could be called a moving part. Now a door has to open and close. Sure, we
devised a simple, safe way to do it a few hundred years after the original
fleet was built. The men who designed the original door mechanism felt,
perhaps, that it was incongruous to include it in the first place. Maybe that
is why they threw away the plans. God knows, it is incongruous. Look! Here's a
photo we took of one in a ship back at base." 
Hansen
scanned the photograph. It was a meaningless jumble. He handed it back.
"Well, make yourself at home. I'm afraid that the only thing I can help
with will be radio communication to Captain Fromer's ship." 
"Good
enough," Bullard said. "I'm expecting someone else tomorrow. After
you bring him down, feel free to drop over and see me anytime." 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Bullard
went back to his ship, and Hansen went to bed. He dreamed of His Exalted
Excellency R'thagna Bar, growing angrier day by day as the time of mating came
closer. In his dream he suddenly came upon a magnificent solution to the
problem, a solution involving a telepathic system of fertilization. He woke up
before he had completely worked out the details. 
Bullard's
friend arrived the same morning. He was a small, dark active little man whom
Hansen immediately disliked. 
"Meet
Dr. Quemos," Bullard said when Hansen dropped in on them. "Dr. Quemos
is a specialist in the history of technology. He thinks he knows how our cute
little door mechanism is made." 
"Can't
say for sure," Quemos said, "but I'd guess that those components are
made of metal--real metal." 
"I
thought that metal was used only in jewelry," Hansen said. 
Dr. Quemos
grinned slyly. "That's what most people think. Actually, refined metal of
various types was used in large masses, formed masses, for thousands of years.
Historically speaking, the pseudo-mets are relatively new." 
"It's
difficult to imagine metal functioning as machinery," Hansen mused. 
"And
you say that this door mechanism has moving parts, lots of them?" 
"Moving
parts are nothing to be afraid of," Quemos said. "Here, look at
this." He put something small on the table, much in the manner of a young
boy dropping a garter snake in the midst of school girls. Bullard and Hansen
crowded around. "Now, take turns," said Quemos sharply, "and
don't drop it. It's priceless, I assure you." The ancient wrist watch with
its transparent back was passed from hand to hand. 
"Frightening
little monster, isn't it," Bullard said. 
"Those
small round wheels are called gears," elucidated Quemos, "one gear
turns another, which turns another, and so on. I rather imagine that your door
is operated on some similar principle." 
"I
seem to be the one who asks all the schoolboy questions," Hansen began,
"would somebody tell me why Captain Fromer doesn't take His Excellency to
his home planet, land the ship, and then let his technical staff tear off the
door mechanism?" 
"We've
gone through that," Bullard said wearily. "Unfortunately we need
special tools. And there's no way to get them into the ship." 
"Can I
speak to Captain Fromer?" Quemos asked. 
"Right
away," Hansen said. He pressed his hand in various patterns on his belt.
"This is Hansen. Let us talk to Captain Fromer, please." 
"Fromer
here. Who is it?" 
"Dr.
Quemos speaking. How is your passenger?" 
"My
passenger is fine. But he keeps telling me that he is very anxious to plant his
seed. When can you get us out of here?" 
"Plant
his seed?" said Quemos. 
"There's
nothing salacious about this, I've been assured. He simply has a biological
craving at this time in his life to--to plant his seed." 
"I got
problems like that, too," Bullard said, "but I don't go around
telling everybody." 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
"Stop
clowning," Fromer snapped, "you guys better find a way to fix this
damn door or you'll have a galactic war on your hands. Anybody have any ideas
yet?" 
"We're
sure that the door mechanism is made of metal," Quemos said, "and the
construction is probably based on the principal of a worm gear." 
"A
what?" 
"A
worm gear, Captain," Quemos said patiently. "It's an ancient metal
device that was sometimes used for closing large doors. There is also the
possibility that the door is closed and opened by dogs. These seem to have been
used, at least, to operate doors of undersea crafts. Although we're not quite
certain about the function of dogs." 
The captain
maintained a stony silence. 
"Also,"
Quemos continued, "we have unearthed, so to speak, a reference to a metal
component called a babbitt--" 
"Now
see here!" Captain Fromer roared, "who do you think you're kidding
with this talk about worms, dogs and rabbits--" 
"Babbitts,
Captain, babbitts! Perhaps a type of bearing. Anyway, we're at work on the
problem, I assure you." Quemos motioned to Hansen that he was through
talking. 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
During the
next three days, Hansen twice visited Bullard and Quemos. On each occasion, he
found the two men in trance-like conditions, ostensibly thinking through the
problem that they had been assigned to solve, but more probably, Hansen
guessed, brooding about the reaction of Sector Headquarters to their daily
progress reports which Hansen had been relaying for them. Hansen had only
sympathy for the people back at Sector Headquarters, for if these two experts
were the Galaxy's two top trouble-shooters, the Federation, was not, as Hansen
put it to himself, in very good shape to fight a war with one hundred billion
enraged citizens who worshiped His Exalted Excellency R'thagna Bar almost as
much as they did his seed. 
Hansen went
back to his reading, only to be interrupted with increasing frequency by
message transmissions from an increasingly alarmed Sector Headquarters. Most
messages were addressed to Bullard, and were bravely designed to disguise the
senders' hysteria, while at the same time urging Bullard on to more magnificent
efforts. A few messages, fairly representative of the state of affairs as time
wore on reflected an increasing suspicion on the part of Sector Headquarters
that Quemos and Bullard, although certainly tops in their fields, were not tops
enough. 
SEC HDQ    
BULLARD, COM. RLY.     43.4SC 
PRESIDENT WOULD LIKE ESTIMATE OF WHEN DOOR
WILL BE OPENED. YOU     SURE YOU CAN
HANDLE? EMPHASIZE THAT POLITICAL SITUATION NOW     GETTING TOUCHY. REPEAT TOUCHY. R'THAGNA
BAR CALLING ON PRESIDENT     TODAY TO
MAKE DEMAND THAT SEED BE PLANTED ON TIME. SURE YOU     DON'T NEED MORE HELP? 
CMD GENERAL
CMD GENERAL 
NO HELP NEEDED. MAKING PROGRESS, ASSURE
PRESIDENT. TODAY FOUND     OUT METAL IN
MECHANISM IS VERY HARD. IN CONSTANT RADIO TOUCH     WITH FROMER. PASSENGER IMPATIENT BUT
QUIETER. SLEEPS MORE NOW.     THIS
SIGNIFICANT? QUEMOS DEVELOPING THEORY OF MECHANISM. SAYS     WILL TAKE TIME TO WORK OUT. HOW MUCH TIME
WE HAVE? WHEN MUST     SEED BE PLANTED? 
BULLARD 
SEC. HDQ.     BULLARD, COM. RLY.     43.4SC 
MUST HAVE ESTIMATE WHEN DOOR OPENS. THIS AN
ORDER. AMBASSADOR     THREATENING WAR.
CAN'T GIVE DEADLINE OF SEED PLANTING TIME SINCE     SUBJECT VERY TABOO. OUR BIOLOGISTS SAY
R'THAGNA BAR SLEEPY     SIGNIFICANT. MAY
BE PRELUDE TO SEEDING TIME. TELL ABOUT QUEMOS     THEORY IN NEXT COMMUNICATION. WILL
EVALUATE HERE. NICE TO KNOW     METAL IS
HARD. KEEP UP GOOD WORK. PRESSURE HERE TO SEND YOU     HELP. PRESIDENT SAYS WHOLE FEDERATION
PRAYING FOR DOOR TO BE     FIXED. SAYS TO
HURRY UP. 
CMD GENERAL
CMD GENERAL 
NO ESTIMATE POSSIBLE. QUEMOS THEORY ALMOST
COMPLETE. STATES THAT     MECHANISM BUILT
ON PRINCIPLE OF WORM GEAR. REPEAT. WORM GEAR.     TODAY INSTRUCTED FROMER'S CREW TO JIGGLE
MOVING PARTS OF     MECHANISM AT RANDOM.
PARTS WOULD NOT JIGGLE. FROMER STATES THAT  
  R'THAGNA BAR SLEEPS ALL TIME AND
COLOR CHANGES TO BLUE AND RED     ON
STOMACH. THIS SIGNIFICANT? 
BULLARD 
SEC HDQ    
BULLARD, COM. RLY     43.4SC 
IMPORTANT YOU AMPLIFY LAST MESSAGE. RED AND
BLUE ON STOMACH? WHY     R'THAGNA BAR
UNDRESSED? INVESTIGATE! PRESIDENT ORDERS HELP     SENT. HELP ON WAY. REPEAT. WHY R'THAGNA
BAR UNDRESSED? 
CMD GENERAL
CMD GENERAL 
FROMER ADVISES TELL YOU SHIPS PHYSICIAN HAS
PUT R'THAGNA BAR IN     REFRIGERATOR. 
QUEMOS 
SEC HDQ    
QUEMOS. COM. RLY.     43.4SC. 
TAKE OUT OF REFRIGERATOR! THIS AN ORDER!
WHY UNDRESSED? 
CMD GENERAL
CMD GENERAL 
BULLARD MAKING MODEL OF MY DRAWINGS. READY
SOON. R'THAGNA BAR     OUT OF
REFRIGERATOR AS REQUESTED BUT SHIPS PHYSICIAN VERY ANGRY     AND WANTS TO PUT BACK IN. COLOR ON STOMACH
PINK AND YELLOW WITH     BLUE SQUARES.
THIS SIGNIFICANT? 
QUEMOS 
It went on like this for several more days.
Hansen, at first amused, was now alarmed and completely convinced that both
Quemos and Bullard were thoroughly useless. The messages were his only source
of information, since both "experts" were too immersed in their work
to talk with him. As his alarm grew, he decided that he might at least try to
strike up a friendship with someone on board Captain Fromer's sealed
ship--someone who might have something comforting to report. He called up the ship's
navigator. 
"This
is Hansen. How're things going up there?" 
"Ha!"
"What's
that mean? Good or bad?" 
"It
means," the navigator said, while yawning, "that things are falling
apart rapidly. In fact, in a day or two I don't think it'll make much difference
whether or not they open that damn door." 
"You,
er, care to fill me in?" 
"Why
not?" said the navigator, with the voice of a man who knows that it is too
late for anything to matter. "The members of the crew are divided into two
factions. It appears that our physician has rallied half the crew to support
his medical contention that our exhalted passenger belongs in the refrigerator.
The good captain, with some justice, one must admit, thinks that he is in
command of the ship, and prefers to believe that R'thagna Bar belongs out of
the refrigerator." 
"Who
seems to be winning the argument?" 
"Argument?
There's no argument, old man--it's open warfare. No weapons aboard, of course,
but the two teams are grappling up and down the corridors and shuttling our
exhalted passenger in and out of the ice box about four times each hour. Quite
a sight, really. Right now he's _in_ the refrigerator, but the other
team--" 
"Let
me know who's ahead from time to time, will you?" Hansen heard himself
say. 
"Glad
to oblige," the navigator said, yawning again. "Oh, incidentally,
have they sent for help yet?" 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Hansen said
with some surprise, "Why, as a matter of fact, Sector Headquarters is
sending some help. How did you know?" 
"Bound
to happen sooner or later, old man. When the going really gets tough they
always get around to sending a Gypsy. Only way to get anything done, you
know." 
"I
don't know," Hansen said reluctantly. "Why is it that everyone knows
except me? What, please, is a Gypsy?" 
"You're
too young to know everything, old man," the navigator said. "You're
especially too young to know about one of the Federation's best kept secrets.
But you might as well, I suppose. The fact is that a Gypsy is a generally
vagrant, dirty, thieving, clever scoundrel who will not work, who has
absolutely no respect for order or authority, who believes that our
institutions are effete and--" 
"But
then why--" 
"Patience,
patience," cautioned the navigator, haughtily, "if I am to reveal
everything I know, I must do it in my own way. The description I just gave you
is not necessarily true. It is simply the way that Sector Headquarters feels
about Gypsies. Common jealousy, really. It seems that from time to time, our
perfect little galactic society spawns men who don't care to be cast in the
common mold. In short, there are a few men around with brains who don't think
that it means very much to wear pretty uniforms or fancy titles." 
"Uniforms
like yours?" asked Hansen. 
"Precisely,"
the navigator said sadly. "The truth of the matter is, of course, that I
only play at being a navigator. I couldn't get this ship off course, if I
tried. The same is true with the four engineering officers who stand around
watching the Hegler drive units. They occasionally make a ceremonial
adjustment, but beyond that, they simply stand around looking pretty." 
"No
moving parts." Hansen said. 
"No
moving brains, if you like. Anyway, a Gypsy has--somewhere along the
line--learned how to do things. They'll take an emergency call about once a
year--if they happen to feel like it. Then they charge about half a million
credits." 
"You
mean they have an organization, standard rates and--" 
"Heavens
no!" the navigator said. "They hate anything that smells like
organization. They don't even specialize in any certain kind of work. One year
they'll be fascinated by sub-nucleonics, the next by horse racing. Very
erratic. Can't keep attention on any one thing. Heard of one once who engaged
in fishing and alcohol drinking. Brilliant mathematician, too. But he'd only
take a call once every three years or so." 
"For a
half million credits a crack, eh? You could live pretty well for three years on
that." 
"Strangely
enough," the navigator said thoughtfully, "they don't really have any
interest in money. If you'd ever met one, you'd know that the high fee is sort
of a penalty they mete out to everyone else for being so dumb." 
"Well,
one thing for sure," Hansen said, "if Bullard and Quemos are the
cream of the crop, I'm on the side of the Gypsies." 
"Ah,
youth!" the navigator said, "I, too, once had such dreams--" 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
"We'll
see about the dreams," Hansen said, almost menacingly, "I didn't
spend six years in that damn school just to sit around in a pretty uniform for
the rest of my life." 
"Oh,
you'll get used to it. In fact, you'll like it after a while. The home leaves.
The fuss your friends will make over you when you step off the ship. The
regular and automatic promotions in grade with the extra gold band added to
your sleeve; the move from one outpost to an always larger installation. You'll
never do much, of course, but why should you? After all, there aren't any
moving parts." 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Hansen cut
the communicator off. He stood there for a moment, feeling depressed and
betrayed. Automatically he reached down and flicked imaginary dust from his
blue sleeve with its narrow solitary gold band. Ten minutes later the Gypsy's
ship signaled for landing. 
The man who
walked into Hansen's control room was hardly the ogre he had been prepared for.
He looked, Hansen was later to reflect, like Santa Claus with muscles in place
of the fat. Wearing an almost unheard of beard and dressed in rough clothes, he
walked across the room and made short work of the usual formalities.
"Name's Candle," said the man. "Where's those two phonies I'm
supposed to replace?" 
"You'll
have to go suit up and go back through the airlock," Hansen said,
motioning to the door. "They're in their ship. It's the one next to yours.
Want me to tell them you're on your way over?" 
"Hell,
no," said Candle, grinning, "I'll surprise 'em. Now, suppose you and
me sit down and have a little chat." 
They sat
and Candle pumped Hansen of everything he knew about the entire situation. An
hour later, Hansen felt almost as if he had been had. "Is that all?"
he asked, wearily. 
"I got
the facts," Candle said. "Now let's go throw those experts out."
It wasn't quite that simple. Neither Bullard nor Quemos had any intention of
simply clearing out. "Who the hell you think you are," Bullard said,
"to come over here and order us off? We didn't even ask for help. And, God
knows, you couldn't supply it anyway." Bullard, with evident distaste, ran
his eyes up and down Candle's clothing. 
Dr. Quemos
had some ideas, too. "Letter of authority or no letter of authority,"
Quemos said, pointing a manicured forefinger at the paper in Candle's hand,
"you'll ruin everything! You have no idea what you're up against. We've
spent weeks working this thing out--" 
Candle
grinned. "What've you worked out?" 
"Why--why
we know that this is a metal double enveloping worm gear." 
"Wrong,"
Candle said. "It's a single enveloping worm gear. It's made of steel with
an aluminum alloy wheel gear and the two parts have corroded and stuck. The
whole mechanism was originally designed for submarines." 
Quemos
started to say something, then turned and looked at Bullard for reassurance.
"He's crazy," Bullard said, "he's making it up as he goes along.
How could he possibly know what he's talking about? Why, there haven't been any
submarines for centuries." 
"I'm
tired of playing games," Candle said, no longer grinning. "The boy
and I have work to do. You two are in the way. You'll only take up time if I
have to work with you and show you what to do. I want you and your ship out of
here in half an hour." 
"Who's
going to make us?" Bullard asked with great originality. 
"I
am." 
Everybody
turned around to see who else had entered the conversation. It was Hansen.
"I'm going to give you fifteen minutes, not thirty," Hansen said.
"Then I'm going to turn the grid power on at full intensity. You can
either use it to take off, or sit around and roast alive inside your
ship." Candle turned and looked at Hansen with new respect. "Okay ...
Let's go back to your place. I've still got some things to figure out." 
Quemos was
on the verge of hysteria. "You're bluffing! You wouldn't dare. I'll report
this!" 
Fifteen
minutes later, the ship headed for space. 
*      
*       *       *  
    * 
Back in
Hansen's room, the two men ate a quick lunch, then sat at the table and talked
about Candle's plans for opening the reluctant door. "The way I figure
it," Candle said, "I think that we can handle the whole thing by
radio. Which reminds me, one of these days I'm going to build a telescreen that
will transmit and receive through pseudo-met. Not too difficult really if you
approach the problem--" 
"I
better get Fromer for you," Hansen said hurriedly. 
"Fromer
here," said the bass voice. 
"This
is Candle. Let me talk to one of your so-called engineering officers." 
"Who
the hell--" 
"Shut
up and go get 'em," Candle growled back. "And one more yelp out of
you and you'll stay in that ship till you rot." 
There was a
pause, then Fromer again, a meek Fromer. "My chief engineering officer is
with me." 
"Okay.
Now get this. Come to think of it, you'd better record it. Number one: By now
you know which component is a worm gear. You will notice, I'm quite certain,
that it engages a large notched wheel. The reason that the door will not move
is because at the point where the two gears meet, some of the metal has
oxidized. For possible use in future emergencies, I offer this explanation. The
entire mechanism is subject to periodic vacuum, when the airlock door is
operated. In between times, the mechanism is in the ship's atmosphere. A
condition of lower oxygen content thus obtains around the sealed off area, and
such an area is anodic--in other words, corrodible with respect to the
surrounding areas in which oxygen has free access. Now, since this door has
opened and closed successfully for about five hundred years, it appears that
there's a special reason why it suddenly refuses to function. At a guess, you
would experience this condition of intense corrosion only when the aluminum in
the wheel gear is exposed to something like sodium hydroxide, and only at the
point where it controls the worm gear. Now, has this ship landed recently
within such an atmosphere?" 
"Three
weeks ago on Ghortin IV," said the weak voice of the engineer. "We
landed to get some pictures of the cloud formations for souvenirs. We dropped
on the edge of a large body of water because the view was better--" 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Candle
shook his head sadly and said, "You could have avoided trouble by coming
in over the land instead of the water. The heat from the ship boiled the water
which undoubtedly contained sodium carbonate and calcium hydroxide; presto, and
the air was filled with clouds of sodium hydroxide. 
"I suggest
that you steer away from all such wicked places in the future. Of course, if
you'd learn how to mine ore, smelt metal, machine components--" 
"First
they'd have to discover fire," Hansen said out of the corner of his mouth.
"You're
catching on, son," Candle said, out of the corner of his mouth. "Now,
gentlemen, to open the door it will be necessary to break the corroded area
apart. This is a large heavy mechanism, as such things go. Since you have no
tools heavy enough to batter the corroded area apart, you'll have to make
some." 
"How
can we?" 
Candle
sighed. "I wish I had time to teach you to think, but instead, you'll have
to do as I tell you to do. I think you can probably make a battering ram out of
water. You just--don't interrupt--find or make a long cylindrical container,
fill it with water and quick-freeze it in your refrigerator--" 
"But
they put R'thagna Bar in the refrigerator again--" 
"Then
I suggest you get him the hell out," Candle said. 
An hour
later ten men smashed a half-ton cylinder of ice against the corroded junction
of the two gears. Following Candle's instructions, they next applied the ram to
the door itself, which smoothly swung open. "You'll find," Candle
explained, "that the only damage will be the two missing teeth on the aluminum
gear. Since only two teeth are ever in contact at any time, you can simply
slide the gear forward and engage it at a point where the teeth are intact.
You'll find, I'm quite sure, that your door will function properly. Also,
Captain, don't pull out of here until I'm aboard. I think I'd like to bring an
assistant along, too." 
"An
assistant?" Hansen asked. 
Candle
twirled the ends of his long white moustache. "You, my lad, if you'd like
to go along." He pulled a letter from his pocket and fanned the air with
it. "I'm in complete command of this expedition--at least until His
Exalted Excellency gets home to plant his seed." 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Hansen's
face glowed. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do. Let's get a couple
of messages off to Sector Headquarters and get on board ship." 
"It
may not be any joy ride," Candle said thoughtfully. "You probably
haven't heard about it, but there've been a number of ship emergencies in the
past few weeks." 
"Door
failures?" 
"No.
At least none that I've heard of. But at least two Hegler drives have stopped
working in mid space." 
"But,
but there's nothing to stop working--" 
Candle's
eyes twinkled. "No moving parts, eh?" 
Hansen
reddened. "I hope I've outgrown that silly notion." 
Candle peered
into Hansen's eyes. "I'm sure you have. I'm sure that you will find out a
lot more things for yourself. You're the kind. And we're going to need a lot of
your kind, because failures--failures of so-called perfect mechanisms--are
becoming more and more commonplace." Candle pointed to the emergency light
on the traffic control panel. "That light will be flashing with more and
more frequency in the months to come. But not just to signal trouble in space.
If I were a superstitious man, I'd think that the age of the perfect machine is
about to be superseded by the age of the perfect failure--mechanical failures
that can't be explained on any level. I have several friends who've been in
touch with me recently about--" 
"You
think that it's time for a change?" 
Candle
smiled quickly. "That's the idea. And the truth of the matter is that I
_am_ a superstitious man. I really believe, childishly, that the mechanics and
motions of the galaxy may turn themselves upsidedown just to snap man out of
his apathy and give him some work to do." 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Upsidedown
turned out to be a good word. They boarded the big ship an hour later and were
respectfully ushered into the presence of Captain Fromer and his staff. 
"We're
underway," Captain Fromer said. "We'll be landing in nine days to
deliver R'thagna Bar home." 
"How
is he?" Hansen asked. 
Fromer
shrugged. "He's been thawed out, frozen, and thawed out so many times,
it's anybody's guess. Take a look for yourself." 
Someone
pulled back a curtain to expose the recumbent, thawing, steamy form of His
Exhalted Excellency R'thagna Bar. 
"Why's
he undressed?" Hansen asked. 
"Funny,
now that you mention it," Fromer said, puzzled, "why _is_ he
undressed?" 
"Fascinating!
Damnedest thing I've ever seen," Candle said. 
"What's
so fascinating?" Fromer asked suspiciously, moving closer. 
"His
belly. Never saw anything like it. Those black squares keep appearing and
disappearing. If I've ever seen a truly random pattern--" 
"It
started right after they froze him the first time," Fromer said
disconsolately. 
"Fascinating,
by Heaven," said Candle, who was now down on his hands and knees.
"Look at that top sequence! Random, yet physiological. I've got a friend
on Bridan III who'd trade anything for some photos of this. Get me some photo
equipment, will you?" 
Captain
Fromer ran his hands through what was left of his hair. "Get him some
photo equipment," he said to no one in particular, "and somebody make
a truce with that idiot doctor long enough to get me a sedative." About
this time the ship turned upsidedown. 
"But
there's no reason for it!" the chief engineer said, running alongside
Hansen and Candle. "The ship can't turn upsidedown. Everything is
functioning perfectly!" 
"Really
not interested," said Candle, running down the corridor's mile-long
ceiling. "Figure something out for yourself for a change." 
"But
what I can't understand," said Hansen, dutifully trotting alongside,
"is how you knew with such certainty how the door mechanism was made. Even
if submarines _were_ built like that, you'd have no way of knowing. There
haven't been any submarines in centuries." 
"The
hell you say," said Candle, increasing his pace, "I built one five
years ago." 
"Built
one! What for?" 
"For
the hell of it, and it was a damned good outfit, too. I found plans in an old
museum, and had the good sense not to improve on 'em. Always remember, boy,
that something that really works can't be improved. That's why the submarine
mechanism was adopted--not adapted--for space. The so-called 'better way'
they're building 'em today is simply a disguise for the fact that most of the
gas is gone from our technology." 
"What
happened to the submarine?" 
"Oh, I
traded it to a friend for some falcons. You interested in falconry by any
chance?" 
"Er,
no. Can't say that I am." 
"You
will be," Candle said prophetically, "you'll succumb to every
enthusiasm man has ever been deviled with. You're the type. It's a disease,
boy, and the big symptom isn't just curiosity, but the kind of intense
curiosity that turns you inside out, devours you and ruins you for
orthodoxy." 
*      
*       *       *      
* 
Hansen had
stopped listening. He was absorbed in trying to recall the pattern he had
pressed on his radio belt--a pattern never taught to him--when the ship had
suddenly turned upsidedown. Hesitantly, he played with the notion that he had
been _thinking_ of the ship traveling upsidedown at the time he impressed the
novel pattern on the belt. Now, could that have possibly ... ? 
The man and
the boy disappeared down the ceiling, running at top speed to catch up as the
rapidly vanishing form of R'thagna Bar was dragged and pulled relentlessly
toward the refrigerator in a tug of war between the ship's wild, divided crew. 
"Fascinating!"
said Candle. His eyes, glittering with their own peculiar madness, remained
riveted on the distant imperial belly. "Never saw anything like it!"
Category:Yaco
Category:Amazing
Category:Published