Space Hounds of IPC
(A Tale of the Inter-Plantary Corporation)
By Edward E. Smith
CHAPTER 1
The IPV “Arcturus” Sets Out for Mars—
A narrow football of steel, the Inter-Planetary Vessel Arcturus stood upright in her berth
in the dock like an egg in its cup. A hundred feet across and a hundred and seventy feet
deep was that gigantic bowl, its walls supported by the structural steel and concrete of
the dock and lined with hard-packed bumper-layers of hemp and fiber. High into the air
extended the upper half of the ship of space—a sullen gray expanse of fifty-inch
hardened steel armor, curving smoothly upward to a needle prow. Countless hundreds
of fine vertical scratches marred every inch of her surface, and here and there the
stubborn metal was grooved and scored to a depth of inches—each scratch and score
the record of an attempt of some wandering cosmic body to argue the right-of-way with
the stupendous mass of that man-made cruiser of the void.
A burly young man made his way through the throng about the entrance, nodded
unconcernedly to the gatekeeper, and joined the stream of passengers flowing through
the triple doors of the double air-lock and down a corridor to the center of the vessel.
However, instead of entering one of the elevators which were whisking the passengers
up to their staterooms in the upper half of the enormous football, he in some way
caused an opening to appear in an apparently blank steel wall and stepped through it
into the control room.
“Hi, Breck!” the burly one called, as he strode up to the instrument-desk of the
chief pilot and tossed his bag carelessly into a corner. “Behold your computer in the
flesh! What’s all this howl and fuss about poor computation?”
“Ho, Steve!” The chief pilot smiled as he shook hands cordially. “Glad to see you
again—but don’t try to kid the old man. I’m simple enough to believe almost anything,
but some things just aren’t being done. We have been yelling, and yelling loud, for
trained computers ever since they started riding us about every one-centimeter change
in acceleration, but I know that you’re no more an I-P computer than I am a Digger
Indian. They don’t shoot sparrows with coast-defense guns!”
“Thanks for the compliment, Breck, but I’m your computer for this trip, anyway.
Newton, the good old egg, knows what you fellows are up against and is going to do
something about it, if he has to lick all the rest of the directors to do it. He knew that I
was loose for a couple of weeks and asked me to come along this trip to see what I
could see. I’m to check the observatory data—they don’t know I’m aboard—take the
peaks and valleys off your acceleration curve, if possible, and report to Newton just
what I find out and what I think should be done about it. How early am I?” While the
newcomer was talking, he had stripped the covers from a precise scale model of the
solar system and from a large and complicated calculating machine and had set to work
without a wasted motion or instant—scaling off upon the model the positions of the
various check-stations and setting up long and involved integrals and equations upon
the calculator.
The older man studied the broad back of the younger, bent over his
computations, and a tender, almost fatherly smile came over his careworn face as he
replied:
“Early? You? Just like you always were — minus fifteen seconds on zero. The
final dope is due right now.” He plugged the automatic recorder and speaker into a
circuit marked “Observatory”, waited until a tiny light above the plug flashed green, and
spoke.
“IPV Arcturus; Breckenridge, Chief Pilot; trip number forty three twenty nine.
Ready for final supplementary route and flight data, Tellus to Mars.”
“Meteoric swarms still too numerous for safe travel along the scheduled route,”
came promptly from the speaker. “You must stay further away from the plane of the
ecliptic. The ether will be clear for you along route E2-P6-W4I-K3-Ri9-S7-Mi4. You will
hold a constant acceleration of 981.27 centimeters between initial and final check
stations. Your take-off will be practically unobstructed, but you will have to use the
utmost caution in landing upon Mars, as in order to avoid a weightless detour and a loss
of thirty one minutes you must pass very close to both the Martian satellites. To do so
safely you must pass the last meteorological station, Mi4, on schedule time plus or
minus five seconds, at scheduled velocity plus or minus ten meters, with exactly the
given negative acceleration of 981.27 centimeters, and exactly upon the pilot ray Mi4
will have set for you.”
“All x.” Breckenridge studied his triplex chronometer intently, then unplugged and
glanced around the control room, in various parts of which half a dozen assistants were
loafing at their stations.
“Control and power check-out — Hipe!” he barked. “Driving converters and
projectors!”
The first assistant scanned his meters narrowly as he swung a multi-point switch
in a flashing arc. “Converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100; on each of numbers
one to forty-five inclusive. All x.”
“Dirigible projectors!”
Two more gleaming switches leaped from point to point. “Converter efficiency
100, projector reactivity 100, dirigibility 100, on each of numbers one to thirty-two,
inclusive, of upper band; and on each of numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive, of lower
band. All x.”
“Gyroscopes!”
“35,000. Drivers in equilibrium at ten degrees plus. All x.”
“Upper lights and lookout plates!”
The second assistant was galvanized into activity, and upon a screen before him
there appeared a view as though he were looking directly upward from the prow of the
great vessel. The air above them was full of aircraft of all shapes and sizes, and
occasionally the image of one of that flying horde flared into violet splendor upon the
screen as it was caught in the mighty, roving beam of one of the twelve ultra-light
projectors under test.
“Upper lights and lookout plates—all x,” the second assistant reported, and other
assistants came to attention as the check-out went on.
“Lower lights and lookout plates!”
“All x,” was the report, after each of the twelve ultralights of the stern had swung
around in its supporting brackets, illuminating every recess of the dark depths of the
bottom well of the berth and throwing the picture upon another screen in brilliant violet
relief.
“Lateral and vertical detectors!”
“Laterals XP27io—all x. Verticals AJ429O—all x.”
“Receptors!”
“15,270 kilofranks—all x.”
“Accumulators!”
“700,000 kilofrank-hours—all x.”
Having thus checked and tested every function of his department, Breckenridge
plugged into “Captain,” and when the green light went on:
“Chief pilot check-out—all x,” he reported briefly.
“All x,” acknowledged the speaker, and the chief pilot unplugged. Fifteen minutes
remained, during which time one department head after another would report to the
captain of the liner that everything in his charge was ready for the stupendous flight.
“All x, Steve?” Breckenridge turned to the computer. “How do you check
acceleration and power with the observatory?”
“Not so good, old bean,” the younger man frowned in thought. “They figure like
astronomers, not navigators. They’ve made no allowances for anything, not even the
reversal—and I figure four thousandths for that and for minor detours. Then there’s
check-station error . . .”
“Check-station errors! Why, they’re always right— that’s what they’re for!”
“Don’t fool yourself—they’ve got troubles of their own, the same as anybody else.
In fact, from a study of the charts of the last few weeks, I’m pretty sure that E 2 is at
least four thousand kilometers this side of where he thinks he is, that W4i is ten or
twelve thousand beyond his station, and that they’ve both got a lateral displacement
that’s simply fierce. I’m going to check up, and argue with them about it as we pass.
Then there’s another thing—they figure to only two places, and we’ve got to have the
third place almost solid if we expect to get a smooth curve. A hundredth of a centimeter
of acceleration means a lot on a long trip when they’re holding us as close as they are.
We’ll ride this trip on 981.286 centimeters—with our scheduled mass that means thirty
six point oh four seven kilofranks plus equilibrium power. All set to go,” the computer
stated, as he changed, by fractions of seconds of arc, the course-plotters of the
automatic integrating goniometer.
“You’re the doctor—but I’m glad it’s you that’ll have to explain to the observatory,”
and Breckenridge set his exceedingly delicate excess power potentiometer exactly upon
the indicated figure. “Well, we’ve got a few minutes left for a chin-chin before we lift her
off.”
“What’s all this commotion about? Dish out the low-down.”
“Well, it’s like this, Steve. We pilots are having one sweet time—we’re being
growled at on every trip. The management squawks if we’re thirty seconds plus or
minus at the terminal, and the passenger department squalls if we change acceleration