Starman's Quest Part 27

But one part of him had not changed, except in the direction of greater determination. That was the part that hoped to unlock the secret of faster-than-light travel.

He was discouraged. His journey had revealed the harsh fact that nowhere on Earth was research into hyperdrive travel being carried on; either they had tried and abandoned it as hopeless, or, like the Zurich people, they had condemned the concept from the start.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Jesperson asked.

Alan slowly shook his head. "Not a hint. And I really covered ground."

He stared at the lawyer a moment. "How much am I worth, now?"

"Well, offhand--" Jesperson thought for a moment. "Say, a million three hundred. I've made some good investments this past year."

Alan nodded. "Good. Keep the money piling up. I may decide to open a research lab of my own, and we'll need every credit we've got."

But the next day an item arrived in the morning mail which very much altered the character of Alan's plans for the future. It was a small but thick package, neatly wrapped, which bore as return address the name _Dwight Bentley_, with a London number.

Alan frowned for a moment, trying to place the name. Then it came back to him--Bentley was the vice-provost of the London Inst.i.tute of Technology, Cavour's old school. Alan had had a long talk with Bentley one afternoon in January, about Cavour, about s.p.a.ce travel, and about Alan's hopes for developing a hypers.p.a.ce drive.

The parcel was the right size and thickness to contain a book. Alan slit the fastenings, and folded back the outer wrapper. A note from Bentley lay on top.

_London 3rd November 3877_

_My dear Mr. Donnell:_

_Perhaps you may remember the very enjoyable chat you and I had one day at this Inst.i.tute last winter, on the occasion of your visit to London. You were, I recall, deeply interested in the life and work of James H. Cavour, and anxious to carry on the developments he had achieved in the field of s.p.a.ce travel._

_Several days ago, in the course of an extensive resurveying of the Inst.i.tute's archives, the enclosed volume was discovered very thoroughly hidden in the dusty recesses of our library. Evidently Mr. Cavour had forwarded the book to us from his laboratory in Asia, and it had somehow become misfiled._

_I am taking the liberty of forwarding the book on to you, in the hopes that it will aid you in your work and perhaps ultimately bring you success. Would you be kind enough to return the book to me c/o this Inst.i.tute when you are finished with it?_

_Cordially, Dwight Bentley_

Alan let the note slip to the floor as he reached for the enclosed book.

It was leather-bound and even more fragile than the copy of _The Cavour Theory_ he had purchased; it looked ready to crumble at a hostile breath.

With mounting excitement he lifted the ancient cover and turned it over.

The first page of the book was blank; so were the second and third. On the fourth page, Alan saw a few lines of writing, in an austere, rigid hand. He peered close, and with awe and astonishment read the words written there:

_The Journal of James Hudson Cavour. Volume 16--Jan. 8 to October 11, 2570._

_Chapter Seventeen_

The old man's diary was a curious and fascinating doc.u.ment. Alan never tired of poring over it, trying to conjure up a mental image of the queer, plucky fanatic who had labored so desperately to bring the stars close to Earth.

Like many embittered recluses, Cavour had been an enthusiastic diarist.

Everything that took place in his daily life was carefully noted down--his digestion, the weather, any stray thoughts that came to him, tart observations on humanity in general. But Alan was chiefly interested in the notations that dealt with his researches on the problem of a faster-than-the-speed-of-light s.p.a.cedrive.

Cavour had worked for years in London, harried by reporters and mocked by scientists. But late in 2569 he had sensed he was on the threshold of success. In his diary for January 8, 2570, he wrote:

"The Siberian site is almost perfect. It has cost me nearly what remains of my savings to build it, but out here I will have the solitude I need so much. I estimate six months more will see completion of my pilot model. It is a source of deep bitterness in me that I am forced to work on my s.h.i.+p like a common laborer, when my part should have ceased three years ago with the development of my theory and the designing of my s.h.i.+p. But this is the way the world wants it, and so shall it be."

On May 8 of that year:

"Today there was a visitor--a journalist, no doubt. I drove him away before he could disturb me, but I fear he and others will be back. Even in the bleak Siberian steppes I shall have no privacy. Work is moving along smoothly, though somewhat behind schedule; I shall be lucky to complete my s.h.i.+p before the end of the year."

On August 17:

"Planes continue to circle my laboratory here. I suspect I am being spied on. The s.h.i.+p is nearing completion. It will be ready for standard Lexman-drive flights any day now, but installation of my s.p.a.cewarp generator will take several more months."

On September 20:

"Interference has become intolerable. For the fifth day an American journalist has attempted to interview me. My 'secret' Siberian laboratory has apparently become a world tourist attraction. The final circuitry on the s.p.a.cewarp generator is giving me extreme difficulties; there are so many things to perfect. I cannot work under these circ.u.mstances. I have virtually ceased all machine-work this week."

And on October 11, 2570:

"There is only one recourse for me. I will have to leave Earth to complete the installation of my generator. The prying fools and mockers will not leave me alone, and nowhere on Earth can I have the needed solitude. I shall go to Venus--uninhabited, uninhabitable. Perhaps they will leave me alone for the month or two more I need to make my vessel suitable for interstellar drive. Then I can return to Earth, show them what I have done, offer to make a demonstration flight--to Rigel and back in days, perhaps----

"Why is it that Earth so tortures its few of original mind? Why has my life been one unending persecution, ever since I declared there was a way to shortcut through s.p.a.ce? There are no answers. The answers lie deep within the dark recesses of the human collective soul, and no man may understand what takes place there. I am content to know that I shall have succeeded despite it all. Some day a future age may remember me, like Copernicus, like Galileo, as one who fought upstream successfully."

The diary ended there. But in the final few pages were computations--a trial orbit to Venus, several columns of blastoff figures, statistics on geographical distribution of the Venusian landma.s.ses.

Cavour had certainly been a peculiar bird, Alan thought. Probably half the "persecutions" he complained of had existed solely inside his own fevered brain. But that hardly mattered. He had gone to Venus; the diary that had found its way back to the London Inst.i.tute of Technology testified to that. And there was only one logical next step for Alan.

Go to Venus. Follow the orbit Cavour had scribbled at the back of his diary.

Perhaps he might find the Cavour s.h.i.+p itself; perhaps, the site of his laboratory, some notes, anything at all. He could not allow the trail to trickle out here.

He told Jesperson, "I want to buy a small s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p. I'm going to Venus."

He looked at the lawyer expectantly and got ready to put up a stiff argument when Jesperson started to raise objections. But the big man only smiled.

"Okay," he said. "When are you leaving?"

"You aren't going to complain? The kind of s.h.i.+p I have in mind costs at least two hundred thousand credits."

"I know that. But I've had a look at Cavour's diary, too. It was only a matter of time before you decided to follow the old duck to Venus, and I'm too smart to think that there's any point in putting up a battle.

Let me know when you've got your s.h.i.+p picked out and I'll sit down and write the check."

But it was not as simple as all that. Alan shopped for a s.h.i.+p--he wanted a new one, as long as he could afford it--and after several months of comparative shopping and getting advice from s.p.a.ceport men, he picked the one he wanted. It was a sleek glossy eighty-foot job, a s.p.a.cemaster 3878 model, equipped with Lexman converters and conventional ion-jets for atmosphere flying. Smooth, streamlined, it was a lovely sight as it stood at the s.p.a.cefield in the shadow of the great stars.h.i.+ps.

Alan looked at it with pride--a slender dark-green needle yearning to pierce the void. He wandered around the s.p.a.ceport and heard the fuelers and oilers discussing it in reverent tones.

"That's a mighty fine piece of s.h.i.+p, that green one out there. Some lucky fellow's got it."

Alan wanted to go over to them and tell them, "That's my s.h.i.+p. Me. Alan Donnell." But he knew they would only laugh. Tall boys not quite nineteen did not own late-model s.p.a.cemasters with price-tags of cr.

225,000.