The Sargasso of Space Part 1

The Sarga.s.so of s.p.a.ce.

by Edmond Hamilton.

Helpless, doomed, into the graveyard of s.p.a.ce floats the wrecked freighter _Pallas_.

Captain Crain faced his crew calmly. "We may as well face the facts, men," he said. "The s.h.i.+p's fuel-tanks are empty and we are drifting through s.p.a.ce toward the dead-area."

The twenty-odd officers and men gathered on the middle-deck of the freighter _Pallas_ made no answer, and Crain continued:

"We left Jupiter with full tanks, more than enough fuel to take us to Neptune. But the leaks in the starboard tanks lost us half our supply, and we had used the other half before discovering that. Since the s.h.i.+p's rocket-tubes cannot operate without fuel, we are simply drifting. We would drift on to Neptune if the attraction of Ura.n.u.s were not pulling us to the right. That attraction alters our course so that in three s.h.i.+p-days we shall drift into the dead-area."

Rance Kent, first-officer of the _Pallas_, asked a question: "Couldn't we, raise Neptune with the radio, sir, and have them send out a fuel-s.h.i.+p in time to reach us?"

"It's impossible, Mr. Kent," Crain answered. "Our main radio is dead without fuel to run its dynamotors, and our auxiliary set hasn't the power to reach Neptune."

"Why not abandon s.h.i.+p in the s.p.a.ce-suits," asked Liggett, the second-officer, "and trust to the chance of some s.h.i.+p picking us up?"

The captain shook his head. "It would be quite useless, for we'd simply drift on through s.p.a.ce with the s.h.i.+p into the dead-area."

The score of members of the crew, bronzed s.p.a.ce-sailors out of every port in the solar system, had listened mutely. Now, one of them, a tall tube-man, stepped forward a little.

"Just what is this dead-area, sir?" he asked. "I've heard of it, but as this is my first outer-planet voyage, I know nothing about it."

"I'll admit I know little more," said Liggett, "save that a good many disabled s.h.i.+ps have drifted into it and have never come out."

"The dead area," Crain told them, "is a region of s.p.a.ce ninety thousand miles across within Neptune's...o...b..t, in which the ordinary gravitational attractions of the solar system are dead. This is because in that region the pulls of the sun and the outer planets exactly balance each other.

Because of that, anything in the dead-area, will stay in there until time ends, unless it has power of its own. Many wrecked s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+ps have drifted into it at one time or another, none ever emerging; and it's believed that there is a great ma.s.s of wrecks somewhere in the area, drawn and held together by mutual attraction."

"And we're drifting in to join them," Kent said. "Some prospect!"

"Then there's really no chance for us?" asked Liggett keenly.

Captain Crain thought. "As I see it, very little," he admitted. "If our auxiliary radio can reach some nearby s.h.i.+p before the _Pallas_ enters the dead-area, we'll have a chance. But it seems a remote one."

He addressed himself to the men: "I have laid the situation frankly before you because I consider you ent.i.tled to the truth. You must remember, however, that while there is life there is hope.

"There will be no change in s.h.i.+p routine, and the customary watches will be kept. Half-rations of food and water will be the rule from now on, though. That is all."

As the men moved silently off, the captain looked after them with something of pride.

"They're taking it like men," he told Kent and Liggett. "It's a pity there's no way out for them and us."

"If the _Pallas_ does enter the dead-area and join the wreck-pack,"

Liggett said, "how long will we be able to live?"

"Probably for some months on our present condensed air and food supplies," Crain answered. "I would prefer, myself, a quicker end."

"So would I," said Kent. "Well, there's nothing left but to pray for some kind of s.h.i.+p to cross our path in the next day or two."

Kent's prayers were not answered in the next s.h.i.+p-day, nor in the next.

For, though one of the _Pallas'_ radio-operators was constantly at the instruments under Captain Crain's orders, the weak calls of the auxiliary set raised no response.

Had they been on the Venus or Mars run, Kent told himself, there would be some chance, but out here in the vast s.p.a.ces, between the outer planets, s.h.i.+ps were fewer and farther between. The big, cigar-shaped freighter drifted helplessly on in a broad curve toward the dreaded area, the green light-speck of Neptune swinging to their left.

On the third s.h.i.+p-day Kent and Captain Crain stood in the pilot-house behind Liggett, who sat at the now useless rocket-tube controls. Their eyes were on the big gla.s.s screen of the gravograph. The black dot on it that represented their s.h.i.+p was crawling steadily toward the bright red circle that stood for the dead-area....

They watched silently until the dot had crawled over the circle's red line, heading toward its center.

"Well, we're in at last," Kent commented. "There seems to be no change in anything, either."

Crain pointed to the instrument-panel. "Look at the gravitometers."

Kent did. "All dead! No gravitational pull from any direction--no, that one shows a slight attraction from ahead!"

"Then gravitational attraction of some sort does exist in the dead-area after all!" Liggett exclaimed.

"You don't understand," said Crain. "That attraction from ahead is the pull of the wreck-pack at the dead-area's center."

"And it's pulling the _Pallas_ toward it?" Kent exclaimed.

Crain nodded. "We'll probably reach the wreck-pack in two more s.h.i.+p-days."

The next two s.h.i.+p-days seemed to Kent drawn out endlessly. A moody silence had grown upon the officers and men of the s.h.i.+p. All seemed oppressed by the strange forces of fate that had seized the s.h.i.+p and were carrying it, smoothly and soundlessly, into this region of irrevocable doom.

The radio-operators' vain calls had ceased. The _Pallas_ drifted on into the dreaded area like some dumb s.h.i.+p laden with d.a.m.ned souls. It drifted on, Kent told himself, as many a wrecked and disabled s.h.i.+p had done before it, with the ordinary activities and life of the solar system forever behind it, and mystery and death ahead.

It was toward the end of the second of those two s.h.i.+p-days that Liggett's voice came down from the pilot-house:

"Wreck-pack in sight ahead!"

"We've arrived, anyway!" Kent cried, as he and Crain hastened up into the pilot house. The crew was running to the deck-windows.

"Right ahead there, about fifteen degrees left," Liggett told Kent and Crain, pointing. "Do you see it?"

Kent stared; nodded. The wreck-pack was a distant, disk-like ma.s.s against the star-flecked heavens, a ma.s.s that glinted here and there in the feeble sunlight of s.p.a.ce. It did not seem large, but, as they drifted steadily closer in the next hours, they saw that in reality the wreck-pack was tremendous, measuring at least fifty miles across.

Its huge ma.s.s was a heterogeneous heap, composed mostly of countless cigar-like s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+ps in all stages of wreckage. Some appeared smashed almost out of all recognizable shape, while others were, to all appearances unharmed. They floated together in this dense ma.s.s in s.p.a.ce, crowded against one another by their mutual attraction.

There seemed to be among them every type of s.h.i.+p known in the solar system, from small, swift mail-boats to big freighters. And, as they drifted nearer, the three in the pilot-house could see that around and between the s.h.i.+ps of the wreck-pack floated much other matter--fragments of wreckage, meteors, small and large, and s.p.a.ce-debris of every sort.

The _Pallas_ was drifting, not straight toward the wreck-pack, but in a course that promised to take the s.h.i.+p past it.