The Old Man of the Stars by John Burke Page A

check of their calculations. Tomorrow the lives of all of them would depend on the accuracy and relevance of those figures. If the two men had been working on false assumptions, or if Bellhouse and the mechanics had failed to comprehend fully the machinery that had been so laboriously adapted and built into this ship, they might in a matter of seconds be no more than a sudden spark in the sky, a molten mass falling back to the surface of Elysium or dropping forever through the vastness of space.
    The ship vibrated, humming a tune to itself as Bellhouse made his last adjustments. Power throbbed in the heart of it, still leashed but ready to shake off restraint and hurl the ship outward.
    The principle of the drive, they had discovered, was not a mere crude thrusting forward such as had been employed in the original Earth-made vessel. It relied on a twisting of the natural tensions of the cosmos. The stresses that held the universe together were all utilised, as a man might use any handhold he could find to make his way along a dangerous precipice. The creatures who had designed this space drive had adapted gravitational pulls and the force fields of different galaxies to their own uses. The ship would pursue a strange, erratic course that would nevertheless bring it to its destination sooner than if it had followed a straight line. Ricocheting, leaping from one system to another like a man throwing himself recklessly from one springboard to another, it would twist itself at incredible speed through the mesh of interwoven forces and gravitational fields that preserved the balance of the universe.
    â€œWell,” said Clifford at last, his eyes tired, “we can’t do any more. We ought to get some sleep.”
    â€œYou’d better go and comfort your wife,” said Matthew. “She hates to leave Elysium.”
    â€œSo do I, in a way. But in another way....”
    He left the sentence unfinished, but he and Matthew exchanged an affectionate smile. They were both weary, yet both excited. They shared the exultation of knowing that at last the attempt was to be made.
    Matthew remained in the control room for some minutes after Clifford had gone. Then he sighed, clambered down the great length of the hull to the ground, and looked up at the massive shape against the sky.
    â€œTomorrow,” he said softly. “Tomorrow.”
    Then he went to bed, and slept a fitful, disturbed sleep gashed by many dreams.
    In the morning there was too much bustle for there to be any time for regrets. Each of the thirty members of the crew turned at the airlock to take a last quick glance at the sunlit world; and then they were inside, strapping themselves to the sprung seats which would later be distributed throughout the ship, but which were for the present bolted to the floor of the communal lounge, facing towards the nose of the ship.
    Matthew and Clifford sat side by side at the control panel. They thumbed the various relays to make sure that all the ports were closed, the whole vessel sealed up.
    â€œShall we go?” said Clifford with a strained, unreal laugh.
    â€œTake her up,” said Matthew.
    The engine room light glowed its readiness. A gentle shudder began to murmur through the length of the ship. A note starting at a low frequency rose like a faint far-off siren, and then was lost.
    Clifford watched the dial before him, and then said:
    â€œThis is it.”
    The pressure of his thumb released a force that seemed to strike them in the stomach. Breath went, sight and hearing were blotted out, and for thirty seconds there was nothing in existence but pain and constriction, a desperate struggle to fill the lungs and not to give way to panic as blood pounded in the head.
    The intolerable pressure mounted. Then it was as though the ship had looped the loop. Everything went round. Matthew felt that his insides were being tossed about and jumbled up so that he would never be able to sort them out again. He knew