Subspace Survivors | Page 7

paroxysms of coughing. He held her in his arms until the worst of it
was over; but she was still coughing hard when she pulled herself away
from him.
"But ... how ... about ... you?" She could just barely talk; her voice was
distorted, almost inaudible. "Let ... me ... help ... you ... quick!"
"No need, darling. Two other men out there. The old man probably
won't need it--I think I got him into the safe quick enough--the other
guy and I will help each other. So lie down there on the bunk and take
it easy until I come back here and help you get the gunkum off. So-long
for half an hour, pet."
Forty-five minutes later, while all four were still cleaning up the messes
of foam, something began to buzz sharply. Deston stepped over to the
board and flipped a switch. The communicator came on. Since

everything aboard a starship is designed to fail safe, they were, of
course, in normal space. On the visiplates hundreds of stars blazed in
vari-colored points of hard, bright light.
"Baby Two acknowledging," Deston said. "First Officer Deston and
three passengers. Deconned to zero. Report, please."
"Baby Three. Second Officer Jones and four passengers. Deconned
to----"
"Thank God, Herc!" Formality vanished. "With you to astrogate us, we
may have a chance. But how'd you make it? I'd've sworn a flying
saucer couldn't've got down from the Top in the time we had."
"Same thing right back at you, Babe. I didn't have to come down. We
were in Baby Three when it happened." Full vision was on; a big,
square-jawed, lean, tanned face looked out at them from the screen.
"Huh? How come? And who's 'we'?"
"My wife and I." Second Officer Theodore "Hercules" Jones was
somewhat embarrassed. "I got married, too, day before yesterday. After
the way the old man chewed you out, though, I knew he'd slap irons on
me without saying a word, so we kept it dark and hid out in Baby Three.
These three are all we could find before our meters went high red. I
deconned Bun, then----"
"Bun?" Barbara broke in. "Bernice Burns? How wonderful!"
"Formerly Bernice Burns." The face of a platinum-blonde beauty
appeared on the screen beside Jones'. "And am I glad to see you,
Barbara, even if I did just meet you yesterday! I didn't know whether
I'd ever see another girl's face or not!"
"Let's cut the chat," Deston said then. "Herc, give me course, blast, and
time for rendezvous ... hey! My watch stopped!"
"So did mine," Jones said. "So just hold one gravity on eighteen dash

forty-seven dash two seventy-one and I'll correct you as necessary."
After setting course, and still thinking of his watch, Deston said; "But
it's nonmagnetic. It never stopped before."
The gray-haired man spoke. "It was never in such a field before. You
see, those two observations of fact invalidate twenty-four of the
thirty-eight best theories of hyper-space. But tell me--am I correct in
saying that none of you were in direct contact with the metal of the ship
when it happened?"
"We avoid it in case of trouble. You? Name and job?" Deston jerked
his head at the younger stranger.
"I know that much. Henry Newman. Crew-chief, normal space jobs,
unlimited."
"Your passengers, Herc?"
"Vincent Lopresto, financier, and his two bodyguards. They were
sleeping in their suits, on air-mattresses. Grounders. Don't like
subspace--or space, either."
"Just so." The gray-haired man nodded, almost happily. "We survivors,
then, absorbed the charge gradually----"
"But what the----" Deston began.
"One moment, please, young man. You perhaps saw some of the bodies.
What were they like?"
"They looked ... well, not exactly as though they had exploded, but----"
he paused.
"Precisely." Gray-Hair beamed. "That eliminates all the others except
three--Morton's, Sebring's, and Rothstein's."
"You're a specialist in subspace, then?"

"Oh, no, I'm not a specialist at all. I'm a dabbler, really. A specialist,
you know, is one who learns more and more about less and less until he
knows everything about nothing at all. I'm just the opposite. I'm
learning less and less about more and more; hoping in time to know
nothing at all about everything."
"In other words, a Fellow of the College. I'm glad you're aboard, sir."
"Oh, a Theoretician?" Barbara's face lit up and she held out her hand.
"With dozens of doctorates in everything from Astronomy to Zoology?
I've never met ... I'm ever so glad to meet you, Doctor----?"
"Adams. Andrew Adams. But I have only eight at the moment. Earned
degrees, that is."
"But what were you doing in this lifecraft? No, let me guess. You were
X-ray-eying it and fine-toothing it for improvements made since your
last trip, and storing the details away in your eidetic memory."
"Not eidetic, by any