A. van Vogt - The Voyage of the Space Beagle

“I guess it’s all right,” he said finally. “But so far I haven’t admitted anyone in here who’s under forty. How did you rate?”

Grosvenor grinned. “I got in on the ground floor of a new science.”

The guard looked again at the card, and then said as he handed it back, “Nexialism? What’s that?”

“Applied whole-ism,” said Grosvenor, and stepped across the threshold.

When he glanced back a moment later, he saw that the man was gazing after him blankly. Grosvenor smiled, and then put the incident out of his mind. It was the first time he had been on the bridge. He gazed around him with curious eyes, impressed and fascinated. In spite of its compactness, the control board was a massive structure. It was built in a series of great curving tiers. Each arc of metal was two hundred feet long, and a full sweep of steps led steeply from one tier to the next. The instruments could be manipulated from the floor, or, more swiftly, from a jointed control chair that hung from the ceiling at the end of a power-driven, upside-down crane structure.

The lowest level of the room was an auditorium with about a hundred comfortable chairs. They were big enough to hold men wearing space suits, and nearly two dozen men so dressed were already sitting in them. Grosvenor settled himself unobtrusively. A minute later, Morton and Captain Leeth entered from the captain’s private office, which opened from the bridge. The commander sat down. Morton began without preamble.

“We know that of all the machines in the engine room, the most important to the monster was the electric dynamo. He must have worked in a frenzy of terror to get it started before we penetrated the doors. Any comments on that?”

Pennons said, “I’d like to have somebody describe to me just what he did to make those doors impregnable.”

Grosvenor said, “There is a known electronic process by which metals can be temporarily hardened to an enormous degree, but I’ve never heard of it being done without several tons of special equipment, which doesn’t exist on this ship.”

Kent turned to look at him. He said impatiently, “What’s the good of knowing how he did it? If we can’t break through those doors with our atomic disintegrators, that’s the end. He can do as he pleases with this ship.”

Morton was shaking his head. “We’ll have to do some planning, and that’s what we’re here for.” He raised his voice. “Selenski!”

The pilot leaned down from the control chair. His sudden appearance surprised Grosvenor. He hadn’t noticed the man in the chair. “What is it, sir?” Selenski asked.

“Start all the engines!”

Selenski swung his control seat skilfully toward the master switch. Gingerly, he eased the great lever into position. There was a jerk that shook the ship, an audible humming sound, and then for several seconds a shuddering of the floor. The ship steadied, the machines settled down to their work, and the humming faded into a vague vibration.

Presently, Morton said, “I’m going to ask various experts to give their suggestions for fighting pussy. What we need here is a consultation between many different specialized fields and, however interesting theoretical possibilities might be, what we want is the practical approach.”

And that, Grosvenor decided ruefully, effectively disposed of Elliott Grosvenor, Nexialist. It shouldn’t have. What Morton wanted was integration of many sciences, which was what Nexialism was for. He guessed, however, that he would not be one of the experts whose practical advice Morton would be interested in. His guess was correct.

It was two hours later when the Director said in a distracted tone, “I think we’d better take half an hour now to eat and rest. This is the big push we’re coming to. We’ll need everything we’ve got.”

Grosvenor headed for his own department. He was not interested in food and rest. At thirty-one, he could afford to dispense with the occasional meal or a night of sleep. It seemed to him he had half an hour in which to solve the problem of what should be done with the monster that had taken control of the ship.

The trouble with what the scientists had agreed on was that it was not thorough enough. A number of specialists had pooled their knowledge on a fairly superficial level. Each had briefly outlined his ideas to people who were not trained to grasp the wealth of association behind each notion. And so the attack plan lacked unity.

It made Grosvenor uneasy to realize that he, a young man of thirty-one, was probably the only person aboard with the training to see the weaknesses in the plan. For the first time since coming aboard six months before, he had a sharp appreciation of what a tremendous change had taken place in him at the Nexial Foundation. It was not too much to say that all previous education systems were outdated. Grosvenor took no personal credit for the training he had received. He had created none of it. But as a graduate of the Foundation, as a person who had been put aboard the Space Beagle for a specific purpose, he had no alternative but to decide on a definite solution, and then use every available means to convince those in authority.

The trouble was he needed more information. He went after it in the quickest possible fashion. He called up various departments on the communicator.

Mostly, he talked to subordinates. Each time he introduced himself as a department head, and the effect of that was considerable. Junior scientists accepted his identification of himself and were usually very helpful though not always. There was the type of individual who said, “I’ll have to get authority from my superiors.” One department head — Smith — talked to him personally, and gave him all the information he wanted. Another was polite and asked him to call again after the cat was destroyed. Grosvenor contacted the chemistry department last and asked for Kent, taking it for granted — and hoping — that he would not get through. He was all ready to say to the subordinate, “Then you can give me the information I want.” To his annoyance and amazement he was connected with Kent at once.

The chemist chief listened to him with ill-concealed impatience, and abruptly cut him off. “You can obtain the information from here through the usual channels. However, the discoveries made on the cat’s planet will not be available for some months. We have to check and countercheck all our findings.”

Grosvenor persisted. “Mr. Kent, I ask you most earnestly to authorize the immediate release of information regarding the quantitative analysis of the cat-planet atmosphere. It may have an important bearing on the plan decided upon at the meeting. It would be too involved at the moment to explain fully, but I assure you—”

Kent cut him off. “Look, my boy,” and there was a sneer in his tone, “the time is past for academic discussion. You don’t seem to understand that we’re in deadly danger. If anything goes wrong, you and I and the others will be physically attacked. It won’t be an exercise in intellectual gymnastics. And now, please don’t bother me again for ten years.”

There was a click as Kent broke the connection. Grosvenor sat for several seconds, flushing at the insult. Presently, he smiled ruefully, and then made his final calls.

His high-probability chart contained, among other things, check marks in the proper printed spaces showing the amount of volcanic dust in the atmosphere of the planet, the life history of various plant forms as indicated by preliminary studies of their seeds, the type of digestive tracts animals would have to have to eat the particular plants examined and, by extrapolation, what would be the probable ranges of structure and type of the animals who lived off the animals who ate such plants.