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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Last Resort, by Stephen Bartholomew
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Last Resort
+
+Author: Stephen Bartholomew
+
+Illustrator: George Schelling
+
+Release Date: December 11, 2009 [EBook #30649]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAST RESORT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                         Transcriber's Note:
+
+  This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction April 1963.
+  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+  copyright on this publication was renewed.
+
+
+                       LAST RESORT
+
+
+     The phenomenon of "hysterical strength" at the physical
+     level is well known. Wonder what the equivalent phenomenon
+     at the psychological level might do....
+
+
+                        by STEPHEN BARTHOLOMEW
+
+
+                   ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE SCHELLING
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+I inflated a rubber balloon and set it adrift. The idea was that in
+free fall the balloon would drift slowly in the direction of the leak.
+This was the first thing I did after I had discovered the trouble. I
+mean it was the first action I took. I had been thinking about it for
+some time. I had been thinking about what a great distance it was from
+Pacific Grove, California to Mars, and how I would never breathe the
+odor of eucalyptus again.
+
+I watched the white balloon floating in the middle of the cabin. Light
+reflected from a spot on its surface, and it made me think of a
+Moonglobe I used to keep on my desk when I was in college. I had
+turned off the fan, and tried to hold my breath to keep from
+disturbing the air. The balloon drifted slowly a few feet aft, wobbled
+there for a minute or two, then began to drift forward again. I
+decided to indulge in the rare luxury of a cigarette. I lighted one,
+reached over, and popped the balloon. The piece of rubber hung in the
+air, limp and twisted. I had not expected that trick to work.
+
+The rate of leakage was very low. It had been some thirty-six hours
+since I'd first noticed it. This was one of those things, of course,
+that were not supposed to happen in space, and often did. Every
+precaution had been taken against it. The outer shell of the ship was
+tough enough to stop medium-velocity meteoroids, and inside the shell
+was a self-sealing goo, like a tubeless tire. Evidently the goo hadn't
+worked. Something had got through the hull and made a pinhole leak. In
+fact the hole was so small that it had taken me nearly thirty-five
+hours to compute the rate of leakage exactly. But it was big enough,
+it would do.
+
+I had held the clipboard in my hand for a long time, rechecking the
+little black numbers on it again and again. Then I had warmed up the
+transmitter, raised Lunar Base, and reported what had happened. I had
+not reported before because I had not even been sure I had a leak.
+There's a normal seepage rate, of course; a certain amount of air will
+seep right through the molecular structure of the hull. That's what
+the reserve tanks are for. But I had been out a long time, and there
+wasn't enough left in the tanks to compensate for this. Not quite.
+
+So I reported to Base. The operator on the other end told me to stand
+by for instructions. That was for my morale. Then I spent some time
+thinking about Pacific Grove, and the white house there, and the stand
+of eucalyptus. Then I blew up the balloon and popped it. As I was
+watching the piece of rubber hang motionless in the air the receiver
+began clicking. I waited till it stopped, then pulled out the tape and
+read it. It said, HAVE YOU INSPECTED HULL? I switched on the send key
+and tapped out, JUST GOING TO. STAND BY.
+
+I opened the locker and broke out my spacesuit. This was the first
+time I had put it on since lift-off. Without help, it took me nearly
+half an hour to get it on and then check it out. I always did hate
+wearing a spacesuit, it's like a straitjacket. In theory I could have
+kept it on, plugged directly into the ship's oxygen supply, and ridden
+all the way back to Earth that way. The trouble with that idea was
+that the suit wasn't designed for it. You couldn't eat or drink
+through the helmet, and no one had ever thought up a satisfactory
+method of removing body wastes. That would be the worst way to go, I
+thought, poisoned slowly in my own juices.
+
+When I finally did get the thing on, I went out the air lock. If the
+leak had been bad enough, I would have been able to see the air
+spurting out through the hole, a miniature geyser. But I found no more
+than what I expected. I crawled around the entire circumference of the
+hull and found only a thin silvery haze. The air as it leaked out
+formed a thin atmosphere around the hull, held there by the faint
+gravity of the ship's mass. Dust motes in the air, reflecting
+sunlight, were enough to hide any microscopic geyser spout. Before I
+re-entered the air lock I looked out into space, in the direction away
+from the sun. Out there, trailing far away, the air had formed a
+silver tail, I saw it faintly shimmering in the night. I was going to
+make a good comet.
+
+I got back inside and stripped off the suit. Then I raised Lunar Base
+again and tapped out, HAVE INSPECTED HULL. RESULTS NEGATIVE. A few
+minutes later the reply came back, STAND BY FOR INSTRUCTIONS. For my
+morale.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I lighted another cigarette and thought about it some more. I looked
+around at the interior of my expensive, ten-foot coffin. I figured I
+would last for about another seventy-five hours. Of course I could
+take cyanide and get it over with. But this wouldn't be such a bad way
+to go. Within seventy-five hours the last of my reserve tanks would be
+empty. Then I would just wait for the rest of the air to leak out of
+the cabin. First I would lose consciousness with anoxia. I'd hardly
+even notice. Then as the pressure got lower my body fluids would begin
+to evaporate.
+
+Once I had seen a mummy in a museum, it was some old prospector who
+had been lying in the Nevada desert for a hundred years or so. I was
+going to look like him, dried up, yellow, my teeth protruding in a
+grin, perfectly preserved. With no pilot, the ship would go into a
+cometary orbit around the sun. Maybe in a hundred years or so someone
+would come and take me back to a museum on earth.
+
+I began to think about my wife, Sandy. I got out a piece of paper and
+wrote a long letter to her. I thought, maybe she'll even get to read
+it some day. Writing gave me something to do. I wrote about the time
+we had gone up to the Sierras together and slept in a sleeping bag at
+the edge of a four-thousand foot cliff. And about the times we had
+gone out in our cabin cruiser, the time we both nearly drowned. And
+asked about our daughter Wendy, who would be four now. I remembered
+part of an old poem:
+
+    Christ! That my love were in my arms,
+    And I in my bed again!
+
+Writing was all right, until I realized that I had begun feeling sorry
+for myself, and I was letting it get into the letter. I put the letter
+aside and wondered what else I could do to kill time. I got out some
+of the film plates I'd made of the surface of Mars. Of course I had
+transmitted them all to Lunar Base, but it would have been nice if I
+could have delivered the original plates. I studied them for a while
+but didn't find anything I hadn't seen before. Well, I had done my job
+at least. I had orbited Mars, I had the glory of being the first
+American to do that. I had dropped the instrument package and
+transmitted all the data I could get back to Lunar. My only failure
+would be in not bringing back the ship.
+
+I remembered a conversation I'd had at the last International Space
+Symposium in Geneva. A buddy of mine and I had taken out one of the
+Soviet cosmonauts and got him drunk. He was a dignified sort of drunk,
+a Party member who told long, pointless Russian jokes with an
+unwavering, serious expression. He sat sideways on the bar stool,
+holding his glass of vodka between two fingers and staring straight
+ahead. He said one thing that I had never forgotten.
+
+"Do you know why we are ahead of you in space?" he had said, staring
+with dignity at the tall blonde at a nearby table. "It is because of
+your bourgeois sentimentality. You do not like risking men. You build
+a skyscraper in New York to house some insurance company. Two or three
+construction workers are maimed or killed on the job. One of your coal
+mines collapses and fifty men are trapped. Yet, look. You are afraid
+of losing men in space because of what the people at home might think.
+So you are too conservative, you avoid risks. So we are ahead of you.
+We send out a ship with three men aboard when you would risk only one.
+We are not sentimental, that is all. That is why we are ahead of you."
+He ordered another drink and stared into the mirror for several
+minutes, letting us think that over. Then he went on.
+
+"Yes, you are less scientific than we, less logical. Yet that is your
+advantage, too. You are more alert to the unprecedented, the
+unpredictable. You are always ready for the Wild Chance, the
+impossible possibility. You expect the unexpected. You hope for the
+hopeless. Being sentimental, you have imagination."
+
+His words came back to me. The unpredictable, the wild chance, the
+impossible possibility. That was all that could save me now. But what?
+Maybe another meteor would come along and plug the hole the first one
+had made. No. I had to think my way out of this one. But what if there
+was no way out?
+
+I pushed myself to the aft bulkhead, turned and looked forward to the
+instrument panel. I picked out the smallest meter face. I could just
+read the numbers on it. I told myself: When I can't read the numbers
+any more I'll know my vision is blurring from the beginning of anoxia.
+I thought: When that happens I'll key in the transmitter and tap out,
+TELL SANDY GOOD-BY.
+
+It would be dramatic anyhow.
+
+A withered mummy in a flying tomb.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The receiver began clicking again. They're still worried about my
+morale, I thought. I went over and pulled out the tape. It said:
+
+BRONSON HERE. SUGGEST YOU TRY LAST RESORT.
+
+Dr. Bronson was the project director. It was a moment before I
+realized what he meant. When I did I hesitated for several minutes.
+Then I shrugged and tapped out, O.K.
+
+I knew what had been happening down there. They had fed all the data I
+could give them through a computer, and the computer had said no dice.
+There was no solution to the problem, at least none that a computer
+could think of with the data available. There was still the Last
+Resort.
+
+I wondered if cyanide might not be more pleasant. Well, the exects
+would have scientific interest anyway. The Last Resort was still Top
+Secret. And highly experimental. It was a new drug with a name a foot
+long, called LRXD for short. It had come out of the old experiments
+with lysergic acid and mescalin. I had never heard of its existence
+until a few hours before lift-off from Lunar Base. Then Dr. Bronson
+had given me a single ampule of the stuff. He had held it up to the
+light, looking through it. He said, "This is called LRXD. No one knows
+exactly what it will do. The lab boys say the 'LR' stands for Last
+Resort."
+
+What it was _supposed_ to do was increase mental efficiency in human
+beings. Sometimes it did. They had given it to one volunteer and then
+shown him an equation which it had taken a computer ten minutes to
+solve. He wrote down the answer at once, apparently having gone
+through the entire process in his head instantaneously.
+
+Dr. Bronson told me, "It isn't just a matter of I.Q. It increases the
+total level of consciousness. Ordinarily the human brain screens out
+thousands of irrelevant stimuli. You're not aware of your watch
+ticking, or the fly on the wall, or your own body odor. You just don't
+_notice_ them. But under LRXD, the brain becomes aware of everything
+simultaneously. Nothing is screened out. Furthermore, the subject is
+capable of correlating everything. The human brain becomes as
+efficient as a Mark 60 computer, with the advantage of imagination and
+intuition. We don't know how it works yet, or exactly what it does. I
+hate to say this. But there's even some evidence that the drug
+increases telepathic ability."
+
+But then again, three of the volunteers had gone insane after taking
+the drug. Two had died. On some of the others there was no apparent
+effect at all.
+
+"We don't even know whether the effects are permanent or temporary,"
+Bronson had added.
+
+So now I was supposed to take this Last Resort and then try to think
+of a way out of my predicament, with my I.Q. boosted up to a thousand
+or so. It made me think of my college days, when I had stayed up all
+night on benzedrine, writing term papers. I remembered Bronson's
+description of one of the volunteers who had gone insane, and
+shuddered. Well, I had nothing to lose.
+
+"It is what its name implies," Bronson had said. "To be used only in
+extreme emergency. Only when you have nothing to lose."
+
+I had put the ampule away in the medicine locker and deliberately
+forgotten about it. Now I got it out again and held it up to the light
+as Bronson had done. Milky, white. I strapped myself to the
+acceleration couch, filled a syringe, and swabbed my arm. I looked at
+the letter I had started and probably would never finish. I rammed the
+needle in.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The hallucinations began within five minutes. This was normal, Bronson
+had said. I waited, gripping the armrests of the couch, hoping I would
+not begin believing in what I saw.
+
+First there was the meter face directly in front of me. It was
+blue-green. I had never really seen before what color it was. It was
+like a round, bright flame. I stared at it, becoming hypnotized.
+Finally I couldn't stand it any more, I reached over and switched off
+the panel lights. Then the meter face became the blackest darkness I
+had ever seen, it was no longer a flat disk, but the entrance to a
+long, black tunnel, endless and narrow. I wanted to enter the tunnel
+and--Quickly I shifted my gaze. A gas tube rectifier caught my
+attention. This was like the meter face, only worse. A cloud of
+intense blue, flickering, shimmering--As I stared at it the cloud
+seemed to be expanding, growing, forever flickering and shimmering
+until it became vast, it filled the universe, pulsating with energy,
+it was a kind of blue I had never seen before.... I had never seen
+color before. There was a red plastic safety guard over one of the
+toggle switches. Suddenly it seemed alive, rather the _red_ was alive,
+the color was no longer part of the object, it was an entity in
+itself, blazing like flame, liberated from matter, it was a living
+drop of blood, afire.
+
+I closed my eyes, trying to escape from color, but that was much
+worse. The colors inside my head blazed out even brighter, more
+savage.
+
+I turned my head, trying to find something in the cabin to look at
+that was not bright blue or green or red. With horror I focused on the
+spacesuit locker. I had left the locker open, the suit hanging on its
+wire stretcher. I saw immediately that the spacesuit was alive. It
+stood there motionless, returning my stare, I could not look away from
+it. I could not move, with fear. Slowly, very slowly, the spacesuit
+raised an arm and pointed at me. I stared at its single, oval eye,
+recalling childhood nightmares. Then the suit came out of its locker
+and began to advance toward me, still pointing its gauntlet at my
+face. It seemed to take hours to walk across the cabin toward me. I
+held my breath, waiting. I thought I would scream if it did not reach
+me, it was taking too long.
+
+Then it did reach me and, bending low above me, wrapped its metallic
+arms around my body. I turned my face from its mechanical, fiery
+breath. It began to crush me, I could not breathe, I felt my ribs
+begin to bend, slowly splinter. My face was pressed against its
+metallic chest, it was a thin gray wall....
+
+Then there was nothing but the wall itself, dark, thin as a membrane,
+but impenetrably strong. I was pressing toward it, forcing my way,
+flattened against it, being crushed slowly between this thin, gray
+membrane and the tremendous weight of darkness at my back. I knew that
+if the membrane did not give, if I did not break through at last, I
+would suffocate and die. In fact I was already dead, the idea came to
+me with a weight of horror, I twisted, lashing out in total panic.
+Then the thin gray wall split and gave way, and I was free.
+
+I was still strapped to my crash couch, regarding the instrument panel
+with absolute calm. Bronson had been right. I was aware of everything.
+I took in every meter indication simultaneously and correlated their
+data in my mind, without the help of the computer. I was aware of
+every sound, the faint hum of the gas tubes and transformers, the whir
+of the gyros, the reedy buzz of hydraulic actuators, the periodic
+clicking of the oxygen reclaim unit. I was aware of everything that
+was happening in the ship, as if it were my own body.
+
+My body. I knew that I would have to explore my new self before
+investigating the ship. With an effort of will I shut off my new sense
+impressions, and--looked inside. I sensed the rhythmic muscular action
+of my heart, the opening and closing of the valves. I felt the surge
+of blood in all my vessels. I moved my hand to touch the bulkhead, and
+found that I could count the number of microseconds it took for the
+nerve impulses to travel from my fingers to my brain. Time seemed to
+have slowed down, it took an hour for the second hand on the panel
+clock to make one circuit.
+
+In retrospect I know that this condition of super-awareness must have
+lasted only for a few minutes. But it seemed then that I had all the
+time in the world.
+
+I found that I no longer needed to think in words, or even symbols. I
+could pose myself a problem in, say, four-dimensional vector analysis
+and see the solution immediately, like a flash of intuition. I had
+attained total somatic consciousness; I was able to analyze the exact
+relationship of the drug to the molecular structure of my own
+protoplasm.
+
+It was then I knew that, although I had recorded no information about
+Mars that the Russians didn't already have, I was going to bring back
+home a piece of candy much sweeter.
+
+Wait, now, I told myself. Wait. You have a specific problem to solve.
+The problem being how to stop that leak in the hull long enough to get
+home alive. It was a problem of basic survival. I was confident. I
+knew that if any possible solution to my predicament existed I would
+find it. I was my own data computer now, but with eyes and ears and
+imagination. I opened my senses again and concentrated on the flood of
+information coming at me from the instrument panel. I found that I had
+total recall, I could remember--simultaneously--every wiring diagram
+and blueprint of the ship, every screw and transistor and welded seam,
+that I had ever glanced at. I saw the entire ship as a single entity,
+a smoothly functioning organism. In a flash I saw a hundred ways of
+improving its design. But that would have to wait. For a moment I
+gathered all my psychic energy and concentrated on the single crucial
+problem of stopping that leak.
+
+And I saw that there was no way to stop the leak. No logical way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Back at Lunar Base I tried to explain to Bronson what had happened.
+But I found that it was impossible to explain in words. In fact I no
+longer entirely understood, myself, what had happened. It was
+something that had occurred--not altogether on the conscious level.
+Something about my becoming aware, for a time, of the separate
+molecules of air within the cabin as extensions of my own body-mind.
+But I didn't know how to verbalize it.
+
+Dr. Bronson gave me a thorough physical and a preliminary
+psychological exam. The effects of the drug had worn off, but I felt
+somehow--changed, I didn't know just how. In fact I wouldn't know
+until one day two years later, when I dropped a vial of
+nitroglycerine, and it miraculously did not go off. Still, Bronson
+pronounced me ready and fit for a long vacation, and in a few days I
+was headed back toward Pacific Grove.
+
+The vacation lasted for a week. Then it was a Sunday evening, and I
+was sitting on the front porch of the white house nursing a highball
+while my wife was upstairs telling Wendy a bedtime story about a
+princess who kissed a toad, and it turned into a handsome prince.
+
+I was sitting there in the evening light, inhaling the scent of
+eucalyptus and thinking for the thousandth time about how much better
+this was than bottled oxygen. Then a rented car pulled into the
+driveway, and General Bergen got out, wearing civilian clothes. He
+came up to the porch and sat down next to me. He did not pause for any
+pleasantries.
+
+"Where's your wife?" he said.
+
+"Upstairs."
+
+"Anyone else in the house?"
+
+"Just my daughter."
+
+He leaned back and lighted a cigarette. I was about to offer him a
+drink, but he didn't give me a chance.
+
+"Official orders. From now on, you're Top Secret. You're wanted back
+at the Spacemedic Center in Washington. You have twenty-four hours to
+straighten out your affairs."
+
+"_What?_"
+
+He waved a hand. "I wasn't supposed to tell you this yet. Keep it
+under your hat." I noticed that the fingers holding his cigarette were
+trembling. "We spent four days going over the hull of your ship--with
+microscopes. Then we found it. The leak. The hole was still there. It
+must have been a micrometeor of high density and tremendous velocity.
+Burned a hole right through the sealing compound--"
+
+Once again I tried to organize words to explain what I had not been
+able to explain before.
+
+"But the ship's air did stop leaking. I could never have made it
+back...."
+
+"But the _hole_ was still there!" Then his voice faltered. "Don't you
+see? My God, what we have yet to learn about psi forces,
+psychokinesis.... There was nothing to prevent all the air in your
+ship from leaking out through that pinhole, nothing except--you."
+
+The general leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, looking out into
+the gathering darkness.
+
+"We've got to find out what this drug _does_," he said.
+
+"The space program ..." I began.
+
+"Space program?" He pulled on his cigarette. "Hell. What are rockets,
+compared to this?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Last Resort, by Stephen Bartholomew
+
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