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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..da2d105 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51168 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51168) diff --git a/old/51168-h.zip b/old/51168-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f5fc485..0000000 --- a/old/51168-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51168-h/51168-h.htm b/old/51168-h/51168-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 623c9c2..0000000 --- a/old/51168-h/51168-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1001 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=us-ascii" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Operation Distress, by Lester Del Rey. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -div.titlepage { - text-align: center; - page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; -} - -div.titlepage p { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; - font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; - margin-top: 3em; -} - -.ph1, .ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } -.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; } -.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } -.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } -.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } - - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Operation Distress, by Lester del Rey - -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/license - - -Title: Operation Distress - -Author: Lester del Rey - -Release Date: February 10, 2016 [EBook #51168] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPERATION DISTRESS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="364" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>OPERATION DISTRESS</h1> - -<p>By LESTER DEL REY</p> - -<p>Illustrated by WILLER</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Galaxy Science Fiction August 1951.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph3">Explorers who dread spiders and snakes prove that heroism<br /> -is always more heroic to outsiders. Then there's the case<br /> -of the first space pilot to Mars who developed the itch—</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Bill Adams was halfway back from Mars when he noticed the red rash on -his hands. He'd been reaching for one of the few remaining tissues to -cover a sneeze, while scratching vigorously at the base of his neck. -Then he saw the red spot, and his hand halted, while all desire to -sneeze gasped out of him.</p> - -<p>He sat there, five feet seven inches of lean muscle and bronzed skin, -sweating and staring, while the blond hair on the back of his neck -seemed to stand on end. Finally he dropped his hand and pulled himself -carefully erect. The cabin in the spaceship was big enough to permit -turning around, but not much more, and with the ship cruising without -power, there was almost no gravity to keep him from overshooting his -goal.</p> - -<p>He found the polished plate that served as a mirror and studied -himself. His eyes were puffy, his nose was red, and there were other -red splotches and marks on his face.</p> - -<p>Whatever it was, he had it bad!</p> - -<p>Pictures went through his head, all unpleasant. He'd been only a kid -when the men came back from the South Pacific in the last war; but an -uncle had spent years dying of some weird disease that the doctors -couldn't identify. That had been from something caught on Earth. What -would happen when the disease was from another planet?</p> - -<p>It was ridiculous. Mars had no animal life, and even the thin -lichenlike plants were sparse and tiny. A man couldn't catch a disease -from a plant. Even horses didn't communicate their ills to men. Then -Bill remembered gangrene and cancer, which could attack any life, -apparently.</p> - -<p>He went back to the tiny Geiger-Muller counter, but there was no sign -of radiation from the big atomic motor that powered the ship. He -stripped his clothes off, spotting more of the red marks breaking out, -but finding no sign of parasites. He hadn't really believed it, anyhow. -That wouldn't account for the sneezing and sniffles, or the puffed eyes -and burning inside his nose and throat.</p> - -<p>Dust, maybe? Mars had been dusty, a waste of reddish sand and desert -silt that made the Sahara seem like paradise, and it had settled on -his spacesuit, to come in through the airlocks with him. But if it -contained some irritant, it should have been worse on Mars than now. He -could remember nothing annoying, and he'd turned on the tiny, compact -little static dust traps, in any case, before leaving, to clear the air.</p> - -<p>He went back to one of the traps now, and ripped the cover off it.</p> - -<p>The little motor purred briskly. The plastic rods turned against fur -brushes, while a wiper cleared off any dust they picked up. There was -no dust he could see; the traps had done their work.</p> - -<p>Some plant irritant, like poison ivy? No, he'd always worn his -suit—Mars had an atmosphere, but it wasn't anything a man could -breathe long. The suit was put on and off with automatic machine -grapples, so he couldn't have touched it.</p> - -<p>The rash seemed to get worse on his body as he looked at it. This -time, he tore one of the tissues in quarters as he sneezed. The little -supply was almost gone; there was never space enough for much beyond -essentials in a spaceship, even with the new atomic drive. As he looked -for spots, the burning in his nose seemed to increase.</p> - -<p>He dropped back to the pilot seat, cursing. Two months of being cramped -up in this cubicle, sweating out the trip to Mars without knowing how -the new engine would last; three weeks on Mars, mapping frantically to -cover all the territory he could, and planting little flags a hundred -miles apart; now a week on the trip back at high acceleration most of -the way—and this! He'd expected adventure of some kind. Mars, though, -had proved as interesting as a sandpile, and even the "canals" had -proved to be only mineral striations, invisible from the ground.</p> - -<p>He looked for something to do, but found nothing. He'd developed his -films the day before, after carefully cleaning the static traps and -making sure the air was dust-free. He'd written up the accounts. And -he'd been coasting along on the hope of getting home to a bath, a beer, -and a few bull sessions, before he began to capitalize on being the -first man to reach another planet beyond the Moon.</p> - -<p>He cut on full acceleration again, more certain of his motors than -of himself. He'd begun to notice the itching yesterday; today he was -breaking out in the rash. How long would whatever was coming take? Good -God, he might die—from something as humiliating and undramatic as this!</p> - -<p>It hadn't hit him before, fully. There was no knowing about diseases -from other planets. Men had developed immunity to the germs found on -Earth; but just as smallpox had proved so fatal to the Indians and -syphilis to Europe when they first hit, there was no telling how wildly -this might progress. It might go away in a day, or it might kill him -just as quickly.</p> - -<p>He was figuring his new orbit on a tiny calculator. In two days at this -acceleration, he could reach radar-distance of Earth; in four, he could -land. The tubes might burn out in continuous firing. But the other way, -he'd be two weeks making a landing, and most diseases he could remember -seemed faster than that.</p> - -<p>Bill wiped the sweat off his forehead, scratched at other places that -were itching, and stared down at the small disk of Earth. There were -doctors there—and, brother, he'd need them fast!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="400" height="309" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Things were a little worse when the first squeals came from the radar -two days later. He'd run out of tissues, and his nose was a continual -drip, while breathing seemed almost impossible. He was running some -fever, too, though he had no way of knowing how much.</p> - -<p>He cut his receiver in, punched out the code on his key. The receiver -pipped again at him, bits of message getting through, but unclearly. -There was no response to his signals. He checked his chronometer and -flipped over the micropages of his <i>Ephemeris</i>; the big radar at -Washington was still out of line with him, and the signals had to cut -through too much air to come clearly. It should be good in another hour.</p> - -<p>But right now, an hour seemed longer than a normal year. He checked the -dust tray again, tried figuring out other orbits, managed to locate -the Moon, and scratched. Fifteen minutes. There was no room for pacing -up and down. He pushed the back down from the pilot seat, lowered the -table, and pulled out his bunk; he remade it, making sure all the -corners were perfect. Then he folded it back and lifted the table and -seat. That took less than five minutes.</p> - -<p>His hands were shaking worse when the automatic radar signals began -to come through more clearly. It wasn't an hour, but he could wait -no longer. He opened the key and began to send. It would take fifteen -seconds for the signal to reach Earth, and another quarter minute for -an answer, even if an operator was on duty.</p> - -<p>Half a minute later, he found one was. "Earth to Mars Rocket I. Thank -God, you're ahead of schedule. If your tubes hold out, crowd them. Two -other nations have ships out now. The U. N. has ruled that whoever -comes back first with mapping surveys can claim the territory mapped. -We're rushing the construction, but we need the ship for the second run -if we're to claim our fair territory. Aw, hell—congratulations!"</p> - -<p>He'd started hammering at his key before they finished, giving the -facts on the tubes, which were standing up beyond all expectations. -"And get a doctor ready—a bunch of them," he finished. "I seem to have -picked up something like a disease."</p> - -<p>There was a long delay before an answer came this time—more than five -minutes. The hand on the key was obviously different, slower and not as -steady. "What symptoms, Adams? Give all details!"</p> - -<p>He began, giving all the information he had, from the first itching -through the rash and the fever. Again, longer this time, the main -station hesitated.</p> - -<p>"Anything I can do about it now?" Bill asked, finally. "And how about -having those doctors ready?"</p> - -<p>"We're checking with Medical," the signals answered. "We're.... Here's -their report. Not enough data—could be anything. Dozens of diseases -like that. Nothing you can do, except try salt water gargle and spray; -you've got stuff for that. Wash off rash with soap and hot water, -followed by some of your hypo. We'll get a medical kit up to the Moon -for you."</p> - -<p>He let that sink in, then clicked back: "The <i>Moon</i>?"</p> - -<p>"You think you can land here with whatever you've got, man? There's no -way of knowing how contagious it is. And keep an hourly check with us. -If you pass out, we'll try to get someone out in a Moon rocket to pick -you up. But we can't risk danger of infecting the whole planet. You're -quarantined on the Moon—we'll send up landing instructions later—not -even for Luna Base, but where there will be no chance of contamination -for others. You didn't really expect to come back here, did you, Adams?"</p> - -<p>He should have thought of it. He knew that. And he knew that the words -from Earth weren't as callous as they sounded. Down there, men would -be sweating with him, going crazy trying to do something. But they were -right. Earth had to be protected first; Bill Adams was only one out of -two and a half billions, even if he had reached a planet before any -other man.</p> - -<p>Yeah, it was fine to be a hero. But heroes shouldn't menace the rest of -the world.</p> - -<p>Logically, he knew they were right. That helped him get his emotions -under control. "Where do you want me to put down?"</p> - -<p>"Tycho. It isn't hard to spot for radar-controlled delivery of -supplies to you, but it's a good seven hundred miles from Lunar Base. -And look—we'll try to get a doctor to you. But keep us informed if -anything slips. We need those maps, if we can find a way to sterilize -'em."</p> - -<p>"Okay," he acknowledged. "And tell the cartographers there are no -craters, no intelligence, and only plants about half an inch high. Mars -stinks."</p> - -<p>They'd already been busy, he saw, as he teetered down on his jets for a -landing on Tycho. Holding control was the hardest job he'd ever done. -A series of itchings cropped out just as the work got tricky, when he -could no longer see the surface, and had to go by feel. But somehow he -made it. Then he relaxed and began an orgy of scratching.</p> - -<p>And he'd thought there was something romantic about being a hero!</p> - -<p>The supplies that had already been sent up by the superfast unmanned -missiles would give him something to do, at least. He moved back the -two feet needed to reach his developing tanks and went through the -process of spraying and gargling. It was soothing enough while it went -on, but it offered only momentary help.</p> - -<p>Then his stomach began showing distress signs. He fought against it, -tightening up. It did no good. His hasty breakfast of just black coffee -wanted to come up—and did, giving him barely time to make the little -booth.</p> - -<p>He washed his mouth out and grabbed for the radar key, banging out a -report on this. The doctors must have been standing by down at the big -station, because there was only a slight delay before the answering -signal came: "Any blood?"</p> - -<p>Another knot added itself to his intestines. "I don't know—don't think -so, but I didn't look."</p> - -<p>"Look, next time. We're trying to get this related to some of the -familiar diseases. It must have some relation—there are only so many -ways a man can be sick. We've got a doctor coming over, Adams. None -on the Moon, but we're shipping him through. He'll set down in about -nine hours. And there's some stuff to take on the supply missiles. May -not help, but we're trying a mixture of the antibiotics. Also some ACS -and anodynes for the itching and rash. Hope they work. Let us know any -reaction."</p> - -<p>Bill cut off. He'd have to try. They were as much in the dark about -this as he was, but they had a better background for guessing and trial -and error. And if the bugs in him happened to like tachiomycetin, he -wouldn't be too much worse off. Damn it, <i>had</i> there been blood?</p> - -<p>He forced his mind off it, climbed into his clothes and then into the -spacesuit that hung from the grapples. It moved automatically into -position, the two halves sliding shut and sealing from outside. The big -gloves on his hands were too clumsy for such operations.</p> - -<p>Then he went bounding across the Moon. Halfway to the supplies he felt -the itching come back, and he slithered and wriggled around, trying -to scratch his skin against his clothing. It didn't help much. He was -sweating harder, and his eyes were watering. He manipulated the little -visor-cleaning gadget, trying to poke his face forward to brush the -frustration tears from his eyes. He couldn't quite reach it.</p> - -<p>There were three supply missiles, each holding about two hundred -pounds, Earth weight. He tied them together and slung them over his -back, heading toward his ship. Here they weighed only a hundred pounds, -and with his own weight and the suit added, the whole load came to -little more than his normal weight on Earth.</p> - -<p>He tried shifting the supplies around on his back, getting them to -press against the spots of torment as he walked. It simply unbalanced -him, without really relieving the itching. Fortunately, though, his -eyes were clearing a little. He gritted his teeth and fought back -through the powdery pumice surface, kicking up clouds of dust that -settled slowly but completely—though the gravity was low, there was no -air to hold them up.</p> - -<p>Nothing had ever looked better than the airlock of the ship. He let the -grapples hook the suit off him as soon as the outer seal was shut and -went into a whirling dervish act. Aches and pains could be stood—but -<i>itching</i>!</p> - -<p>Apparently, though, the spray and gargle had helped a little, since -his nose felt somewhat clearer and his eyes were definitely better. He -repeated them, and then found the medical supplies, with a long list of -instructions.</p> - -<p>They were really shooting the pharmacy at him. He injected himself, -swallowed things, rubbed himself down with others, and waited. Whatever -they'd given him didn't offer any immediate help. He began to feel -worse. But on contacting Earth by radar, he was assured that that might -be expected.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="600" height="355" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"We've got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and -photos—plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on the -metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that's bringing -the doctor. The pilot will blast over it—that should sterilize it—and -pick it up when it cools."</p> - -<p>Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading out -across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had helped the -itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown worse again.</p> - -<p>He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile, -packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was acting -up as he sweated—this made a real load, about like packing a hundred -bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft drift of the -pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was apparently becoming -cyclic. He'd have to relay that information back to the medics. And -where were they getting a doctor crazy enough to take a chance with him?</p> - -<p>He climbed out of the suit and went through the ritual of scratching, -noticing that his fever had gone up, and that his muscles were shaking. -His head seemed light, as if he were in for a spell of dizziness. -They'd be interested in that, back on Earth, though it wouldn't do much -good. He couldn't work up a clinical attitude about himself. All he -wanted was a chance to get over this disease before it killed him.</p> - -<p>He dragged out the photo and copying equipment, under a red light. -It filled what little space was left in his cubbyhole cabin. Then he -swore, gulping down more of the pills where they were waiting for him. -The metal sheets were fine. They were excellent. The only thing wrong -was that they wouldn't fit his developing trays—and they were tough -enough to give him no way of cutting them to size.</p> - -<p>He stuffed them back in their container and shoved it into the -airlock. Then his stomach kicked up again. He couldn't see any blood in -the result, but he couldn't be sure—the color of the pills might hide -traces. He flushed it down, his head turning in circles, and went to -the radar. This time he didn't even wait for a reply; let them worry -about their damned maps. They could send cutting equipment with the -doctor and pick up the things later. They could pick up his corpse and -cremate it at the same time, for all he cared right now.</p> - -<p>He yanked out his bunk and slumped into it, curling up as much as the -itching would permit. And finally, for the first time in over fifty -hours, he managed to doze off, though his sleep was full of nightmares.</p> - -<p>It was the sound of the bull-throated chemical rocket that brought him -out of it—the sound traveling along the surface through the -rocks and up through the metal ship, even without air to carry it.</p> - -<p>He could feel the rumble of its takeoff later, but he waited long after -that for the doctor. There was no knock on the port. Finally he pulled -himself up from the bunk, sweating and shaken, and looked out.</p> - -<p>The doctor was there—or at least a man in a spacesuit was. But -somebody had been in a hurry for volunteers, and given the man no -basic training at all. The figure would pull itself erect, make a few -strides that were all bounce and no progress, and then slide down into -the pumice. Moon-walking was tricky until you learned how.</p> - -<p>Bill sighed, scratching unconsciously, and made his way somehow out to -his suit, climbing into it. He paused for a final good scratch, and -then the grapples took over. This time, he stumbled also as he made his -way across the powdery rubble. But the other man was making no real -progress at all.</p> - -<p>Bill reached him, and touched helmets long enough to issue simple -instructions through metal sound conduction. Then he managed to guide -the other's steps; there had been accounts of the days of learning -spent by the first men on the Moon, but it wasn't that bad with an -instructor to help. The doctor picked up as they went along. Bill's -legs were buckling under him by then, and the itches were past -endurance. At the end, the doctor was helping him. But somehow they -made the ship, and were getting out of the suits—Bill first, then the -doctor, using the grapples under Bill's guidance.</p> - -<p>The doctor was young, and obviously scared, but fighting his fear. He'd -been picked for his smallness to lighten the load on the chemical -rocket, and his little face was intent. But he managed a weak grin.</p> - -<p>"Thanks, Adams. I'm Doctor Ames—Ted to you. Get onto that cot. You're -about out on your feet."</p> - -<p>The test he made didn't take long, but his head was shaking at the -conclusion.</p> - -<p>"Your symptoms make no sense," he summarized. "I've got a feeling some -are due to one thing, some to another. Maybe we'll have to wait until I -come down with it and compare notes."</p> - -<p>His grin was wry, but Bill was vaguely glad that he wasn't trying -any bedside manner. There wasn't much use in thanking the man for -volunteering—Ames had known what he was up against, and he might be -scared, but his courage was above thanks.</p> - -<p>"What about the maps?" Bill asked. "They tell you?"</p> - -<p>"They've left cutters outside. I started to bring them. Then the pumice -got me—I couldn't stand upright in it. They'll pick up the maps later, -but they're important. The competing ships will claim our territory if -we don't file first."</p> - -<p>He knocked the dust off his instrument, and wiped his hands. Bill -looked down at the bed to see a fine film of Moon silt there. They'd -been bringing in too much on the suits—it was too fine, and the traps -weren't getting it fast enough.</p> - -<p>He got up shakily, moving toward the dust trap that had been running -steadily. But now it was out of order, obviously, with the fur brushes -worn down until they could generate almost no static against the rod. -He groped into the supplies, hoping there would be replacements.</p> - -<p>Ames caught his arm. "Cut it out, Adams. You're in no shape for this. -Hey, how long since you've eaten?"</p> - -<p>Bill thought it over, his head thick. "I had coffee before I landed."</p> - -<p>Doctor Ames nodded quickly. "Vomiting, dizziness, tremors, excess -sweating—what did you expect, man? You put yourself under this strain, -not knowing what comes next, having to land with an empty stomach, -skipping meals and loading your stomach with pills—and probably no -sleep! Those symptoms are perfectly normal."</p> - -<p>He was at the tiny galley equipment, fixing quick food as he spoke. But -his face was still sober. He was probably thinking of the same thing -that worried Bill—an empty stomach didn't make the itching rash, the -runny nose and eyes, and the general misery that had begun the whole -thing.</p> - -<p>He sorted through the stock of replacement parts, a few field-sistors, -suit wadding, spare gloves, cellophane-wrapped gadgets. Then he had it. -Ames was over, urging him toward the cot, but he shook him off.</p> - -<p>"Got to get the dust out of here—dust'll make the itching worse. -Moon dust is sharp, Doc. Just install new brushes.... Where are those -instructions? Yeah, insert the cat's fur brushes under the.... <i>Cat</i>'s -fur? Is <i>that</i> what they use, Doc?"</p> - -<p>"Sure. It's cheap and generates static electricity. Do you expect -sable?"</p> - -<p>Bill took the can of soup and sipped it without tasting or thinking, -his hand going toward a fresh place that itched. His nose began -running, but he disregarded it. He still felt lousy, but strength was -flowing through him, and life was almost good again.</p> - -<p>He tossed the bunk back into its slot, lifted the pilot's stool, and -motioned Ames forward. "You operate a key—hell, I <i>am</i> getting slow. -You can contact Luna Base by phone, have them relay. There. Now tell -'em I'm blasting off pronto for Earth, and I'll be down in four hours -with their plans."</p> - -<p>"You're crazy." The words were flat, but there was desperation on the -little doctor's face. He glanced about hastily, taking the microphone -woodenly. "Adams, they'll have an atomic bomb up to blast you out -before you're near Earth. They've got to protect themselves. You -can't...."</p> - -<p>Bill scratched, but there was the beginning of a grin on his face. -"Nope, I'm not delirious now, though I damn near cracked up. You -figured out half the symptoms. Take a look at those brushes—cat's fur -brushes—and figure what they'll do to a man who was breathing the air -and who is allergic to cats! All I ever had was some jerk in Planning -who didn't check my medical record with trip logistics! I never had -these symptoms until I unzipped the traps and turned 'em on. It got -better whenever I was in the suit, breathing canned air. We should have -known a man can't catch a disease from plants."</p> - -<p>The doctor looked at him, and at the fur pieces he'd thrown into a -wastebin, and the whiteness ran from his face. He was seeing his own -salvation, and the chuckle began weakly, gathering strength as he -turned to the microphone.</p> - -<p>"Cat asthma—simple allergy. Who'd figure you'd get that in deep space? -But you're right, Bill. It figures."</p> - -<p>Bill Adams nodded as he reached for the controls, and the tubes began -firing, ready to take them back to Earth. Then he caught himself and -swung to the doctor.</p> - -<p>"Doc," he said quickly, "just be sure and tell them this isn't to get -out. If they'll keep still about it, so will I."</p> - -<p>He'd make a hell of a hero on Earth if people heard of it, and he could -use a little of a hero's reward.</p> - -<p>No catcalls, thanks.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Operation Distress, by Lester del Rey - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPERATION DISTRESS *** - -***** This file should be named 51168-h.htm or 51168-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/1/6/51168/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: Operation Distress - -Author: Lester del Rey - -Release Date: February 10, 2016 [EBook #51168] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPERATION DISTRESS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - OPERATION DISTRESS - - By LESTER DEL REY - - Illustrated by WILLER - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Galaxy Science Fiction August 1951. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - - Explorers who dread spiders and snakes prove that heroism - is always more heroic to outsiders. Then there's the case - of the first space pilot to Mars who developed the itch-- - - -Bill Adams was halfway back from Mars when he noticed the red rash on -his hands. He'd been reaching for one of the few remaining tissues to -cover a sneeze, while scratching vigorously at the base of his neck. -Then he saw the red spot, and his hand halted, while all desire to -sneeze gasped out of him. - -He sat there, five feet seven inches of lean muscle and bronzed skin, -sweating and staring, while the blond hair on the back of his neck -seemed to stand on end. Finally he dropped his hand and pulled himself -carefully erect. The cabin in the spaceship was big enough to permit -turning around, but not much more, and with the ship cruising without -power, there was almost no gravity to keep him from overshooting his -goal. - -He found the polished plate that served as a mirror and studied -himself. His eyes were puffy, his nose was red, and there were other -red splotches and marks on his face. - -Whatever it was, he had it bad! - -Pictures went through his head, all unpleasant. He'd been only a kid -when the men came back from the South Pacific in the last war; but an -uncle had spent years dying of some weird disease that the doctors -couldn't identify. That had been from something caught on Earth. What -would happen when the disease was from another planet? - -It was ridiculous. Mars had no animal life, and even the thin -lichenlike plants were sparse and tiny. A man couldn't catch a disease -from a plant. Even horses didn't communicate their ills to men. Then -Bill remembered gangrene and cancer, which could attack any life, -apparently. - -He went back to the tiny Geiger-Muller counter, but there was no sign -of radiation from the big atomic motor that powered the ship. He -stripped his clothes off, spotting more of the red marks breaking out, -but finding no sign of parasites. He hadn't really believed it, anyhow. -That wouldn't account for the sneezing and sniffles, or the puffed eyes -and burning inside his nose and throat. - -Dust, maybe? Mars had been dusty, a waste of reddish sand and desert -silt that made the Sahara seem like paradise, and it had settled on -his spacesuit, to come in through the airlocks with him. But if it -contained some irritant, it should have been worse on Mars than now. He -could remember nothing annoying, and he'd turned on the tiny, compact -little static dust traps, in any case, before leaving, to clear the air. - -He went back to one of the traps now, and ripped the cover off it. - -The little motor purred briskly. The plastic rods turned against fur -brushes, while a wiper cleared off any dust they picked up. There was -no dust he could see; the traps had done their work. - -Some plant irritant, like poison ivy? No, he'd always worn his -suit--Mars had an atmosphere, but it wasn't anything a man could -breathe long. The suit was put on and off with automatic machine -grapples, so he couldn't have touched it. - -The rash seemed to get worse on his body as he looked at it. This -time, he tore one of the tissues in quarters as he sneezed. The little -supply was almost gone; there was never space enough for much beyond -essentials in a spaceship, even with the new atomic drive. As he looked -for spots, the burning in his nose seemed to increase. - -He dropped back to the pilot seat, cursing. Two months of being cramped -up in this cubicle, sweating out the trip to Mars without knowing how -the new engine would last; three weeks on Mars, mapping frantically to -cover all the territory he could, and planting little flags a hundred -miles apart; now a week on the trip back at high acceleration most of -the way--and this! He'd expected adventure of some kind. Mars, though, -had proved as interesting as a sandpile, and even the "canals" had -proved to be only mineral striations, invisible from the ground. - -He looked for something to do, but found nothing. He'd developed his -films the day before, after carefully cleaning the static traps and -making sure the air was dust-free. He'd written up the accounts. And -he'd been coasting along on the hope of getting home to a bath, a beer, -and a few bull sessions, before he began to capitalize on being the -first man to reach another planet beyond the Moon. - -He cut on full acceleration again, more certain of his motors than -of himself. He'd begun to notice the itching yesterday; today he was -breaking out in the rash. How long would whatever was coming take? Good -God, he might die--from something as humiliating and undramatic as this! - -It hadn't hit him before, fully. There was no knowing about diseases -from other planets. Men had developed immunity to the germs found on -Earth; but just as smallpox had proved so fatal to the Indians and -syphilis to Europe when they first hit, there was no telling how wildly -this might progress. It might go away in a day, or it might kill him -just as quickly. - -He was figuring his new orbit on a tiny calculator. In two days at this -acceleration, he could reach radar-distance of Earth; in four, he could -land. The tubes might burn out in continuous firing. But the other way, -he'd be two weeks making a landing, and most diseases he could remember -seemed faster than that. - -Bill wiped the sweat off his forehead, scratched at other places that -were itching, and stared down at the small disk of Earth. There were -doctors there--and, brother, he'd need them fast! - -Things were a little worse when the first squeals came from the radar -two days later. He'd run out of tissues, and his nose was a continual -drip, while breathing seemed almost impossible. He was running some -fever, too, though he had no way of knowing how much. - -He cut his receiver in, punched out the code on his key. The receiver -pipped again at him, bits of message getting through, but unclearly. -There was no response to his signals. He checked his chronometer and -flipped over the micropages of his _Ephemeris_; the big radar at -Washington was still out of line with him, and the signals had to cut -through too much air to come clearly. It should be good in another hour. - -But right now, an hour seemed longer than a normal year. He checked the -dust tray again, tried figuring out other orbits, managed to locate -the Moon, and scratched. Fifteen minutes. There was no room for pacing -up and down. He pushed the back down from the pilot seat, lowered the -table, and pulled out his bunk; he remade it, making sure all the -corners were perfect. Then he folded it back and lifted the table and -seat. That took less than five minutes. - -His hands were shaking worse when the automatic radar signals began -to come through more clearly. It wasn't an hour, but he could wait -no longer. He opened the key and began to send. It would take fifteen -seconds for the signal to reach Earth, and another quarter minute for -an answer, even if an operator was on duty. - -Half a minute later, he found one was. "Earth to Mars Rocket I. Thank -God, you're ahead of schedule. If your tubes hold out, crowd them. Two -other nations have ships out now. The U. N. has ruled that whoever -comes back first with mapping surveys can claim the territory mapped. -We're rushing the construction, but we need the ship for the second run -if we're to claim our fair territory. Aw, hell--congratulations!" - -He'd started hammering at his key before they finished, giving the -facts on the tubes, which were standing up beyond all expectations. -"And get a doctor ready--a bunch of them," he finished. "I seem to have -picked up something like a disease." - -There was a long delay before an answer came this time--more than five -minutes. The hand on the key was obviously different, slower and not as -steady. "What symptoms, Adams? Give all details!" - -He began, giving all the information he had, from the first itching -through the rash and the fever. Again, longer this time, the main -station hesitated. - -"Anything I can do about it now?" Bill asked, finally. "And how about -having those doctors ready?" - -"We're checking with Medical," the signals answered. "We're.... Here's -their report. Not enough data--could be anything. Dozens of diseases -like that. Nothing you can do, except try salt water gargle and spray; -you've got stuff for that. Wash off rash with soap and hot water, -followed by some of your hypo. We'll get a medical kit up to the Moon -for you." - -He let that sink in, then clicked back: "The _Moon_?" - -"You think you can land here with whatever you've got, man? There's no -way of knowing how contagious it is. And keep an hourly check with us. -If you pass out, we'll try to get someone out in a Moon rocket to pick -you up. But we can't risk danger of infecting the whole planet. You're -quarantined on the Moon--we'll send up landing instructions later--not -even for Luna Base, but where there will be no chance of contamination -for others. You didn't really expect to come back here, did you, Adams?" - -He should have thought of it. He knew that. And he knew that the words -from Earth weren't as callous as they sounded. Down there, men would -be sweating with him, going crazy trying to do something. But they were -right. Earth had to be protected first; Bill Adams was only one out of -two and a half billions, even if he had reached a planet before any -other man. - -Yeah, it was fine to be a hero. But heroes shouldn't menace the rest of -the world. - -Logically, he knew they were right. That helped him get his emotions -under control. "Where do you want me to put down?" - -"Tycho. It isn't hard to spot for radar-controlled delivery of -supplies to you, but it's a good seven hundred miles from Lunar Base. -And look--we'll try to get a doctor to you. But keep us informed if -anything slips. We need those maps, if we can find a way to sterilize -'em." - -"Okay," he acknowledged. "And tell the cartographers there are no -craters, no intelligence, and only plants about half an inch high. Mars -stinks." - -They'd already been busy, he saw, as he teetered down on his jets for a -landing on Tycho. Holding control was the hardest job he'd ever done. -A series of itchings cropped out just as the work got tricky, when he -could no longer see the surface, and had to go by feel. But somehow he -made it. Then he relaxed and began an orgy of scratching. - -And he'd thought there was something romantic about being a hero! - -The supplies that had already been sent up by the superfast unmanned -missiles would give him something to do, at least. He moved back the -two feet needed to reach his developing tanks and went through the -process of spraying and gargling. It was soothing enough while it went -on, but it offered only momentary help. - -Then his stomach began showing distress signs. He fought against it, -tightening up. It did no good. His hasty breakfast of just black coffee -wanted to come up--and did, giving him barely time to make the little -booth. - -He washed his mouth out and grabbed for the radar key, banging out a -report on this. The doctors must have been standing by down at the big -station, because there was only a slight delay before the answering -signal came: "Any blood?" - -Another knot added itself to his intestines. "I don't know--don't think -so, but I didn't look." - -"Look, next time. We're trying to get this related to some of the -familiar diseases. It must have some relation--there are only so many -ways a man can be sick. We've got a doctor coming over, Adams. None -on the Moon, but we're shipping him through. He'll set down in about -nine hours. And there's some stuff to take on the supply missiles. May -not help, but we're trying a mixture of the antibiotics. Also some ACS -and anodynes for the itching and rash. Hope they work. Let us know any -reaction." - -Bill cut off. He'd have to try. They were as much in the dark about -this as he was, but they had a better background for guessing and trial -and error. And if the bugs in him happened to like tachiomycetin, he -wouldn't be too much worse off. Damn it, _had_ there been blood? - -He forced his mind off it, climbed into his clothes and then into the -spacesuit that hung from the grapples. It moved automatically into -position, the two halves sliding shut and sealing from outside. The big -gloves on his hands were too clumsy for such operations. - -Then he went bounding across the Moon. Halfway to the supplies he felt -the itching come back, and he slithered and wriggled around, trying -to scratch his skin against his clothing. It didn't help much. He was -sweating harder, and his eyes were watering. He manipulated the little -visor-cleaning gadget, trying to poke his face forward to brush the -frustration tears from his eyes. He couldn't quite reach it. - -There were three supply missiles, each holding about two hundred -pounds, Earth weight. He tied them together and slung them over his -back, heading toward his ship. Here they weighed only a hundred pounds, -and with his own weight and the suit added, the whole load came to -little more than his normal weight on Earth. - -He tried shifting the supplies around on his back, getting them to -press against the spots of torment as he walked. It simply unbalanced -him, without really relieving the itching. Fortunately, though, his -eyes were clearing a little. He gritted his teeth and fought back -through the powdery pumice surface, kicking up clouds of dust that -settled slowly but completely--though the gravity was low, there was no -air to hold them up. - -Nothing had ever looked better than the airlock of the ship. He let the -grapples hook the suit off him as soon as the outer seal was shut and -went into a whirling dervish act. Aches and pains could be stood--but -_itching_! - -Apparently, though, the spray and gargle had helped a little, since -his nose felt somewhat clearer and his eyes were definitely better. He -repeated them, and then found the medical supplies, with a long list of -instructions. - -They were really shooting the pharmacy at him. He injected himself, -swallowed things, rubbed himself down with others, and waited. Whatever -they'd given him didn't offer any immediate help. He began to feel -worse. But on contacting Earth by radar, he was assured that that might -be expected. - -"We've got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and -photos--plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on the -metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that's bringing -the doctor. The pilot will blast over it--that should sterilize it--and -pick it up when it cools." - -Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading out -across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had helped the -itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown worse again. - -He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile, -packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was acting -up as he sweated--this made a real load, about like packing a hundred -bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft drift of the -pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was apparently becoming -cyclic. He'd have to relay that information back to the medics. And -where were they getting a doctor crazy enough to take a chance with him? - -He climbed out of the suit and went through the ritual of scratching, -noticing that his fever had gone up, and that his muscles were shaking. -His head seemed light, as if he were in for a spell of dizziness. -They'd be interested in that, back on Earth, though it wouldn't do much -good. He couldn't work up a clinical attitude about himself. All he -wanted was a chance to get over this disease before it killed him. - -He dragged out the photo and copying equipment, under a red light. -It filled what little space was left in his cubbyhole cabin. Then he -swore, gulping down more of the pills where they were waiting for him. -The metal sheets were fine. They were excellent. The only thing wrong -was that they wouldn't fit his developing trays--and they were tough -enough to give him no way of cutting them to size. - -He stuffed them back in their container and shoved it into the -airlock. Then his stomach kicked up again. He couldn't see any blood in -the result, but he couldn't be sure--the color of the pills might hide -traces. He flushed it down, his head turning in circles, and went to -the radar. This time he didn't even wait for a reply; let them worry -about their damned maps. They could send cutting equipment with the -doctor and pick up the things later. They could pick up his corpse and -cremate it at the same time, for all he cared right now. - -He yanked out his bunk and slumped into it, curling up as much as the -itching would permit. And finally, for the first time in over fifty -hours, he managed to doze off, though his sleep was full of nightmares. - -It was the sound of the bull-throated chemical rocket that brought him -out of it--the sound traveling along the surface through the -rocks and up through the metal ship, even without air to carry it. - -He could feel the rumble of its takeoff later, but he waited long after -that for the doctor. There was no knock on the port. Finally he pulled -himself up from the bunk, sweating and shaken, and looked out. - -The doctor was there--or at least a man in a spacesuit was. But -somebody had been in a hurry for volunteers, and given the man no -basic training at all. The figure would pull itself erect, make a few -strides that were all bounce and no progress, and then slide down into -the pumice. Moon-walking was tricky until you learned how. - -Bill sighed, scratching unconsciously, and made his way somehow out to -his suit, climbing into it. He paused for a final good scratch, and -then the grapples took over. This time, he stumbled also as he made his -way across the powdery rubble. But the other man was making no real -progress at all. - -Bill reached him, and touched helmets long enough to issue simple -instructions through metal sound conduction. Then he managed to guide -the other's steps; there had been accounts of the days of learning -spent by the first men on the Moon, but it wasn't that bad with an -instructor to help. The doctor picked up as they went along. Bill's -legs were buckling under him by then, and the itches were past -endurance. At the end, the doctor was helping him. But somehow they -made the ship, and were getting out of the suits--Bill first, then the -doctor, using the grapples under Bill's guidance. - -The doctor was young, and obviously scared, but fighting his fear. He'd -been picked for his smallness to lighten the load on the chemical -rocket, and his little face was intent. But he managed a weak grin. - -"Thanks, Adams. I'm Doctor Ames--Ted to you. Get onto that cot. You're -about out on your feet." - -The test he made didn't take long, but his head was shaking at the -conclusion. - -"Your symptoms make no sense," he summarized. "I've got a feeling some -are due to one thing, some to another. Maybe we'll have to wait until I -come down with it and compare notes." - -His grin was wry, but Bill was vaguely glad that he wasn't trying -any bedside manner. There wasn't much use in thanking the man for -volunteering--Ames had known what he was up against, and he might be -scared, but his courage was above thanks. - -"What about the maps?" Bill asked. "They tell you?" - -"They've left cutters outside. I started to bring them. Then the pumice -got me--I couldn't stand upright in it. They'll pick up the maps later, -but they're important. The competing ships will claim our territory if -we don't file first." - -He knocked the dust off his instrument, and wiped his hands. Bill -looked down at the bed to see a fine film of Moon silt there. They'd -been bringing in too much on the suits--it was too fine, and the traps -weren't getting it fast enough. - -He got up shakily, moving toward the dust trap that had been running -steadily. But now it was out of order, obviously, with the fur brushes -worn down until they could generate almost no static against the rod. -He groped into the supplies, hoping there would be replacements. - -Ames caught his arm. "Cut it out, Adams. You're in no shape for this. -Hey, how long since you've eaten?" - -Bill thought it over, his head thick. "I had coffee before I landed." - -Doctor Ames nodded quickly. "Vomiting, dizziness, tremors, excess -sweating--what did you expect, man? You put yourself under this strain, -not knowing what comes next, having to land with an empty stomach, -skipping meals and loading your stomach with pills--and probably no -sleep! Those symptoms are perfectly normal." - -He was at the tiny galley equipment, fixing quick food as he spoke. But -his face was still sober. He was probably thinking of the same thing -that worried Bill--an empty stomach didn't make the itching rash, the -runny nose and eyes, and the general misery that had begun the whole -thing. - -He sorted through the stock of replacement parts, a few field-sistors, -suit wadding, spare gloves, cellophane-wrapped gadgets. Then he had it. -Ames was over, urging him toward the cot, but he shook him off. - -"Got to get the dust out of here--dust'll make the itching worse. -Moon dust is sharp, Doc. Just install new brushes.... Where are those -instructions? Yeah, insert the cat's fur brushes under the.... _Cat_'s -fur? Is _that_ what they use, Doc?" - -"Sure. It's cheap and generates static electricity. Do you expect -sable?" - -Bill took the can of soup and sipped it without tasting or thinking, -his hand going toward a fresh place that itched. His nose began -running, but he disregarded it. He still felt lousy, but strength was -flowing through him, and life was almost good again. - -He tossed the bunk back into its slot, lifted the pilot's stool, and -motioned Ames forward. "You operate a key--hell, I _am_ getting slow. -You can contact Luna Base by phone, have them relay. There. Now tell -'em I'm blasting off pronto for Earth, and I'll be down in four hours -with their plans." - -"You're crazy." The words were flat, but there was desperation on the -little doctor's face. He glanced about hastily, taking the microphone -woodenly. "Adams, they'll have an atomic bomb up to blast you out -before you're near Earth. They've got to protect themselves. You -can't...." - -Bill scratched, but there was the beginning of a grin on his face. -"Nope, I'm not delirious now, though I damn near cracked up. You -figured out half the symptoms. Take a look at those brushes--cat's fur -brushes--and figure what they'll do to a man who was breathing the air -and who is allergic to cats! All I ever had was some jerk in Planning -who didn't check my medical record with trip logistics! I never had -these symptoms until I unzipped the traps and turned 'em on. It got -better whenever I was in the suit, breathing canned air. We should have -known a man can't catch a disease from plants." - -The doctor looked at him, and at the fur pieces he'd thrown into a -wastebin, and the whiteness ran from his face. He was seeing his own -salvation, and the chuckle began weakly, gathering strength as he -turned to the microphone. - -"Cat asthma--simple allergy. Who'd figure you'd get that in deep space? -But you're right, Bill. It figures." - -Bill Adams nodded as he reached for the controls, and the tubes began -firing, ready to take them back to Earth. Then he caught himself and -swung to the doctor. - -"Doc," he said quickly, "just be sure and tell them this isn't to get -out. If they'll keep still about it, so will I." - -He'd make a hell of a hero on Earth if people heard of it, and he could -use a little of a hero's reward. - -No catcalls, thanks. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Operation Distress, by Lester del Rey - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPERATION DISTRESS *** - -***** This file should be named 51168.txt or 51168.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/1/6/51168/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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