Honeymoon in Hell Read online

  Carmody sat back and watched Junior’s complicated bank of dials, switches and lights with a bored eye. And because the intake-mike was shut off and Junior couldn’t hear what he was saying anyway, and because the control room was soundproofed so no one else could hear him, either, he spoke freely.

  “Junior,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re a washout on this particular deal. We’ve fed you everything that every geneticist, every chemist, every biologist in this half of the world knows, and all you do is come up with that ‘data insufficient’ stuff. What do you want—blood?

  “Oh, you’re pretty good on some things. You’re a whiz on orbits and rocket fuels, but you just can’t understand women, can you? Well, I can’t either; I’ll give you that. And I’ve got to admit you’ve done the human race a good turn on one deal—atomics. You convinced us that if we completed and used H-bombs, both sides would lose the coming war. I mean /aye. And we’ve got inside information that the other side got the same answer out of your brothers, the cybernetics machines over there, so they won’t build or use them, either. Winning a war with H-bombs is about like winning a wrestling match with hand grenades; it’s just as unhealthful for you as for your opponent. But we weren’t talking about hand grenades. We were talking about women. Or I was. Listen, Junior—”

  A light, not on Junior’s panel but in the ceiling, flashed on and off, the signal for an incoming intercommunicator call. It would be from the Chief Operative, of course; no one else could connect—by intercommunicator or any other method—with this control room.

  Carmody threw a switch.

  “Busy, Carmody?”

  “Not at the moment, Chief. Just fed Junior that stuff on molecular structure of genes and chromosomes. Waiting for him to tell me it’s not enough data, but it’ll take him a few minutes yet.”

  “Okay. You’re off duty in fifteen minutes. Will you come

  to my office as soon as you’re relieved? The President wants to talk to you.”

  Carmody said, “Goody. I'll put on my best pinafore.”

  He threw the switch again. Quickly, because a green light was flashing on Junior’s panel.

  He reconnected the intake-and output-mikes and said, “Well, Junior?”

  “Data insufficient,” said Junior’s level mechanical voice.

  Carmody sighed and noted the machine’s answer on the report ending in a question which he had fed into the mike. He said, “Junior, I’m ashamed of you. All right, let’s see if there’s anything else I can ask and get an answer to in fifteen minutes.”

  He picked up a pile of several files from the table in front of him and leafed through them quickly. None contained fewer than three pages of data.

  “Nope,” he said, “not a thing here I can give you in fifteen minutes, and Bob will be here to relieve me then.”

  He sat back and relaxed. He wasn’t ducking work; experience had proven that, although an AE7 cybernetics machine could accept verbal data in conformance with whatever vocabulary it had been given, and translate that data into mathematical symbols (as it translated the mathematical symbols of its answer back into words and mechanically spoke the words), it could not adapt itself to a change of voice within a given operation. It could, and did, adjust itself to understanding, as it were, Carmody’s voice or the voice of Bob Dana who would shortly relieve him. But if Carmody started on a given problem, he’d have to finish it himself, or Bob would have to dear the board and start all over again. So there was no use starting something he wouldn’t have time to finish.

  He glanced through some of the reports and questions to kill time. The one dealing with the space station interested him most, but he found it too technical to understand.

  “But you won’t,” he told Junior. “Pal, I’ve got to give that to you; when it comes to anything except women, you’re really good.”

  The switch was open, but since no question had been asked, of course Junior didn’t answer.

  Carmody put down the files and glowered at Junior. “Junior,” he said, “that’s your weakness all right, women. And you can’t have genetics without women, can you?”

  ‘‘No,” Junior said.

  “Well, you do know that much. But even I know it. Look, here’s one that’ll stump you. That blonde I met at the party last night. What about her?”

  “The question,” said Junior, “is inadequately worded; please clarify.”

  Carmody grinned. “You want me to get graphic, but Til fool you. I’ll just ask you this—should I see her again?”

  “No,” said Junior, mechanically but implacably.

  Carmody’s eyebrows went up. “The devil you say. And may I ask why, since you haven’t met the lady, you say that?”

  “Yes. You may ask why.”

  That was one trouble with Junior; he always answered the question you actually asked, not the one you implied.

  “Why?” Carmody demanded, genuinely curious now as to what answer he was going to receive. “Specifically, why should I not again see the blonde I met last night?”

  ‘Tonight,” said Junior, “you will be busy. Before tomorrow night you will be married.”

  Carmody almost literally jumped out of his chair. The cybernetics machine had gone stark raving crazy. It must have. There was no more chance of his getting married tomorrow than there was of a kangaroo giving birth to a portable typewriter. And besides and beyond that, Junior never made predictions of the future—except, of course, on such things as orbits and statistical extrapolation of trends.

  Carmody was still staring at Junior’s impassive panel with utter disbelief and considerable consternation when the red light that was the equivalent of a doorbell flashed in the ceiling. His shift was up and Bob Dana had come to relieve him. There wasn’t time to ask any further questions and, anyway, “Are you crazy?” was the only one he could think of at the moment.

  Carmody didn’t ask it. He didn’t want to know.

  Carmody switched off both mikes and stood gazing at Junior’s impassive panel for a long time. He shook his head, went to the door and opened it.

  Bob Dana breezed in and then stopped to look at Carmody. He said, “Something the matter, Ray? You look like you’d just seen a ghost, if I may coin a cliche.”

  Carmody shook his head. He wanted to think before he talked to anybody—and if he did decide to talk, it should be to Chief Operative Reeber and not to anyone else. He said, “Just I’m a little beat, Bob.”

  “Nothing special up?”

  “Nope. Unless maybe I'm going to be fired. Reeber wants to see me on my way out.” He grinned. “Says the President wants to talk to me.”

  Bob chuckled appreciatively. “If he’s in a kidding mood, then your job’s safe for one more day. Good luck.”

  The soundproof door closed and locked behind Carmody, and he nodded to the two armed guards who were posted on duty outside it. He tried to think things out carefully as he walked down the long stretch of corridor to the Chief Operator’s office.

  Had something gone wrong with Junior? If so, it was his duty to report the matter. But if he did, he’d get himself in trouble, too. An Operative wasn’t supposed to ask private questions of the big cybernetics machine—even big, important questions. The fact that it had been a joking question would make it worse.

  But Junior had either given him a joking answer—and it couldn’t be that, because Junior didn’t have a sense of humor —or else Junior had made a flat, unadulterated error. Two of them, in fact. Junior had said that Carmody would be busy tonight and—well, a wheel could come off his idea of spending a quiet evening reading. But the idea of his getting married tomorrow was utterly preposterous. There wasn’t a woman on Earth he had the slightest intention of marrying. Oh, someday, maybe, when he’d had a little more fun out of life and felt a little more ready to settle down, he might feel differently. But it wouldn’t be for years. Certainly not tomorrow, not even on a bet.

  Junior had to be wrong, and if he was wrong it was a matter of importance, a
matter far more important than Carmody’s job.

  So be honest and report? He made his decision just before he reached the door of Reeber’s office. A reasonable compromise. He didn’t know yet that Junior was wrong. Not to a point of mathematical certainty—just a billion to one odds against. So he’d wait until even that possibility was eliminated, until it was proven beyond all possible doubt that Junior was wrong. Then he’d report what he’d done and take the rap, if there was a rap. Maybe he’d just be fined and warned.

  He opened the door and stepped in. Chief Operative Reeber stood up and, on the other side of the desk, a tall gray-haired man stood also. Reeber said, “Ray, I’d like you to meet the President of the United States. He came here to talk to you. Mr. President, Captain Ray Carmody.”

  And it was the President; Carmody gulped and tried to avoid looking as though he was doing a double take, which he was. Then President Saunderson smiled quietly and held out his hand. “Very glad to know you, Captain,” he said, and Carmody was able to make the considerable understatement that he felt honored to meet the President.

  Reeber told him to pull up a chair and he did so. The President looked at him gravely. “Captain Carmody, you have been chosen to—have the opportunity to volunteer for a mission of extreme importance. There is danger involved, but it is less than the danger of your trip to the Moon. You made the third—wasn’t it?—out of the five successful trips made by the United States pilots?”

  Carmody nodded.

  “This time the risk you will take is considerably less. There has been much technological advance in rocketry since you left the service two years ago. The odds against a successful round trip—even without the help of the space station, and I fear its completion is still two years distant—are much less. In fact, you will have odds of ten to one in your favor, as against approximately even odds at the time of your previous trip.”

  Carmody sat up straighten “My previous trip! Then this volunteer mission is another flight to the Moon? Certainly, Mr. President, I’ll gladly—”

  President Saunderson held up a hand. “Wait, you haven’t heard all of it. The flight to the Moon and return is the only part that involves physical danger, but it is the least important part. Captain, this mission is, possibly, of more importance to humanity than the first flight to the Moon, even than the first flight to the stars—if and when we ever make it—will be. What’s at stake is the survival of the human race so that someday it can reach the stars. Your flight to the Moon will be an attempt to solve the problem which otherwise—”

  He paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Perhaps you’d better explain, Mr. Reeber. You’re more familiar with the exact way the problem was put to your machine, and its exact answers.”

  Reeber said, “Carmody, you know what the problem is. You know how much data has been fed into Junior on it You know some of the questions we’ve asked him, and that we’ve been able to eliminate certain things. Such as—well, it’s caused by no virus, no bacteria, nothing like that. It’s not anything like an epidemic, because it struck the whole Earth at once, simultaneously. Even native inhabitants of islands that had no contact with civilization.

  “We know also that whatever happens—whatever molecular change occurs—happens in the zygote after impregnation, very shortly after. We asked Junior whether an invisible ray of some sort could cause this. His answer was that it was possible. And in answer to a further question, he answered that this ray or force is possibly being used by— enemies of mankind.”

  “Insects? Animals? Martians?”

  Reeber waved a hand impatiently. “Martians, maybe, if there are any Martians. We don’t know that yet. But extraterrestrials, most likely. Now Junior couldn’t give us answers on this because, of course, we haven’t the relevant data. It would be guesswork for him as well as for us—and Junior, being mechanical, can’t guess. But here’s a possibility: “Suppose some extraterrestrials have landed somewhere on Earth and have set up a station that broadcasts a ray that is causing the phenomenon of all children being girl-children. The ray is undetectable; at least thus far we haven’t been able to detect it. They’d be killing off the human race and getting themselves a nice new planet to live on, without having to fire a shot, without taking any risk or losses themselves. True, they’ll have to wait a while for us to die off, but maybe that doesn’t mean anything to them. Maybe they’ve got all the time there is, and aren’t in the slightest hurry.” Carmody nodded slowly. “It sounds fantastic, but I guess it’s possible. I guess a fantastic situation like this has to have a fantastic explanation. But what do we do about it? How do we even prove it?”

  Reeber said, “We fed the possibility into Junior as a working assumption—not as a fact—and asked him how we could check it. He came up with the suggestion that a married couple spend a honeymoon on the Moon—and see if circumstances are any different there.”

  “And you want me to pilot them there?”

  “Not exactly, Ray. A little more than that—”

  Carmody forgot that the President was there. He said, “Good God, you mean you want me to— Then Junior wasn’t crazy, after all!”

  Shamefacedly, then, he had to explain about the extracurricular question he’d casually asked Junior and the answer he’d got to it.

  Reeber laughed. “Guess we’ll overlook your violation of Rule 17 this time, Ray. That is, if you accept the mission. Now here’s the—”

  “Wait,” Carmody said. “I still want to know something. How did Junior know I was going to be picked out? And for that matter, why am I?”

  “Junior was asked for the qualifications he’d recommend for the—ah—bridegroom. He recommended a rocket pilot who had already made the trip successfully, even though he was a year or two over the technical retirement age of twenty-five. He recommended that loyalty be considered as an important factor, and that the holding of a governmental position of great trust would answer that. He further recommended that the man be single.”

  “Why single? Look, there are four other pilots who’ve made that trip, and they’re all loyal, regardless of what job they’re holding now. I know them all personally. And all of them are married except me. Why not send a man who’s already got a ball and chain?”

  “For the simple reason, Ray, that the woman to be sent must be chosen with even more care. You know how tough a Moon landing is; only one woman in a hundred would live through it and still be able to—I mean, there’s almost a negligible chance that the wife of any one of the other four pilots would be the best qualified woman who could possibly be found.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I suppose Junior’s got something there. Anyway, I see now how he knew I’d be chosen. Those qualifications fit me exactly. But listen, do I have to stay married to whatever female is Amazonian enough to make the trip? There’s a limit somewhere, isn’t there?”

  “Of course. You will be legally married before your departure, but upon your return a divorce will be granted without question if both—or either one—of you wish. The offspring of the union, if any, will be cared for. Whether male or female.”

  “Hey, that’s right,” Carmody said. “There’s only an even chance of hitting the jackpot in any case.”

  “Other couples will be sent. The first trip is the most difficult and most important one. After that, a base will be established. Sooner or later we’ll get our-answer. We’ll have it if even one male child is conceived on the Moon. Not that that will help us find the station that’s sending the rays, or to detect or identify the rays, but we’ll know what’s wrong and can narrow our inquiry. I take it that you accept?” Carmody sighed. “I guess so. But it seems a long way to go for—Say, who’s the lucky girl?”

  Reeber cleared his throat “I think you’d better explain this part to him, Mr. President”

  President Saunderson smiled as Carmody looked toward him. He said, “There is a more important reason, which Mr. Reeber skipped, why we could not choose a man who was already mar
ried, Captain. This is being done on an international basis, for very important diplomatic reasons. The experiment is for the benefit of humanity, not any nation or ideology. Your wife will be a Russian.”

  “A Commie? You’re kidding me, Mr. President”

  “I am not. Her name is Anna Borisovna. I have not met her, but I am informed that she is a very attractive girl. Her qualifications are quite similar to yours, except, of course, that she has not been to the Moon. No woman has. But she has been a pilot of experimental rockets on short-range flights. And she is a cybernetics technician working on the big machine at Moscow. She is twenty-four. And not, incidentally, an Amazon. As you know, rocket pilots aren’t chosen for bulk. There is an added advantage in her being chosen. She speaks English.”

  “You mean I’ve got to talk to her, too?”

  Carmody caught the look Reeber flashed at him and he winced.

  The President continued: “You will be married to her tomorrow by a beam-televised ceremony. You blast off, both of you, tomorrow night—at different times, of course, since one of you will leave from here, the other from Russia. You will meet on the Moon.”

  “It’s a large place, Mr. President.”

  “That is taken care of. Major Granham—you know him, I believe?” Carmody nodded. “He will supervise your takeoff and the sending of the supply rockets. You will fly tonight— a plane has been prepared for you—from the airport here to Suffolk Rocket Field. Major Granham will brief you and give you full instructions. Can you be at the airport by seven-thirty?”

  Carmody thought and then nodded. It was five-thirty now and there’d be a lot of things for him to do and arrange in two hours, but he could make it if he tried. And hadn’t Junior told him he was going to be busy this evening?

  “Only one thing more,” President Saunderson said. “This is strictly confidential, until and unless the mission is successful. We don’t want to raise hopes, either here or in the Eastern Alliance, and then have them smashed.” He smiled. “And if you and your wife have any quarrels on the Moon, we don’t want them to lead to international repercussions. So please —try to get along.” He held out his hand. “That’s all, except thanks.”