Part 42 (1/2)

But, second, the pilot of the plane guard was my closest friend in that s.h.i.+p-from my home town, at the Academy with me, s.h.i.+pmates before then in USS UTAH, sh.o.r.eleave drinking companion, only other officer in the s.h.i.+p who believed in rocketry and s.p.a.ce flight and read 'those crazy magazines.” My number-one pa/And I was forced to tell him: ”Bud, you're either somewhere northeast of us, give or take twenty or thirty degrees, or somewhere southwest, same wide range of error, and signal strength shows that you must be at least fifty miles over the horizon, probably more; I've got no way to scale the reception.”

Bud chuckled. ”That's a lot of ocean.”

”How much gas do you have?”

”Maybe forty minutes. Most of the fighters don't have as much. Hold the phone; the skipper's calling me.”

So I tried again for a minimum-no luck-swung back. ”Lex loop to Victor Fox Two guard.”

”Gotcha, boy. Skipper says we all ditch before the sun goes down. First I land, then they ditch as close to me as possible. I'll have hitchhikers clinging to the float a/l night long-be lucky if they don't swamp me.”

”What sea?”

”Beaufort three, crowding four.”

”Cripes. No white water here at all. Just long swells.”

”She'll take it, she's tough. But I'm glad not to have to dead-stick a galloping goose. Gotta sign off,~ skipper wants me, it's time. Been nice knowing you.”

So at last I knew-too late-which lobe they were in, as it was already dark with the suddenness of the tropics where I was, whereas the sun was still to set where they were. That eliminated perhaps five hundred square miles. But it placed them still farther away. . . which added at least a thousand square miles.

Suddenly out of the darkness endless searchlights shot straight up; the Fleet C-in-C had canceled war-condition darken-s.h.i.+p rather than let Victor Fox Two ditch- which was pretty nice of him because all those battles.h.i.+p admirals were veterans of World War One, not one of them had wings, and (with no exceptions worth noting) they hated airplanes, did not believe that planes were good for anything but scouting (if that), and despised pilots, especially those who had not attended the Academy (i.e., most of them).

I was still listening on Bud's frequency and heard some most prayerful profanity. At once Bud had a bearing on the battle line; our navigator had our bearing and distance to the battle line; my talker to the bridge gave me the course and distance VF-2 needed to home on, and I pa.s.sed it to Bud. End of crisis- -but not quite the end of tension. The squadron just barely had enough gas to get home, and more than half of those pilots had never checked out on night carrier landings.. . with no margin of fuel to let the landing officer wave a man off for poor approach if there was any possible chance that his tail hook could catch a wire. I am happy to report that every pilot got down safely although one did sort of bend his prop around the crash barrier.

Bud did almost have to make a dead-stick landing with a galloping goose. As he was the only one who could land on water if necessary, he had to come in last.. . and his engine coughed and died just as his tail hook caught the wire.

In one of Jack Williamson's stories a character goes back in time and makes a very slight change in order to effect a major change in later history.

Bud is Albert Buddy Scoles, then a lieutenant (junior grade), now a retired rear admiral, and is the officer who in 1942 gathered me, Isaac Asimov, and L. Sprague de Camp into his R&D labs at Mustin Field, Philadelphia, later solicited help from all technically trained SF writers and, still later, just after World War Two, set up the Navy's first guided missile range at Point Mugu.

I do not a.s.sume that history would have changed appreciably had VF-2 been forced to ditch.

But let's a.s.sume a change in Buddy Scoles' career just sufficient that he would not have been in charge of those labs on 7 December 1941. It would not have to be his death-although he was in far greater danger than his cheerful att.i.tude admitted. An amphibian of that era did not necessarily make a safe landing on the high seas, and the galloping goose was an awkward beast at best-hard to see out of it in landing. a.s.sume a minor injury in landing, or several days' exposure to tropical sun-that's a big ocean; they would not necessarily have been picked up the next day or even that week.

a.s.sume any one change that would have affected the pattern ofBuddy Scoles' careerenough top/ace him elsewhere than at Mustin Field December 1941: Now let's take it in small, not in terms of history: I would not have been at Mustin Field. I can't venture to guess where I would have been; the Navy Bureau of Medicine was being stuffy over my past medical history. I would not have met my wife; therefore I would have died at least ten years ago. . . and I would not be writing this book. (All high probabilities. Among the low probabilities is winning the Irish Sweepstakes and moving to Monaco.) Sprague de Camp would not have been at Mustin Field. He was already headed for a Naval commission but at my suggestion Scoles grabbed him. Perhaps he would havedied gloriously in battle. . .

orhe might have sat out the war in a swivel chair in the Navy Department.

But now I reach the important one. I practically kidnapped Isaac Asimov from Columbia University, where he was a graduate student bucking for his doctorate.

You can write endless scenarios from there. The Manhattan District is recruiting exceptionally bright graduate students in chemistry and physics; Isaac is grabbed and the A-bomb is thereby finished a year sooner. Or he stays on at Columbia, finishes his doctorate, and his draft board never does pick him up because he is already signed as an a.s.sistant professor at N.Y. U. the day he is invested. Etc., etc.

Here comes the rabbit- The first two books of the Foundation series (Foundation, Bridle and Saddle, The Big and the Little, The Wedge, Dead Hand, The Mule) were written while Isaac was a chemist in the labs at Mustin Field.

What would the Good Doctor have written during those years had I not fiddled with his karma?

Exactly the same stories? Very similar stories? Entirely different stories? (Any scenario is plausible except one in which Dr. Asimov does no writing at all.) All I feel sure of is that there is an extremely high probability that an almost-too-late decision by a battle-s.h.i.+p admiral in 1931 not only saved the lives of some fighter pilots whose names I do not know.. .

but also almost certainly changed the lives of Admiral Scoles, myself, L. Sprague de Camp, Dr. Asimov and, by direct concatenation, the lives of wives, sweethearts, and offspring-and quite a major chunk of modern science fiction. (Had Scoles not called me back to Philadelphia I think I would have wound up in a Southern California aircraft factory, and possibly stayed with it instead of going back to writing. . . and helped build Apollo-Saturn. Maybe.) If you think SEARCHLIGHT derives from an incident off Ecuador, you may be right. Possibly I dredged it out of my subconscious and did not spot it until later.

On This Site The Afternoon of June 5th, 1834 Nothing of Any Importance Happened

FOREWORD.

On 5 April 1973 I delivered the James Forrestal Memorial Lecture to the Brigade of Mids.h.i.+pmen at my alma mater the United States Naval Academy. As the first half of the lecture, at the request of the mids.h.i.+pmen, I discussed freelance writing. This is the second half~

THE PRAGMATICS OF PATRIOTISM.

In this complex world, science, the scientific method, and the consequences of the scientific method are central to everything the human race is doing and to wherever we are going. If we blow ourselves up we will do it by misapplication of science; if we manage to keep from blowing ourselves up, it will be through intelligent application of science. Science fiction is the only form of fiction which takes into account this central force in our lives and futures. Other sorts of fiction, if they notice science at all, simply deplore it-an att.i.tude very chichi in the anti-intellectual atmosphere of today. But we will never get out of the mess we are in by wringing our hands.

Let me make one flat-footed prediction of the science-fiction type. Like all scenarios this one has a.s.sumptions-variables treated as constants. The primary a.s.sumption is that World War Three will hold off long enough-ten, twenty, thirty years-for this prediction to work out. . . plus a secondary a.s.sumption that the human race will not find some other way to blunder into ultimate disaster.

Prediction: In the immediate future-by that I mean in the course of the naval careers of the cla.s.s of '73- there will be nuclear-powered, constant-boost s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps-s.h.i.+ps capable of going to Mars and back in a couple of weeks-and these s.h.i.+ps will be armed with Buck-Rogersish death rays. Despite all treaties now existing or still to be signed concerning the peaceful use of s.p.a.ce, these s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps will be used in warfare. s.p.a.ce navies will change beyond recognition our present methods of warfare and will control the political shape of the world for the foreseeable future. Furthermore-and still more important-these new s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps will open the Solar System to colonization and will eventually open the rest of this Galaxy.

I did not say that the United States will have these s.h.i.+ps. The present sorry state of our country does not permit me to make such a prediction. In the words of one of our most distinguished graduates in his The Influence of Sea Power on History: ”Popular governments are not generally favorable to military expenditures, however necessary-”

Every military officer has had his nose rubbed in the wry truth of Admiral Mahan's observation. I first found myself dismayed by it some forty years ago when I learned that I was expected to maintain the s.h.i.+p's battery of USS ROPER in a state of combat readiness on an allowance of less than a dollar a day- with World War Two staring down our throats.

The United States is capable of developing such s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps. But the mood today does not favor it.

So I am unable to predict that we will be the nation to spend the necessary R&D money to build such s.h.i.+ps.

(Addressed to a plebe mids.h.i.+pman:) Mister, how long is it to graduation?

Sixty-two days? Let's make it closer than that. I have . . . 7.59, just short of eight bells. a.s.suming graduation for ten in the morning that gives.. . 5,320,860 seconds to graduation.. . and I have less than 960 seconds in which to say what I want to say.

(To the Brigade at large:) Why are you here?

(To a second plebe:) Mister, why are you here?

Never mind, son; that's a rhetorital question. You are here to become a naval officer. That's why this Academy was founded. That is why all of you are here: to become naval officers. If that is not why you are here, you've made a bad mistake. But I speak to the overwhelming majority who understood the oath they took on becoming mids.h.i.+pmen and look forward to the day when they will renew that oath as commissioned officers.

But why would anyone want to become a naval officer?

In the present dismal state of our culture there is little prestige attached to serving your country; recent public opinion polls place military service far down the list.