John Harman and I stood before the gleaming metal of the New Prometheus that Easter Sunday; I in the deepest gloom, and he in an almost jovial mood.
“Well, Clifford, my boy,” said he, “the last ton of fuel, a few polishing touches, and I am ready for my second attempt. This time there will be no Sheltons among us.” He hummed a hymn. That was all the radio played those days, and even we rebels sang them from sheer frequency of repetition.
I grunted sourly: “It’s no use, boss. Ten to one, you end up somewhere in space, and even if you come back, you’ll most likely be hung by the neck. We can’t win.” My head shook dolefully from side to side.
“Bah! This state of affairs can’t last, Cliff.”
“I think it will. Winstead was right that time. The pendulum swings, and since 1945 it’s been swinging against us. We’re ahead of the times-or behind them.”
“Don’t speak of that fool, Winstead. You’re making the same mistake he did. Trends are things of centuries and millenniums, not years or decades. For five hundred years we have been moving toward science. You can’t reverse that in thirty years.”
“Then what are we doing?” I asked sarcastically.
“We’re going through a momentary reaction following a period of too-rapid advance in the Mad Decades. Just such a reaction took place in the Romantic Age-the first Victorian Period-following the too-rapid advance of the eighteenth century Age of Reason.”
“Do you really think so?” I was shaken by his evident self-assurance.
“Of course. This period has a perfect analogy in the spasmodic ‘revivals’ that used to hit the small towns in America’s Bible Belt a century or so ago. For a week, perhaps everyone would get religion, and virtue would reign triumphant. Then, one by one, they would backslide and the Devil would resume his sway.
“In fact, there are symptoms of backsliding even now. The L. R. has indulged in one squabble after another since Eldredge’s death. There have been half a dozen schisms already. The very extremities to which those in power are going are helping us, for the country is rapidly tiring of it.”
And that ended the argument-I in total defeat, as usual.
A month later, the New Prometheus was complete. It was nowhere near as glittering and as beautiful as the original, and bore many a trace of makeshift workmanship, but we were proud of it-proud and triumphant.
“I’m going to try again, men”-Harman’s voice was husky, and his little frame vibrant with happiness-”and I may not make it, but for that I don’t care.” His eyes shone in anticipation. “I’ll be shooting through the void at last, and the dream of mankind will come true. Out around the Moon and back; the first to see the other side. It’s worth the chance,”
“You won’t have fuel enough to land on the Moon, boss, which is a pity,” I said.
At that a pessimistic whisper ran through the little group surrounding him, to which he paid no attention.
“Good-bye,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.” And with a cheerful grin he climbed into the ship.
Fifteen minutes later, the five of us sat about the living room table, frowning, lost in thought, eyes gazing out of the building at the spot where a burned section of soil marked the spot where a few minutes earlier the New Prometheus had lain.
Simonoff voiced the thought that was in the mind of each one of us: “Maybe it would be better for him not to come back. He won’t be treated very well if he does, I think.” And we all nodded in gloomy assent.
How foolish that prediction seems to me now from the hindsight of three decades.
The rest of the story is really not mine, for I did not see Harman again until a month after his eventful trip ended in a safe landing.
It was almost thirty-six hours after the take-off that a screaming projectile shot its way over Washington and buried itself in the mud just across the Potomac.
Investigators were at the scene of the landing within fifteen minutes, and in another fifteen minutes the police were there, for it was found that the projectile was a rocketship . They stared in involuntary awe at the tired, dishevelled man who staggered out in near-collapse.
There was utter silence while he shook his fist at the staring spectators and shouted: “Go ahead, hang me, fools. But I’ve reached the Moon, and you can’t hang that . Get the FSRIB. Maybe they’ll declare the flight illegal and, therefore, nonexistent.” He laughed weakly and suddenly collapsed.
Someone shouted: “Take him to a hospital. He’s sick.” In stiff unconsciousness Harman was bundled into a police car and carried away, while the police formed a guard about the rocketship.
Government officials arrived and investigated the ship, read the log, inspected the drawings and photographs he had taken of the Moon, and finally departed in silence. The crowd grew and the word spread that a man had reached the Moon.
Curiously enough, there was little resentment of the fact. Men were impressed and awed; the crowd whispered and cast inquisitive glances at the dim crescent of Luna, scarcely seen in the bright sunlight. Over all, an uneasy pall of silence, the silence of indecision, lay.
Then, at the hospital, Harman revealed his identity, and the fickle world went wild. Even Harman himself was stunned in surprise at the rapid change in the world’s temper. It seemed almost incredible, and yet it was true. Secret discontent, combined with a heroic tale of man against overwhelming odds- the sort of tale that had stirred man’s soul since the beginning of time-served to sweep everyone into an ever-swelling current of anti-Victorianism. And Eldredge was dead-no other could replace him.
I saw Harman at the hospital shortly after that. He was propped up and still half buried with papers, telegrams and letters. He grinned at me and nodded. “Well, Cliff,” he whispered, “the pendulum swung back again.”
Actually, though “Trends” was the second story I sold, it was the third to be published. Ahead of it was not only “Marooned off Vesta,” but another story (to be mentioned shortly) that was written and sold after “Trends” but was rushed into print sooner. Both earlier stories were, however, published in Amazing and, somehow, I find it difficult to count them. To me, the first story I sold to Campbell and published in Astounding is my first significant published story. This is rather ungrateful of me toward Amazing , but I can’t help it.
The July 1939 issue of Astounding is sometimes considered by later fans to mark the beginning of science fiction’s so-called Golden Age, a period stretching through most of the 1940s. In that period, Campbefl’s views were in full force in the magazine, and the authors he trained and developed were writing with the full ardor of youth. I wish I could say that “Trends” was what marked the beginning of that Golden Age, but I can’t. Its appearance in that issue was pure coincidence.
What really counted was that the lead novelette in the July 1939 issue was “Black Destroyer,” by A. E. van Vogt, a first story by a new author, while in the next issue, August 1939, was a short story, “Lifeline,” by Robert A. Heinlein, another first story by a new author.
In time to come, Van Vogt, Heinlein, and I would be universally listed among the top authors of the Golden Age, but Van Vogt and Heinlein were that from the very beginning. Each blazed forth as a first-magazine star at the moment his first story appeared, and their status never flagged throughout the remainder of the Golden Age. I, on the other hand (and this is not false modesty), came up only gradually. I was very little noticed for a while and came to be considered a major author by such gradual steps that despite the healthy helping of vanity with which I am blessed, I myself was the last to notice.
“Trends” is an amusing story in some respects. It sets the initial space flights to the Moon in the 1970s. I thought at the time I was being daring indeed, but it has turned out that I was behind the eventual reality by a full decade, since what I described was done, and with immensely greater sophistication, in the 1960s. My description of the first attempts at space flight was, of course, incredibly naive, in hindsight.
In one respect, however, the story is unusual. In recent years Phil Klas (a science fiction writer who publishes under the pseudonym “William Tenn”) pointed out to me that this was the first story in history that predicted resistance of any kind to the notion of space exploration. In all other stories, the general public was either indifferent or enthusiastic. This makes me sound enormously and uniquely perceptive, but having explained the nature of the book I was doing my NYA work on, I can’t take credit for brilliance. (Heck!)
Notice also the reference to the “Second [World War] of 1940.” The story, remember, was written two months after Munich. I did not believe at the time that this meant “peace in our time,” as Neville Chamberlain had maintained. I estimated that there would be war in a year and a half, and again! was too conservative.
“Trends,” incidentally, is one of the few stories I have written in the first person, and the narrator is named Clifford McKenny. (Why my penchant for Irish last names in those days I haven’t been able to figure out.) Behind the first name, though, lies a story.