Harry Harrison
The Mothballed Space Ship
I began writing Deathworld in 1956 in Mexico, continued it in England and Italy, and finally finished it in New York in 1957. All along the way it was a collaboration with John Campbell. Since 1 had already sold him a short story or two, I felt bold enough to ask him to comment on an outline of a novel—my first—that I was struggling with. His answering letter was longer than my outline. He suggested ideas I had never considered, permutations never thought of—and all within the structure of my outline. Emboldened, I wrote 10,000 words and sent them to him and received comment afresh. Still fearful of the novel length, I sent him 30,000 words when I had done them, only to receive an irate grumble that he thought this was the whole thing and was put out he couldn't finish reading it. With this firm kick I finally finished the thing and took it to the post office and received, practically by return mail, a check for $2,100. I had sold my first serial to Astounding.
The Deathworld trilogy appeared in ASF, after the first serial, as The Ethical Engineer and The Horse Barbarians. It is the continuing story of real supermen, people who live on a high-gravity planet where the deadly life forms continually war on them. Eventually they leave this world to settle on an equally deadly planet named Felicity. "The Mothballed Spaceship" takes place after this last conquest, and is the only Deathworld story written without the aid, advice, comment, criticism and good-humored assistance of John Campbell.
I wish it could have been otherwise.
"I'll just swing a bit closer," Meta said, touching the controls of the Pyrran spacer.
"I wouldn't if I were you," Jason said resignedly, knowing that a note of caution was close to a challenge to a Pyrran.
"Let us not be afraid this far away," Kerk said, as Jason had predicted. Kerk leaned close to look at the viewscreen. "It is big, I'll admit, three kilometers long at least, and probably the last space battleship existing. But it is over five thousand years old, and we are two hundred kilometers away from it…"
A tiny orange glow winked into brief existence on the distant battleship, and at the same instant the Pyrran ship lurched heavily. Red panic lights flared on the control panel.
"How old did you say it was?" Jason asked innocently, and received in return a sizzling look from the now-silent Kerk.
Meta sent the ship turning away in a wide curve and checked the warning circuitry. "Port fin severely damaged, hull units out in three areas. Repairs will have to be made in null-G before we can make a planetfall again."
"Very good. I'm glad we were hit," Jason dinAlt said. "Perhaps now we will exercise enough caution to come out of this alive with the promised five million credits. So set us on a course to the fleet commander so we can find out all the grisly details they forgot to tell us when we arranged this job by jump-space communication."
Admiral Djukich, the commander of the Earth forces, was a small man who appeared even smaller before the glowering strength of the Pyran personality. He shrank back when Kerk leaned over his desk toward him and spoke coldly. "We can leave and the Rim Hordes will sweep through this system and that will be the end of you."
"No, it will not happen. We have the resources. We can build a fleet, buy ships, but it will be a long and tedious task. Far easier to use this Empire battleship."
"Easy?" Jason asked, raising one eyebrow. "How many have been killed attempting to enter it?"
"Well, easy is not perhaps the correct word. There are difficulties, certain problems… forty-seven people in all."
"Is that why you sent the message to Felicity?" Jason asked.
"Yes, assuredly. Our heavy-metals industry has been purchasing from your planet; they heard of the Pyrrans: how less than a hundred of you conquered an entire world. We thought we would ask you to undertake this task of entering the ship."
"You were a little unclear as to who was aboard the ship and preventing any one else from coming near."
"Yes, well, that is what you might call the heart of our little problem. There's no one aboard…" His smile had a definite artificial quality as the Pyrrans leaned close. "Please, let me explain. This planet was once one of the most important under the old Empire. Although at least eleven other worlds claim themselves as the first home of mankind, we of Earth are much more certain that we are the original. This battleship seems proof enough. When the Fourth War of Galactic Expansion was over, it was mothballed here and has remained so ever since, unneeded until this moment."
Kerk snorted with disbelief. "I will not believe that an unmanned, mothballed ship five millennia old has killed forty-seven people."
"Well, I will," Jason said. "And so will you as soon as you give it a little thought. Three kilometers of almost indestructible fighting ship propelled by the largest engines ever manufactured—which means the largest spaceship atomic generators as well. And of course the largest guns, the most advanced defensive and offensive weaponry ever conceived with secondary batteries, parallel fail-safe circuitry, battle computers—ahh, you're smiling at last. A Pyrran dream of heaven—the most destructive single weapon ever conceived. What a pleasure to board a thing like this, to enter the control room, to be in control."
Kerk and Meta were grinning happily, eyes misty, nodding their heads in total agreement. Then the smiles faded as he went on. "But this ship has now been mothballed. Everything shut down and preserved for an emergency—everything, that is, except the power plant and the ship's armament. Part of the mothballing was obviously provision for the ship's computer to be alert and to guard the ship against meteorites and any other chance encounters in space. In particular against anyone who felt he needed a spare battleship. We were warned off with a single shot. I don't doubt that it could have blasted us out of space just as easily. If this ship were manned and on the defensive, then nothing could be done about getting near it, much less entering. But this is not the case. We must outthink a computer, a machine, and while it won't be easy, it should be possible." He turned and smiled at Admiral Djukich. "We'll take the job. The price has doubled. It will be one billion credits."
"Impossible! The sum is too great; the budget won't allow…"
"Rim Hordes, coming closer, bent on rapine and destruction. To stop them you order some spacers from the shipyard; schedules are late; they don't arrive on time; the Horde fleet descends. They break down this door and here, right in this office, blood…"
"Stop!" the Admiral gasped weakly, his face blanched white. A desk commander who had never seen action— as Jason had guessed. "The contract is yours, but you have a deadline, thirty days. One minute after that you don't get a deci of a credit. Do you agree?"
Jason looked up at Kerk and Meta who, with instant warrior's decision, made their minds up, nodding at the same time.
"Done," he said. "But the billion is free and clear. We'll need supplies, aid from your space navy, material and perhaps men as well to back us up. You will supply what we need."
"It could be expensive," Admiral Djukich groaned, chewing at his lower lip. "Blood…" Jason whispered, and the Admiral broke into a fine sweat as he reluctantly agreed. "I'll have the papers drawn up. When can you begin?"
"We've begun. Shake hands on it and we'll sign later." He pumped the Admiral's weak hand enthusiastically. "Now, I don't suppose you have anything like a manual that tells us how to get into the ship?"