It was an equation that was easy to write—Mass times Acceleration equals Mass-prime times Acceleration-prime—and it was an equation that was hard to doubt.
But it did not happen to be true. The evidence of the dazed little creature from space made a liar out of Newton. The spaceling's trick of floating without visible reaction confounded the greatest genius the world has ever known.
The spaceling showed no reaction mass at all.
Whatever it was that permitted the spaceling to hover, it (call it "X") did not:
Disturb the currents of the air; affect plumb-bobs hung all about; register on photographic film; discharge a gold-leaf electroscope; disturb a compass; produce a measurable electric, magnetic or electronic field; add to the weight of the cage when the entire structure was supported on a scale; make any audible sound; affect the basal metabolism of the spaceling itself; or produce a discoverable track in a cloud chamber.
"X" did, on the other hand, do a few things.
It affected the "brain waves" of the spaceling; there was a distinctive trace on the EEG.
It seemed to have a worrisome effect on certain other mammals. This was noticed by chance when a cat happened to wander into the rocket pit; when the spaceling lifted itself the cat was "spooked", leaping about stiff-legged, fur bristling, eyes aglare.
And finally, it worked. Whatever "X" was, it lifted the spaceling with great ease.
They even wrapped the spaceling in chains once, more than six hundred pounds of them. And as if amused the spaceling floated with all six hundred pounds for an hour, purring to itself.
It was maddening.
Still, thought Ryeland, though the comfort was small—at least the thing seemed healthier. The wounds were healing. The small symbiotic animals that were left seemed to survive. The spaceling showed life and energy.
Donna Creery would be pleased.
Nobody else seemed very pleased with Ryeland, though. General Fleemer stayed in his room, venturing forth only occasionally to make sardonic comments and get in the way. The other high brass of the Team didn't have Fleemer's ready escape, since they had specific tasks; but they made sure to be as unpleasant to Ryeland as they could manage.
Only Major Chatterji was affable at all, and that was second nature to him. He came by every hour on the hour for a report. He was very little trouble. If Ryeland was busy, the major waited inconspicuously in the background. If Ryeland was free, the major asked a minimum of questions and then departed. Ryeland was pretty sure that all the information went, first, to the Machine and, second, almost as promptly to General Fleemer; but he could see no reason why he should attempt to interfere with the process. And he could also see no reason to believe he would be successful if he tried.
He kept busy.
Oporto said one afternoon: "Say, it's definite about your girl friend."
Ryeland blinked up from his papers. "Who?" He was genuinely confused for a moment; then he remembered Oporto's previous remarks. "You mean Miss Creery?"
"Miss Creery, yeah." The little man grinned. "She's off to the Moon. Her daddy, too."
"That's nice," said Ryeland. Carefully he kept his voice noncommittal, though he wondered who he was fooling. No matter how well he disguised his interest from Oporto, he couldn't disguise it from himself: Something inside him reacted to the thought of Donna Creery.
Oporto sprawled lazily over Ryeland's desk. "Well, I don't know if it is so nice, Steve," he said seriously. "Maybe they ought to stay home and attend to business. Did you hear about the Paris tube collapse?"
"What?" Ryeland wearily put down the sheaf of reports and blinked at his friend. His eyes smarted. He rubbed them, wondering if he needed sleep. But that didn't seem reasonable, he figured; he'd had at least eight hours sleep in the previous forty-eight. In any case, he didn't have the time; so he put the thought out of his mind and said: "What the devil are you talking about, Oporto?"
The little man said: "Just what I said. The Paris subtrain to Finland. The tube collapse. More than a hundred people missing—and that means dead, of course. When a tube gives out a hundred miles down you aren't 'missing.'"
Ryeland said, startled: "But that isn't possible! I mean, I know the math for those tubes. They can collapse, all right, but not without plenty of warning. They can't break down without three hours of field degeneration—plenty of time to halt transits."
Oporto shrugged. "A hundred dead people would be glad to know that, Steve," he said.
Ryeland thought for a second. "Well," he said wearily, "maybe you're right, maybe the Planner ought to be around to keep an eye on things like that. . . Oh, hello, Major."
Chatterji came smiling in, peering amiably through his gold glasses. "I wondered if there was anything to report, Mr. Ryeland."
While Ryeland searched through the papers on his desk, Oporto said: "We were just talking about the Paris trouble, Major."
Chatterji's brown eyes went opaque. There was a marked silence.
Ryeland took it in, and realized that Machine Major Chatterji was concerned about the tube failure between Paris and the Finland center. Odd, he thought, why should Chatterji care? But he was too weary to pursue the subject further. He found the requisition he was looking for and silently passed it across to Chatterji.
The major glanced at it casually, then intently. His crew-cut black hair seemed to stand on end. "But, dear Ryeland!" he protested, blinking through his gold-rimmed glasses. "This equipment—"
"I've checked it with the Machine," Ryeland said obstinately. "Here." He showed the teletape to Major Chatterji.
Action. Request approved. Action. Concert with Major Chatterji. Information. Power sources at Point Circle Black not adequate to demands.
"But, my dear Ryeland!" The major's expression was tortured. "It isn't only a matter of power sources. Think of the other considerations!"
"What the Plan requires, the Plan shall have," Ryeland quoted, beginning to enjoy himself.
"Of course, of course. But—" The major studied the list, "You have enough electronic equipment here to run a university lab," he wailed. "And some of it is dangerous. After the, uh, accident Mr. Oporto was talking about, surely you understand that we can't take chances."
Ryeland stared. "What does that have to do with the Team project?"
The major said angrily, "The Plan can't stand accidents, Mr. Ryeland! This equipment creates radiation hazards, if nothing else, and there are eighty thousand people in Points Circle Black, Triangle Gray, Crescent Green and Square Silver alone. They can't be exposed to this sort of thing!"
Ryeland tapped the teletape meaningfully.
"Oh," sighed the major, "if the Machine approves . . ." He thought for a moment, then brightened. "I have it! An orbiting rocket!"
Ryeland was taken aback. "What?"
"An orbiting rocket filled with all the equipment you want." Chatterji said eagerly. "Why not? Everything run by remote control. I can requisition one for you at once, Mr. Ryeland! And you can fill it with all the dangerous equipment you like—what do we care what happens to any wandering spacelings, eh?" He winked and giggled.
"Well," said Ryeland doubtfully, "we could do it that way."
"Of course we could! We'll arrange a TV repeater circuit with remote-controlled apparatus. You work in your lab, the equipment is out in space. Perform any experiments you like. And that way," he beamed, "if you blow the lab up you destroy only one ship, not all of us" He bustled off.
It was astonishing what the Plan of Man could accomplish. The rocket was loaded, launched and orbited in forty-eight hours.
Ryeland never saw it. He monitored the installation of the equipment he wanted via TV circuits, tested the instruments, gave the okay—and watched the fire-tailed bird leap off its launching pad through a cathode screen. At once he put it to work. The only thing they had learned about the force the spaceling generated, what the Planner had called the "jetless drive", was that it was indetectable. But that in itself was a great piece of knowledge. Ryeland's researchers had turned up another fact—a high-energy nuclear reaction which turned out less energy than went into it—and it was just possible, it was more than possible, it was perhaps a fact, that that missing energy was not missing at all, but merely not detectable.