The Measure Of A Man

: The Measure Of A Man

What is desirable is not always necessary, while that which is

necessary may be most undesirable. Perhaps the measure of a man is

the ability to tell one from the other ... and act on it.







Alfred Pendray pushed himself along the corridor of the battleship

Shane, holding the flashlight in one hand and using the other hand and

his good leg to guide and propel himself by. The beam of he torch

reflected queerly from the pastel green walls of the corridor, giving

him the uneasy sensation that he was swimming underwater instead of

moving through the blasted hulk of a battleship, a thousand light-years

from home.



He came to the turn in the corridor, and tried to move to the right, but

his momentum was greater than he had thought, and he had to grab the

corner of the wall to keep from going on by. That swung him around, and

his sprained ankle slammed agonizingly against the other side of the

passageway.



Pendray clenched his teeth and kept going. But as he moved down the side

passage, he went more slowly, so that the friction of his palm against

the wall could be used as a brake.



He wasn't used to maneuvering without gravity; he'd been taught it in

Cadets, of course, but that was years ago and parsecs away. When the

pseudograv generators had gone out, he'd retched all over the place, but

now his stomach was empty, and the nausea had gone.



He had automatically oriented himself in the corridors so that the doors

of the various compartments were to his left and right, with the ceiling

"above" and the deck "below." Otherwise, he might have lost his sense of

direction completely in the complex maze of the interstellar

battleship.



Or, he corrected himself, what's left of a battleship.



And what was left? Just Al Pendray and less than half of the

once-mighty Shane.



The door to the lifeboat hold loomed ahead in the beam of the

flashlight, and Pendray braked himself to a stop. He just looked at the

dogged port for a few seconds.



Let there be a boat in there, he thought. Just a boat, that's all I

ask. And air, he added as an afterthought. Then his hand went out to

the dog handle and turned.



The door cracked easily. There was air on the other side. Pendray

breathed a sigh of relief, braced his good foot against the wall, and

pulled the door open.



The little lifeboat was there, nestled tightly in her cradle. For the

first time since the Shane had been hit, Pendray's face broke into a

broad smile. The fear that had been within him faded a little, and the

darkness of the crippled ship seemed to be lessened.



Then the beam of his torch caught the little red tag on the air lock of

the lifeboat. Repair Work Under Way--Do Not Remove This Tag Without

Proper Authority.



That explained why the lifeboat hadn't been used by the other crewmen.



Pendray's mind was numb as he opened the air lock of the small craft. He

didn't even attempt to think. All he wanted was to see exactly how the

vessel had been disabled by the repair crew. He went inside.



The lights were working in the lifeboat. That showed that its power was

still functioning. He glanced over the instrument-and-control panels. No

red tags on them, at least. Just to make sure, he opened them up, one by

one, and looked inside. Nothing wrong, apparently.



Maybe it had just been some minor repair--a broken lighting switch or

something. But he didn't dare hope yet.



He went through the door in the tiny cabin that led to the engine

compartment, and he saw what the trouble was.



The shielding had been removed from the atomic motors.



He just hung there in the air, not moving. His lean, dark face remained

expressionless, but tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over,

spreading their dampness over his lids.



The motors would run, all right. The ship could take him to Earth. But

the radiation leakage from those motors would kill him long before he

made it home. It would take ten days to make it back to base, and

twenty-four hours of exposure to the deadly radiation from those engines

would be enough to insure his death from radiation sickness.



His eyes were blurring from the film of tears that covered them; without

gravity to move the liquid, it just pooled there, distorting his vision.

He blinked the tears away, then wiped his face with his free hand.



Now what?



He was the only man left alive on the Shane, and none of the lifeboats

had escaped. The Rat cruisers had seen to that.



* * * * *



They weren't really rats, those people. Not literally. They looked

humanoid enough to enable plastic surgeons to disguise a human being as

one of them, although it meant sacrificing the little fingers and little

toes to imitate the four-digited Rats. The Rats were at a disadvantage

there; they couldn't add any fingers. But the Rats had other

advantages--they bred and fought like, well, like rats.



Not that human beings couldn't equal them or even surpass them in

ferocity, if necessary. But the Rats had nearly a thousand years of

progress over Earth. Their Industrial Revolution had occurred while the

Angles and the Saxons and the Jutes were pushing the Britons into Wales.

They had put their first artificial satellites into orbit while King

Alfred the Great was fighting off the Danes.



They hadn't developed as rapidly as Man had. It took them roughly twice

as long to go from one step to the next, so that their actual

superiority was only a matter of five hundred years, and Man was

catching up rapidly. Unfortunately, Man hadn't caught up yet.



The first meeting of the two races had taken place in interstellar

space, and had seemed friendly enough. Two ships had come within

detector distance of each other, and had circled warily. It was almost a

perfect example of the Leinster Hypothesis; neither knew where the

other's home world was located, and neither could go back home for fear

that the other would be able to follow. But the Leinster Hypothesis

couldn't be followed to the end. Leinster's solution had been to have

the parties trade ships and go home, but that only works when the two

civilizations are fairly close in technological development. The Rats

certainly weren't going to trade their ship for the inferior craft of

the Earthmen.



The Rats, conscious of their superiority, had a simpler solution. They

were certain, after a while, that Earth posed no threat to them, so they

invited the Earth ship to follow them home.



The Earthmen had been taken on a carefully conducted tour of the Rats'

home planet, and the captain of the Earth ship--who had gone down in

history as "Sucker" Johnston--was convinced that the Rats meant no harm,

and agreed to lead a Rat ship back to Earth. If the Rats had struck

then, there would never have been a Rat-Human War. It would have been

over before it started.



But the Rats were too proud of their superiority. Earth was too far away

to bother them for the moment; it wasn't in their line of conquest just

yet. In another fifty years, the planet would be ready for picking off.



Earth had no idea that the Rats were so widespread. They had taken and

colonized over thirty planets, completely destroying the indigenous

intelligent races that had existed on five of them.



It wasn't just pride that had made the Rats decide to wait before

hitting Earth; there was a certain amount of prudence, too. None of the

other races they had met had developed space travel; the Earthmen might

be a little tougher to beat. Not that there was any doubt of the

outcome, as far as they were concerned--but why take chances?



But, while the Rats had fooled "Sucker" Johnston and some of his

officers, the majority of the crew knew better. Rat crewmen were little

short of slaves, and the Rats made the mistake of assuming that the

Earth crewmen were the same. They hadn't tried to impress the crewmen as

they had the officers. When the interrogation officers on Earth

questioned the crew of the Earth ship, they, too, became suspicious.

Johnston's optimistic attitude just didn't jibe with the facts.



So, while the Rat officers were having the red carpet rolled out for

them, Earth Intelligence went to work. Several presumably awe-stricken

men were allowed to take a conducted tour of the Rat ship. After all,

why not? The Twentieth Century Russians probably wouldn't have minded

showing their rocket plants to an American of Captain John Smith's time,

either.



But there's a difference. Earth's government knew Earth was being

threatened, and they knew they had to get as many facts as they could.

They were also aware of the fact that if you know a thing can be done,

then you will eventually find a way to do it.



During the next fifty years, Earth learned more than it had during the

previous hundred. The race expanded, secretly, moving out to other

planets in that sector of the galaxy. And they worked to catch up with

the Rats.



They didn't make it, of course. When, after fifty years of presumably

peaceful--but highly limited--contact, the Rats hit Earth, they found

out one thing. That the mass and energy of a planet armed with the

proper weapons can not be out-classed by any conceivable concentration

of spaceships.



Throwing rocks at an army armed with machine guns may seem futile, but

if you hit them with an avalanche, they'll go under. The Rats lost

three-quarters of their fleet to planet-based guns and had to go home to

bandage their wounds.



The only trouble was that Earth couldn't counterattack. Their ships were

still out-classed by those of the Rats. And the Rats, their racial pride

badly stung, were determined to wipe out Man, to erase the stain on

their honor wherever Man could be found. Somehow, some way, they must

destroy Earth.



And now, Al Pendray thought bitterly, they would do it.



* * * * *



The Shane had sneaked in past Rat patrols to pick up a spy on one of

the outlying Rat planets, a man who'd spent five years playing the part

of a Rat slave, trying to get information on their activities there. And

he had had one vital bit of knowledge. He'd found it and held on to it

for over three years, until the time came for the rendezvous.



The rendezvous had almost come too late. The Rats had developed a device

that could make a star temporarily unstable, and they were ready to use

it on Sol.



The Shane had managed to get off-planet with the spy, but they'd been

spotted in spite of the detector nullifiers that Earth had developed.

They'd been jumped by Rat cruisers and blasted by the superior Rat

weapons. The lifeboats had been picked out of space, one by one, as the

crew tried to get away.



In a way, Alfred Pendray was lucky. He'd been in the sick bay with a

sprained ankle when the Rats hit, sitting in the X-ray room. The shot

that had knocked out the port engine had knocked him unconscious, but

the shielded walls of the X-ray room had saved him from the blast of

radiation that had cut down the crew in the rear of the ship. He'd come

to in time to see the Rat cruisers cut up the lifeboats before they

could get well away from the ship. They'd taken a couple of parting

shots at the dead hulk, and then left it to drift in space--and leaving

one man alive.



In the small section near the rear of the ship, there were still

compartments that were airtight. At least, Pendray decided, there was

enough air to keep him alive for a while. If only he could get a little

power into the ship, he could get the rear air purifiers to working.



He left the lifeboat and closed the door behind him. There was no point

in worrying about a boat he couldn't use.



He made his way back toward the engine room. Maybe there was something

salvageable there. Swimming through the corridors was becoming easier

with practice; his Cadet training was coming back to him.



Then he got a shock that almost made him faint. The beam of his light

had fallen full on the face of a Rat. It took him several seconds to

realize that the Rat was dead, and several more to realize that it

wasn't a Rat at all. It was the spy they had been sent to pick up. He'd

been in the sick bay for treatments of the ulcers on his back gained

from five years of frequent lashings as a Rat slave.



Pendray went closer and looked him over. He was still wearing the

clothing he'd had on when the Shane picked him up.



Poor guy, Pendray thought. All that hell--for nothing.



Then he went around the corpse and continued toward the engine room.



The place was still hot, but it was thermal heat, not radioactivity. A

dead atomic engine doesn't leave any residual effects.



Five out of the six engines were utterly ruined, but the sixth seemed

to be in working condition. Even the shielding was intact. Again, hope

rose in Alfred Pendray's mind. If only there were tools!



A half hour's search killed that idea. There were no tools aboard

capable of cutting through the hard shielding. He couldn't use it to

shield the engine on the lifeboat. And the shielding that been on the

other five engines had melted and run; it was worthless.



Then another idea hit him. Would the remaining engine work at all? Could

it be fixed? It was the only hope he had left.



Apparently, the only thing wrong with it was the exciter circuit leads,

which had been sheared off by a bit of flying metal. The engine had

simply stopped instead of exploding. That ought to be fixable. He could

try; it was something to do, anyway.



It took him the better part of two days, according to his watch. There

were plenty of smaller tools around for the job, although many of them

were scattered and some had been ruined by the explosions. Replacement

parts were harder to find, but he managed to pirate some of them from

the ruined engines.



He ate and slept as he felt the need. There was plenty of food in the

sick bay kitchen, and there is no need for a bed under gravity-less

conditions.



After the engine was repaired, he set about getting the rest of the ship

ready to move--if it would move. The hull was still solid, so the

infraspace field should function. The air purifiers had to be

reconnected and repaired in a couple of places. The lights ditto. The

biggest job was checking all the broken leads to make sure there weren't

any short circuits anywhere.



The pseudogravity circuits were hopeless. He'd have to do without

gravity.



* * * * *



On the third day, he decided he'd better clean the place up. There were

several corpses floating around, and they were beginning to be

noticeable. He had to tow them, one by one, to the rear starboard air

lock and seal them between the inner and outer doors. He couldn't dump

them, since the outer door was partially melted and welded shut.



He took the personal effects from the men. If he ever got back to Earth,

their next-of-kin might want the stuff. On the body of the imitation

Rat, he found a belt-pouch full of microfilm. The report on the Rats'

new weapon? Possibly. He'd have to look it over later.



On the "morning" of the fourth day, he started the single remaining

engine. The infraspace field came on, and the ship began moving at

multiples of the speed of light. Pendray grinned. Half gone, will

travel, he thought gleefully.



If Pendray had had any liquor aboard, he would have gotten mildly drunk.

Instead, he sat down and read the spools of microfilm, using the

projector in the sick bay.



He was not a scientist in the strict sense of the word. He was a

navigator and a fairly good engineer. So it didn't surprise him any that

he couldn't understand a lot of the report. The mechanics of making a

semi-nova out of a normal star were more than a little bit over his

head. He'd read a little and then go out and take a look at the stars,

checking their movement so that he could make an estimate of his speed.

He'd jury-rigged a kind of control on the hull field, so he could aim

the hulk easily enough. He'd only have to get within signaling range,

anyway. An Earth ship would pick him up.



If there was any Earth left by the time he got there.



He forced his mind away from thinking about that.



It was not until he reached the last spool of microfilm that his

situation was forcibly brought to focus in his mind. Thus far, he had

thought only about saving himself. But the note at the end of the spool

made him realize that there were others to save.



The note said: These reports must reach Earth before 22 June 2287.

After that, it will be too late.



22 June!



That was--let's see....



This is the eighteenth of September, he thought, June of next year

is--nine months away. Surely I can make it in that time. I've got to.



The only question was, how fast was the hulk of the Shane moving?



It took him three days to get the answer accurately. He knew the

strength of the field around the ship, and he knew the approximate

thrust of the single engine by that time. He had also measured the

motions of some of the nearer stars. Thank heaven he was a navigator and

not a mechanic or something! At least he knew the direction and distance

to Earth, and he knew the distance of the brighter stars from where the

ship was.



He had two checks to use, then. Star motion against engine thrust and

field strength. He checked them. And rechecked them. And hated the

answer.



He would arrive in the vicinity of Sol some time in late July--a full

month too late.



What could he do? Increase the output of the engine? No. It was doing

the best it could now. Even shutting off the lights wouldn't help

anything; they were a microscopic drain on that engine.



He tried to think, tried to reason out a solution, but nothing would

come. He found time to curse the fool who had decided the shielding on

the lifeboat would have to be removed and repaired. That little craft,

with its lighter mass and more powerful field concentration, could make

the trip in ten days.



The only trouble was that ten days in that radiation hell would be

impossible. He'd be a very well-preserved corpse in half that time, and

there'd be no one aboard to guide her.



Maybe he could get one of the other engines going! Sure. He must be

able to get one more going, somehow. Anything to cut down on that time!



He went back to the engines again, looking them over carefully. He went

over them again. Not a single one could be repaired at all.



Then he rechecked his velocity figures, hoping against hope that he'd

made a mistake somewhere, dropped a decimal point or forgotten to divide

by two. Anything. Anything!



But there was nothing. His figures had been accurate the first time.



For a while, he just gave up. All he could think of was the terrible

blaze of heat that would wipe out Earth when the Rats set off the sun.

Man might survive. There were colonies that the Rats didn't know about.

But they'd find them eventually. Without Earth, the race would be set

back five hundred--maybe five thousand--years. The Rats would would have

plenty of time to hunt them out and destroy them.



And then he forced his mind away from that train of thought. There had

to be a way to get there on time. Something in the back of his mind told

him that there was a way.



He had to think. Really think.



* * * * *



On 7 June 2287, a signal officer on the Earth destroyer Muldoon picked

up a faint signal coming from the general direction of the constellation

of Sagittarius. It was the standard emergency signal for distress. The

broadcaster only had a very short range, so the source couldn't be too

far away.



He made his report to the ship's captain. "We're within easy range of

her, sir," he finished. "Shall we pick her up?"



"Might be a Rat trick," said the captain. "But we'll have to take the

chance. Beam a call to Earth, and let's go out there dead slow. If the

detectors show anything funny, we turn tail and run. We're in no position

to fight a Rat ship."



"You think this might be a Rat trap, sir?"



The captain grinned. "If you are referring to the Muldoon as a rat

trap, Mr. Blake, you're both disrespectful and correct. That's why we're

going to run if we see anything funny. This ship is already obsolete by

our standards; you can imagine what it is by theirs." He paused. "Get

that call in to Earth. Tell 'em this ship is using a distress signal

that was obsolete six months ago. And tell 'em we're going out."



"Yes, sir," said the signal officer.



It wasn't a trap. As the Muldoon approached the source of the signal,

their detectors picked up the ship itself. It was a standard lifeboat

from a battleship of the Shannon class.



"You don't suppose that's from the Shane, do you?" the captain said

softly as he looked at the plate. "She's the only ship of that class

that's missing. But if that's a Shane lifeboat, what took her so long

to get here?"



"She's cut her engines, sir!" said the observer. "She evidently knows

we're coming."



"All right. Pull her in as soon as we're close enough. Put her in

Number Two lifeboat rack; it's empty."



* * * * *



When the door of the lifeboat opened, the captain of the Muldoon was

waiting outside the lifeboat rack. He didn't know exactly what he had

expected to see, but it somehow seemed fitting that a lean, bearded man

in a badly worn uniform and a haggard look about him should step out.



The specter saluted. "Lieutenant Alfred Pendray, of the Shane," he

said, in a voice that had almost no strength. He held up a pouch.

"Microfilm," he said. "Must get to Earth immediately. No delay. Hurry."



"Catch him!" the captain shouted. "He's falling!" But one of the men

nearby had already caught him.



In the sick bay, Pendray came to again. The captain's questioning

gradually got the story out of Pendray.



"... So I didn't know what to do then," he said, his voice a breathy

whisper. "I knew I had to get that stuff home. Somehow."



"Go on," said the captain, frowning.



"Simple matter," said Pendray. "Nothing to it. Two equations. Little

ship goes thirty times as fast as big ship--big hulk. Had to get here

before 22 June. Had to. Only way out, y'unnerstand.



"Anyway. Two equations. Simple. Work 'em in your head. Big ship takes

ten months, little one takes ten days. But can't stay in a little ship

ten days. No shielding. Be dead before you got here. See?"



"I see," said the captain patiently.



"But--and here's a 'mportant point: If you stay on the big ship for

eight an' a half months, then y' only got to be in the little ship for a

day an' a half to get here. Man can live that long, even under that

radiation. See?" And with that, he closed his eyes.



"Do you mean you exposed yourself to the full leakage radiation from a

lifeboat engine for thirty-six hours?"



But there was no answer.



"Let him sleep," said the ship's doctor. "If he wakes up again, I'll let

you know. But he might not be very lucid from here on in."



"Is there anything you can do?" the captain asked.



"No. Not after a radiation dosage like that." He looked down at Pendray.

"His problem was easy, mathematically. But not psychologically. That

took real guts to solve."



"Yeah," said the captain gently. "All he had to do was get here alive.

The problem said nothing about his staying that way."