The Corkscrew of Space by Poul Anderson
(First Published in Galaxy Science Fiction, February 1956)
From the collection The High Ones and Other Stories by Poul Anderson
Published in 2010 by Wonder Publishing Group
* * * *
"It is the very essence of being human that Man should
ever long for new horizons, onward, upward striving. When Man ceases to hunger
for the frontier, he will no longer be
* * * *
Everybody
in Syrtis turned out when the Fleet arrived, and those who could traveled from
as far as Yellowpeak and Whatsit for the occasion. A fair sprang up overnight,
tents and booths sprawling over dusty miles, carnivals, migratory shows both
live and recorded, noise and bustle and cheer. The alcohol plants and the fun
houses did a rush business and you couldn't get a hotel room for love, money or
good sweet water. Some folk even had to break the law and camp in the ruins,
the long extinct native race sheltering a new, non-furry breed of Martian.
Laslos
Magarac threaded past the crowds till he got to the spaceport fence. He had an
impulse to pay a dollar to one of the telescope concessionaires for a look at
the fifty great ships orbiting around the planet, but decided against it—the
line was too long. After all, twice a local year was about once an Earth-year,
so it was a capitalized Event—but the shuttle boats blasting down, sheeting
flame through clouds of kicked-up red dust, were spectacular enough.
There
was one arriving now, descending on a tail of fire some four miles away—which
put it almost on the horizon. It was a bright gleam against the dark-blue sky,
under the shrunken sun. As he watched, it entered its cradle and was wheeled
off toward the waiting electrotrucks. Unloading began immediately; the trucks
gulped packages and scurried like beetles toward the warehouses. Mail,
merchandise, tools and luxuries—it was like a friendly greeting from old Earth.
Another
line of vehicles was chuffing toward an empty shuttle with boxed and baled
Martian goods, mostly drybean extract with a scattering of jewels, hopper pelts
and prehistoric relics. The Fleet had to work fast, deliver its cargo and get
loaded and start home again in a few days.
Magarac
found a place in the post office line and resigned himself to waiting an hour.
He was a somewhat dehydrated-looking man with a gaunt ugly face and dry black
hair. The coverall which protected him from the late-afternoon chill was the
standard Martian garment, but as a well-to-do planter, he bore an expensive
cloak patterned like a rainbow.
"Ah
… impatient, I see, my friend."
Magarac
turned around. Oliver Latourelle had joined the queue behind him. The physicist
was a well-nourished man with a plump, sharp-nosed face, watery blue eyes and
bushy white hair fringing an egg-shaped skull. "Is it that you await mail
from a fair one back on Earth?"
"Not
any more," said Magarac gloomily. "Three Mars-years was too long to
wait."
* * * *
Latourelle
clicked his tongue in sympathy. "The old tale, no? You are going to Mars
to raise drybeans and make a fortune. But it takes long to become rich, even in
the Dominion, and meanwhile the radio beams are too public and first-class mail
is ten dollars an ounce."
"I'm
doing okay," said Magarac defensively. "On Mars, that is. The trouble
is that passage home would eat up half my money." He didn't like to
discuss his personal affairs, but when there are barely 10,000 people on an
entire planet, privacy hardly exists.
"Be
consoled," advised Latourelle. "I speak as a man of experience. No
one ever died of a broken heart. That organ is capable of miraculously rapid
self-repair. The secret is to give it time to do so."
"Oh,
I'm long over that business," said Magarac. "What I'm anxious to find
out is how synthetic chemistry is progressing on Earth."
"So?
I realize that to operate a plantation here requires a good scientific
background, but are you so vitally interested that you cannot wait until your
mail is delivered?"
"I
am," said Magarac. "And so is all Mars, whether they know it or not.
Eighty per cent of our industry is based on the drybean. It won't grow anywhere
else, and they're finding new medicinal uses for the extract every year. But
figure it out for yourself. Freight rates being what they are, the stuff costs
fifty dollars an ounce by the time the Earth doctor gets it. Every chemical
firm you can name has a team trying to synthesize the basic molecule. One day
soon, they're going to do it and then the drybean planters are finished. I'm
watching the technical journals so I can sell out in time."
"And
what will you do then, with the Dominion broke?"
"God
only knows."
"And
I thank Him I was born to be a research physicist, and I thank the Rockefeller
Foundation for so generously subsidizing my work," said Latourelle.
"Though with all respect to this excellent planet of yours, my friend, it
seems a long and dry three years ahead until I can return to
"What
d'you have to be here for, anyway?" asked Magarac. He had gotten quite
friendly with Latourelle, but knew little of the man's highly specialized
project.
"I
am studying magnetism. Mars, you see, does not have a core like Earth, but is
of uniform composition. Apparently that accounts for its peculiar magnetic
field … Yet in what way? I think it is an effect of relativistic wave
mechanics. I have developed a most beautiful theory of Riemannian folds in a
multiply connected space. Now I am checking the magnetic data to see if my theory
will hold—you pardon the expression—water."
"And
so what's your hurry to get your mail?" Magarac chuckled. "A gorgeous
dame of your own?"
"No.
Not that I am too old even now, I assure you, but I have more sense than to
expect a delectable woman to wait five Earth-years for my return. I shall
simply start afresh. No, no, my friend, it is that I have been extravagant with
myself. Well, say rather that I am supplying a necessity. If you would care to
visit my house tonight for a little private discussion—?"
And
Latourelle would say nothing more. With elaborate silence, he picked up a large
wooden case at the desk, and Margarac's last sight of him was a small
suspicious figure hugging the box to his chest and stumping off toward Syrtis.
* * * *
The
news, no doubt, was good for humanity at large, but it would hit Mars heavily.
Magarac had been an engineer on Earth, with added experience in chemistry, and
could read between the lines. M'Kato announced cautiously that he thought he
had the structural formula of protenzase. If he was right, they would be
synthesizing it in another year. Quite probably, the next Fleet would not be
accepting drybean extract.
Magarac
slouched gloomily away from the lights and music and swirl of the fair. What
the devil was a man to do?
So
far, the history of Mars had been economic history. The first colony had been
planted to mine the rich uranium beds of the Aetheria. To save freight, it had
had to be made self-sufficient; and, since this was not Periclean
Now
they were the Dominion, with junior status in the UN, and talked big about
gaining full self-government.
But
when their economy was kicked in the stomach—
Magarac
found
He
sighed and took out a cigarette and winced as he lit it. Synthetic tobacco,
synthetic alcohol, synthetic steaks … God! Maybe he ought to throw in his hand
and go back to Earth.
Only
he liked it here. There was room in the deserts and the equatorial moors. A man
was still a man, not a number. You worked with your hands and brain, for
yourself, and making a time-gnawed sandstone waste blossom green was more
satisfying than punching a clock in an Earthside factory. He wanted to get
married and fill his ranch house with kids and raise them up proud of being
Martians and Magaracs.
He
turned a corner and emerged on
* * * *
It
was the man himself, ranting from the balcony of Barsoom House. Magarac had to
admit the demagogue had personality—a thick-set, dynamic type, with a fierce
head that he was always tossing dramatically back, a voice which was organ and
trumpet and bass drum. What the planter did not like was the words, or the
crowd, or the green-shirted goons stationed around the square.
"—And
I say to you, it was hard work, hard work and obedience which made the glorious
vision of our grandfathers into the reality you see about you, which
transformed a planetwide desolation into a world of men! It was thrift and
sobriety. Yes, let me say it was intolerance—intolerance of vice, of drink, of
laziness and rebelliousness against constituted authority, which made us what
we now are.
"Then
let us be intolerant! These
self-styled democrats, these Earth-lovers, with their hell-brewed liquor and
their loose women and their hair-splitting Bill of Rights designed only to
thwart the Will of the People, will ruin us if they can. It is we who Believe
who must save the destiny of Mars—"
Magarac
shrank into a dark corner. The mob numbered almost a hundred men, shoving and
yelling in an ugly mood, and Magarac was no friend of Blalock's Freeman Party.
As an assemblyman of Syrtis District, he had often spoken publicly against him.
Freeman!
Haw! And all the horses laughed. And all the horses' donkeys laughed. It was
the old story, the would-be dictator, appealing to that queer deep streak of
masochistic puritanism in the Martian culture. The first colonists had needed
such traits, to nerve them for their heartbreaking job.
But
now—good Lord! Wasn't it about time Mars became civilized?
How
it happened, Magarac was never sure. One minute, Blalock was talking himself
berserk and the crowd was crying amen; the next minute, they were across the
plaza, tearing Cassidy's Bar & Grill apart.
Cassidy
was the most inoffensive little man in the Solar System, who often apologized
for the rotgut he had to sell and the prices he had to charge. Martian beer was
just barely preferable to none at all, though it cost as much as champagne
would on Earth, and Cassidy operated a friendly neighborhood pub where men
could shed the grinding sameness of desert reclamation in a few hours of
conviviality. Magarac not only liked the place and its owner, but figured they
were important to keeping the town sane.
When
he saw glass splinter as two six-foot bruisers tossed Cassidy through his own
window, and when he saw the whole investment smashed and running out in the
street, Laslos Magarac decided that if Blalock had intimidated the police, the
skunk ought to be shown there was still one man left in Syrtis.
A
man, by God!
He
ran across the square and started swinging.
* * * *
Latourelle
opened the door and stood uncertainly. "But what happened to you, my
friend? You look like one of the old Martian ruins."
"Just
a ruined Martian." Magarac lurched into the house and headed for the
bathroom.
"Use
the whole week's water ration if you desire," said Latourelle anxiously.
"Me, I am not drinking water any more."
He
hovered about trying to be helpful while Magarac got washed and patched. Apart
from a missing tooth, the damage was only skin deep and a glass of analgesite
took away the pain. It was with a sigh almost of contentment that Magarac
finally stretched out in a battered easy chair.
Latourelle's
house consisted of three rooms: bath, living-dining-sleeping, and a laboratory.
The lab took up most of the space. But with his genius for being comfortable,
the Frenchman had made his home a place of cheer.
"When
the assembly meets next week, they're going to get an earful," said
Magarac. "Not that it'll do any good. Blalock's bullies have everybody
else cowed. But you shoulda seen the other guy." He smiled dreamily, with
bruised and swelling lips. "Four of 'em was one too many for me, but they
won't forget me in a hurry."
"I
take it, then, you had the run-in with the Freemen?"
"They
were busting up Cassidy's tavern. I dragged him away and called a doctor. He'll
be all right."
"Barbarians!
Have they no consideration for others?"
"Not
the Freemen. They want to march around in fancy uniforms and so they figure
everybody else ought to want the same." Magarac scowled and lighted a
cigarette. His fingers shook a little."Ollie, Mars is really sick."
"It
must be, if this sort of thing is proceeding unhindered."
"We're
out of touch with history. What can we do but stagnate, when you have to work a
lifetime to save up enough money for one vacation on Earth? Blalock would be
laughed out of town back there. But here he's a big frog because the whole
planet is such a small puddle. And life is so grim at best that the shoddy
excitement he can offer appeals to the young men."
Magarac
spoke fast, with the feverish loquacity of weariness. "We have to live
ascetically because of economics. So, sooner or later, we're going to
rationalize that fact and turn ascetism from an unpleasant necessity to a shining
virtue." He puffed hard, seeking comfort from the vile fake tobacco.
"When that happens, Mars will no longer be fit to live on."
"It
is not now, I fear," said Latourelle.
"Sure,
it still is, because we have hope. We can work and hope to improve the place.
But if Blalock gets into power, there won't even be that hope."
* * * *
"These
things, they come and go," said Latourelle fatalistically. "The beast
will have his day and then be forgotten."
"Not
when the bottom is going to be knocked out of our economy—which will happen
pretty soon. Then everybody will be desperate enough to try the old panacea,
the Almighty State." Magarac's face twisted. "And we could do so
much, Ollie, if we had the chance! We have minerals, we have space for
agriculture … and Earth is getting so overcrowded, someday it'll be desperate
for food. But the damned cost of shipping! The time it takes! If we had a fast,
cheap method of space travel, we could shuck this lopsided drybean economy,
build up diversified industries, turn Mars into an Eden."
"One
cannot very well argue with a gravitational potential difference,"
shrugged Latourelle.
"No,
but a rocket is such a slow and wasteful way to overcome it." Magarac
looked wistful. "And if we had something better, we'd be in close touch
with Earth. We'd have a living culture to nourish us—books, music, art,
everything Man needs to be more than just a two-legged belly."
"Well,
be of good heart, my friend. In another fifty or a hundred years such a method
will be available."
"Hm?"
Magarac looked up through two black eyes. "What d'you mean?"
"Did
you not know? Bien, I suppose
not; you are no theoretical physicist. But if my concept of warped space is
valid, then it should be entirely possible to—well, yes, to bring a spaceship
directly from the surface of Mars to the surface of Earth, or vice versa, in
the wink of an eye, at negligible cost. The ship would follow a geodesic
through the appropriate fold in space—"
Magarac
jumped to his feet. "You don't mean it!"
"But
I do." Latourelle beamed. "There, is not that consolation to
you?"
"No,"
said Magarac bleakly. "Fifty years will be too late. Mars will have been
ruined in a decade." He leaned over and gripped Latourelle's shoulders.
"D'you think you can build such a ship now?"
"What
do you think I am? A sorcerer?"
"I
know you're a Nobel Prize winner, a genuine genius and—"
"And
an old tired man who will in a few years return to his beloved valley of the
"You've
done it, blast you! That neutron recycler of yours—"
"That
was to prove a point which interested me. My heart goes out to you, but up
here—" Latourelle tapped his gleaming forehead—"up here is a selfish
animal, the subconscious mind, which must first be given an all-important
motive before it will work. And as I am only to be on Mars three more years, I
have no such motive."
* * * *
Magarac
slumped back in his chair. "Yeah … yeah, I guess so."
"Come
on to Earth," urged Latourelle. "Come to
Magarac
braced himself. He liked Latourelle, but the old fellow was a bore on this one
topic.
"I
have given some thought to my first menu," went on the physicist raptly.
"I cannot now specify the vintages, for I have lost touch, but give me
time when I return, give me time. We will begin, of course, with a light dry
sherry. There are those who maintain the virtues of vermouth as an aperitif, but not just before a meal, if
you please. After the appetizers and the clear soup, there will be the fish and
the white
He
was almost crooning now. "With the tournedos,
we will serve
Magarac
nodded. He jerked to wakefulness when Latourelle stopped and regarded him with
a hurt expression.
After
a moment, the Frenchman looked contrite. "But of course! Forgive me! Here
you have been in battle, righteous battle but a lost cause, and I sit droning
on about joys out of your reach. I promised you a surprise, did I not? Well, a
surprise you shall have, one to lighten your soul and renew your manhood. I
have been saving it, denying it even to myself till you should come, for shared
pleasures are best. But now—wait!"
He
sprang to his feet and went over to a cabinet and opened it. Bottles glistened
within, row on row of them, slender bottles with labels of gentle witchcraft.
Magarac
felt his jaw clank down. He pulled it up again with an effort.
* * * *
Latourelle
laughed boyishly and rubbed his hands. "Is it not a noble sight? Is it not
a vision for the gods? I assure you, this hope is all that has sustained me in
my time on Mars."
"My
God!" stammered Magarac. "It must have cost a fortune!"
"It
did, it did indeed. Luckily, I have a fortune—or had." Latourelle broke
out two slim glasses and a corkscrew. "You see, it has hitherto been
impossible to export liquors to other planets. Quite apart from the cost, the
prolonged high acceleration and then the free fall, they ruin it. Even crossing
an ocean, a good wine is sadly bruised. Crossing space, it simply dies; one
might as well drink Martian beer."
"Um
… yes, I've heard of that. Colloidal particles agglomerate and obscure chemical
reactions take place. Even whisky won't survive the trip." Magarac
approached the cabinet reverently. "But this—"
"This
is a new process. The last Fleet brought me a letter announcing success and I
hastened to order a case of assorted wines. It will not be much, but it will
help keep me sane until the next shipment can arrive."
Latourelle
extracted a bottle and held it up to the light. "The process, it involves
a tasteless, harmless additive which stabilizes both the colloids and the
chemistry. The finest Chambertin-Clos has been flown through an Atlantic
hurricane and served that same night in
The
cork popped out with a flourish. "Now, my old, we drink the first wine to
cross interplanetary space!"
The
living red stream sparkled into the glasses. Silently, as if performing a holy
rite, the two men raised their drinks and sipped.
Latourelle
went white. "Nom de diable! Pure
vinegar!"
* * * *
"That dauntless pioneer, the Immortal Oliver
Latourelle! At a time of crisis, when the fair planet of Mars faced ruin and
dictatorship, it was he and his great associate Laslos Magarac, later to become
Premier of the Dominion and first President of a fully independent nation—it
was those two men, driven by the need to expand humanity's frontiers to the
very stars, who created the space-warp ship.
"Think of it, gentlemen! In one month, Latourelle had
worked out the principles of such a vessel.
"In two more months, he had equipped an old ship, the
piously renamed St. Emilion, with a
warp engine and had crossed to Earth in a few microseconds. It was only a token
cargo he brought back to Mars, a case of wine, doubtless to symbolize the
achievements of his own fair country, but he had proved it could be done. That
simple case of wine foreshadowed the argosies which now ply between a thousand
suns.
"And it was the great Latourelle's first words when he
emerged from his ship on his return from Earth and staggered across the sands
of Mars—surely too overcome by emotion to walk straight —it was his words which
have become the official motto of the Martian Republic and will live forever in
Martian hearts as a flaming symbol of human genius:
"A votre santé!"
THE END
* * * *
* * * *
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