All Judgment Fled

 

 

 

 

Sixty million miles from Earth, embroiled in
all the perils of First Contact, astronauts
haven't much time for politicians. Back on
Earth, though, the actions of humanity's
hastily chosen representatives are the very
stuff of politics. The result is stress -- for the
astronauts, and for the men who are supposed
to dictate their actions from Earth. And stress
in these conditions makes a tricky situation
really dangerous. It can cause unnecessary
deaths, it can drive a man mad -- it can also
bring out the unexpected in a man's character.
When the alien ship took up a position in
space some sixty million miles from Earth, it
violated all the laws of motion. Clearly its
drive was something new and unimaginably
important. In any case, it was indisputably
alien, the first such phenomenon to come the
way of startled humanity. There was no time
to lose. Six astronauts were hastily assembled
and sent out as Earth's representatives, to be
the eyes, the ears, and the ambassadors of the
world. They were warned before they went
that they were to be as circumspect as possi-
ble, that all their actions would be reviewed on
Earth and would affect the perennially deli-
cate political situation there. But politics is
the art of the possible. Aliens do not conform
to the rules. They are by the nature of things
unpredictable. Sometimes they are simply
savage . . .
James White has a unique talent for con-
structing believable but utterly alien aliens,
and for wrapping human contact with them in
a cloak of wild adventure. Here he piles ten-
sion on tension, culminating in a splendidly
unexpected but satisfactory climax.
All Judgment Fled
by James White
WALKER AND COMPANY
New York
Copyright © 1969 by JAMES WHITE
Second Printing
This novel first appeared as a serial in If Magazine, © 1967 by
Galaxy Publishing Corporation.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or me-
chanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any infor-
mation storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the Publisher.
All the characters and events portrayed in this story are
fictitious.
Published in the United States of America in 1969 by the
Walker Publishing Company, Inc. by arrangement with
Ballantine Books, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada by The Ryerson Press,
Toronto
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 70-86388
Printed in the United States of America

 

 

 

chapter one

 

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have last their reason.
Shakespeare

 

It all began with a small scratch on a time exposure of some star clouds
in Sagittarius and its presence was blamed on mishandling or faulty
processing. But a second exposure of the same area showed a similar
scratch which began where the first one had left off and traced a
path which was unmistakably curved, indicating that it was altering
its own trajectory and could not therefore be a natural celestial
body. Immediately every instrument which could be brought to bear was
directed at the Ship.

 

 

The largest optical instruments showed only a point of light,
spectro-analysis indicated a highly reflective surface suggestive of
metal and the great bowls of the radio telescopes gathered nothing at
all. By this time the Ship had taken up an orbit some twelve million
miles beyond the orbit of Mars, still without making any attempt to
communicate, and the decision was taken to sacrifice the Jupiter probe
in an attempt to gain more information about the intruder.

 

 

The complex and horribly expensive piece of hardware which was the
Jupiter Probe -- the unmanned observatory for the examination of the
Jovian system which was to have relayed its data to Earth for decades
to come -- was at that time relatively close to the alien ship. It was
thought that if the fuel reserve to be used for maneuvering inside the
Jovian system was used for an immediate and major course correction, the
probe could be made to pass within fifty thousand miles of the stranger.

 

 

As a result, there was relayed back to Earth a low definition picture of
the vessel which orbited silently and, some thought, implacably, like
some tremendous battleship cruising off the coast of a tiny, backward
island. It made no signal nor did it reply in any recognizable fashion
to those which were being made. For the probe's instruments showed the
object to be metallic, shaped like a blunt torpedo with a pattern of
bulges encircling its midsection, and just under half a mile long.

 

 

Inevitably there were those who wanted an even closer look, and two
small, sophisticated dugout canoes were hastily modified and readied
for launching.

 

 

 

"It seems to me," said Walters very seriously, "that we have not gone
far enough into the philosophical implications of this thing. At present
that ship is a Mystery, but once we make contact it will then become a
Problem. There's a difference, you know."

 

 

"Not really," Berryman said in a matching tone. "A problem is simply a
mystery which has been broken down into a number of handy pieces, some
of which are usually related to problems already solved. And far be it
from me to impugn the thought processes of a fellow officer, but your
stand smacks of intellectual cowardice."

 

 

"Advocating a greater degree of caution and prior mental preparation is
not cowardice," Walters returned, "and if we're to begin impugning minds,
it's my opinion that too much confidence -- you can call it bravery if
you like -- is in itself a form of instability which . . ."

 

 

"What sort of twisted mind is it that can insult a man by calling him
brave?" said Berryman, laughing. "It seems to me everyone on this operation
wants to be the psychologist except the psychologist. What do you say,
Doctor?"

 

 

McCullough was silent for a moment. He was wondering what insensitive
idiot it had been who had first likened the horrible sensation he was
feeling in his stomach to butterflies. But he knew that the other two men
were verbally whistling in the dark and in the circumstances he could
do nothing less than make it a trio. He said, "I'm not a psychologist,
and anyway my couch is full at the moment -- I'm in it . . ."

 

 

"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,"
said Control suddenly.
"I have
to tell you that Colonel Morrison's ship had a three-minute hold at minus
eighteen minutes, so your takeoff will not now be simultaneous. Is this
understood? Your own countdown is proceeding and is at minus sixty seconds
. . . now!"

 

 

"Command pilot here," said Berryman. "Understood. Tell the colonel last man
to touch the alien ship is a . . ."

 

 

"Don't you think you are all working a little too hard at projecting
the image of fearless, dedicated scientists exchanging airy persiflage
within seconds of being hurled into the unknown? Your upper lips must
be so stiff, I'm surprised you can still talk with them. Would you agree
that you may be overcompensating for a temporary and quite understandable
anxiety neurosis?

 

 

"Minus twenty seconds and counting . . . eighteen, seventeen, sixteen
. . ."

 

 

"You're right, Walters," said Berryman. "
Everybody
wants to be
a psychologist!"

 

 

"Twelve, eleven, ten . . ."

 

 

"I want off," said Walters.

 

 

"At minus seven seconds are you kidding! Four, three, two, one . . ."

 

 

The acceleration built up until McCullough was sure his body could take
no more, and still it increased. Even his eyes felt egg-shaped and his
stomach seemed to be rammed tightly against his backbone. How anything
as fragile as a butterfly could survive such treatment surprised him,
but they were still fluttering away like mad -- until accelerating ceased
and his vision cleared, that is, and he was able to look outside. Only
then did they become still, paralyzed like himself with wonder.

 

 

Control and guidance during this most critical stage of the trip was the
responsibility of brains both human and electronic on the ground. Their
short period of weightlessness ended as the second stage ignited, its
three G's feeling almost comfortable after the beating he had taken
on the way up. With his head still turned toward the port, McCullough
watched the splendor of the sunset line slide past below them to be
replaced by the great, woolly darkness that was the cloud-covered Pacific.

 

 

Against this velvet blackness a tiny shooting star fell away from rather
than toward Earth -- Morrison's ship. He knew it was the colonel's ship
because its flare died precisely three minutes after their own second
stage cut out.

 

 

If everything had gone as planned -- a very big if, despite the advances
made since Apollo -- they were now on a collision course with the
sixty-million-miles-distant Ship. A period of deceleration, already
precalculated, would ensure that the collision would be a gentle one,
if they managed to collide with it at all. For the alien vessel was a
perfect example of a point in space. It had position but no magnitude,
no detectable radiation, no gravitational field to help suck them in if
their course happened to be just a little off.

 

 

The thought of missing the alien vessel completely or having to use so much
fuel finding it that they might not be able to return home, was to worry
McCullough occasionally. Usually he tried, as he was doing now, to think
about something else.

 

 

He could no longer see Morrison's ship. Either it was too small to be
picked out by the naked eye -- at least by McCullough's middle-aged,
slightly astigmatic naked eye -- or it was hidden by the glare from the
monsoon season cloud blanket covering Africa and the South Atlantic. But
suddenly the colonel was very much with them.

 

 

"P-One calling P-Two. Come in, P-Two. How do you read?"

 

 

"P-Two here," said Berryman, and laughed. "Almost deafening, sir, and
as clear as the notes of a silver trumpet blowing the Last P -- I mean
Reveille . . ."

 

 

"Freudian slip," murmured Walters.

 

 

"Loud and clear is good enough, Berryman -- purple passages waste
oxygen. Have you completed checking your pressurization and life-support
systems?"

 

 

"Yes, sir. All are Go."

 

 

"Good. Take off your suits and all of you get some sleep as soon as
possible. Use medication if necessary. At the present time I consider it
psychologically desirable for a number of reasons, so go to sleep before
your nasty little subconsciouses realize they've left home. That's an
order, gentlemen. Good night."

 

 

A few minutes later, while the other two were helping him out of his suit,
Walters said drily, "Even the colonel wants to be one," and Berryman
added, "The trouble, Doctor, is that your psychologists' club is not
sufficiently exclusive."

 

 

But the command pilot was wrong in one respect, at least. McCullough now
belonged to the most exclusive club on Earth, membership of which was
reserved for that very select group of individuals who at some time had
left the aforementioned planet. And like all good clubs or monastic orders
or crack regiments, there were certain rules of behavior to follow. For
even in the present day, members could find themselves in serious trouble,
very serious trouble.

 

 

When this happened they were supposed to follow precedents established
by certain founder members who had been similarly unfortunate. They
were expected to talk quietly and keep control of themselves until all
hope was gone, then perhaps smash their radios so that their wives and
friends would not be distressed by their shouting for the help which
nobody could possibly give them when their air gave out or their vehicle
began to melt around them on re-entry.