_When Mr. O'Hara won the prize story contest recently conducted by THE FANTASY WRITERS' WORKSHOP at the College of the City of New York, in conjunction with FANTASTIC UNIVERSE, it was the unanimous opinion of the judges that a second story by Mr. O'Hara, RESCUE SQUAD, deserved honorable mention. We think you'll agree with that decision when you've read this documentary-type science-fiction yarn, which so excitingly combines realistic characterization with the mystery, suspense and terror of the near future's exploration of space and a lone pilot's struggle to survive. _ rescue squad _by . .. Thomas J. O'Hara_ Stark disaster to a brave lad in space may--to the mind that loves--be a tragedy pridefully concealed. The mail ship, MR4, spun crazily through space a million miles off hertrajectory. Her black-painted hull resembled a long thermonuclearweapon, and below her and only a scant twenty million miles away burnedthe hungry, flaming maw of the Sun. The atomic-powered refrigeration units of the MR4 were working fullblast--and still her internal and external temperatures were slowly andinexorably rising. Her atomic engines had been long sincesilenced--beaten by the inexhaustible, fiery strength of the invincibleopponent waiting patiently a narrowing twenty million miles "below. " Hal Burnett twisted painfully on the narrow space-bunk, his tormentedbody thrusting desperately against the restraining bands of the safetystraps that lashed him in against the dangers of non-gravity. He moaned, and twisted sideways, while his half-asleep mind struggled onan almost instinctive level against a dimly-remembered, utterlyintolerable reality. It was a losing battle. He was suddenly wide awake, staring in horror atthe vibrating bulkheads of the deserted little mail ship. For a momenthis conscious barriers against reality were so completely down that hefelt mortally terrified and overwhelmed by the vast emptiness about him. For a moment the mad idea swept into his mind that perhaps the universewas just another illusion, an echo of man's own inner loneliness. Realizing his danger, Burnett quickly undid the restraining safetystraps, sat up and propelled himself outward from the edge of his bunk. The sudden surge of physical action swept the cobwebs from his mind. He thought of his father--and there was bitterness in his heart andfrustration, and a rebellious, smouldering anger. The old man wouldnever know how close he had come to cracking up. For a moment he wondered fearfully if his father's cold and preciseappraisal of his character and courage had been correct. Suppose he_was_ unable to stand the rigid strains and pressures of a realemergency. Suppose-- He tightened his lips in defiant self-justification. What did they expect of a twenty-year-old kid anyway? He was, after all, the youngest and probably the greenest mail pilot in the entireUniversal Run. Suddenly the defensive barriers his mind had thrown up against thegrievous flaw in his character, which made him feel uncertain of himselfwhen he should have felt strong and capable, crumbled away completely. He could no longer pretend, no longer deceive himself. He hated hisfather because the elder Burnett had never known a moment of profoundself-distrust in his entire life. He remembered his father's favorite line of reasoning with a sudden, overwhelming resentment. "Fear can and must be controlled. If you haveyour objective clearly in mind a new experience, no matter howhazardous, will quickly become merely a routine obstacle to besurmounted, a yardstick by which a man can measure his own maturity andstrength of purpose. You'll find peace of mind in doing your work ablyand well and by ignoring all danger to yourself. " It was so easy to say, so hard to live up to. How, for instance, could atwenty-year-old kid on his _first_ mail run hope to completely outwitfatigue, or even forget, for a single moment, that it _was_ his firstrun. Fatigue had caused his undoing, but had he been completely fearlesshe might have found a way to save himself, might have managed somehow toprevent the small, navigational errors from piling up until they hadcarried him past the point of no return. A constant re-checking of every one of his instruments might have savedhim. But he had been too terrified to think straight, and too ashamedof his "first-run" inexperience to send out a short wave messagerequesting emergency instructions and advice. Now he was hopelessly offhis course and it was too late. Too late! He could almost feel the steadily-growing pull of his mindless enemy inthe distant sky. Floating and kicking his way over to the Tele-screen, he quickly switched the instrument on. Rotating the control dials, hebrought the blinding white image of the onrushing solar disk intoperfect focus. Automatically he adjusted the two superimposed polaroidfilters until the proper amount of light was transmitted to his viewingscreen. They really built ships and filters these days, he reflectedwryly. Now if they could only form a rescue squad just as easily-- Even through the viewing screen he could almost feel the hot blast ofwhite light hit his face with the physical impact of a baseball bat. With what was almost a whimper of suppressed fear he rocked backward onhis heels. The Sun's ghastly prominences seemed to reach beckoning fingers towardhim, as its flood of burning, radiant light seared through theincalculable cold of space, and its living corona of free electrons andenergy particles appeared to swell and throb menacingly. Fearfully he watched the flaming orb draw closer and closer, and as itspull grew more pronounced he wondered if it were not, in somenightmarishly fantastic fashion becoming malignantly aware of him. Itresembled nothing so much as a great festering sore; an infection of thevery warp-and-woof stuff of space. He flipped off the power control on the Tele-screen and watched theimage fade away with a depleted whine of dying energy. That incandescentinferno out there-- Grimly he tried to recall the name of the man whohad said that, philosophically, energy is not actually a real thing atall. He knew better than to waste time trying the pilot controls again. Theywere hopelessly jammed by the great magnetic attraction of the Sun. Theyhad been jammed for hours now. He forced his way back to his bunk, andsecurely lashed himself to it again. Sleep was his only hope now, hisonly real escape from the growing, screaming hysteria within him. He flung an arm across his tired face. His thin features trembled as heremembered the continuous alterations in his trajectory that had broughthim within range of the Sun's mighty pull. He remembered also everydetail of the last and gravest of the series of miscalculations that hadswept him from the established route of the regular Venus-Mercury mailrun, and threatened him with a violent, flaming end. Greatly off course, he had been approaching Mercury, a routinethirty-six million miles from the Sun. On this, the final leg of hislong journey, he had deviated just far enough from the extreme limits ofsafety to find himself and his ship gripped inexorably in the mightymagnetic fields of the Sun's passage. .. . He remembered a name-- Josephine. There would be no lover's meeting now on the green fields of Earth inthe dusk of a summer evening. There would be no such meeting now. Notunless the prayers and dreams a boy and a girl had shared had followedhim, plunging senselessly into the cold glacial heart of interstellarspace. His false bravado began to break and he began to weep quietly. He beganto wish with all his heart that he had never left home. The sudden crackling of the almost static-jammed ultra-wave radiosnapped through to his mind. Quickly he began to free himself from thebunk. "MR4, come in, MR4. " An eternity seemed to pass as he floated across the room, deliberatelydisregarding the strategically-placed hand-grips on the walls, floor, and ceiling. It seemed aeons before he reached the narrow little controlcompartment, and got the ultra-wave radio into action, nearly wreckingit in his clumsy-fingered haste. "MR4 to Earth. Over. " He waited a few moments and then repeated the message as noacknowledgment came through. Then he abruptly remembered the nearbypresence of the Sun and its interference with radio transmission andreception. He was white and shaken by the time his message was receivedand his report requested and given. He gave the whole tragic picture in frantic short wave. The amount ofatomic fuel left in the ship, the internal and external temperatures, the distance from the Sun, and the strength of the solar disk's magneticfield and his rate of drift toward it--along with a staggering list ofother pertinent factors. At last it was over and he stood by awaiting the decision from Earthheadquarters. It came at last. "MR4. " The growling voice was Donnelly's, the huge space-engineer incharge of the smaller mail-rocket units. "You're in a tough spot butwe've got an expert here from the Government. He's worked on deals likethis with me before and he's got an idea. "Here's the substance of it. We're going to send out a space tug fromMercury to see if we can haul you in. It's a new, experimental tug andit's been kept under wraps until now. But it's been designed for jobslike this and we figure it can sure as hell do it. "There's just one hitch, though, kid. It's a mighty powerful ship sothere's going to be a terrific shock when it contacts you and themagnetic grapples set to work. In your medicine kit you'll find a smallhypo in a red-sealed plastic box. Take the shot that's in itimmediately and we'll have the tug out there as soon as we can. It willprobably take about twelve hours. " Donnelly's voice broke and he hesitated strangely for a moment. "You'llbe out fast, " he went on. "So you won't feel a thing when the shock wavehits you. There's less chance of injuries, this way. " * * * * * "It's a lousy thing to do, " cried Donnelly as he snapped off the set. "Arotten, heartless way of giving the lad false hopes. But then you don'tgive a damn about anybody's feelings but your own, do you, Doc?" "Take it easy, Joe--" "Shut up, Williams. I'm talking to this little Government time-serverover here, not to you. " The psychiatrist shrugged wearily. "I don't care what you think. I'veworked with you both on cases similar to this before, though I'll admitthat none of them were quite as hopeless. In any case, I'll do it myway, or not at all. " "Maybe you will, maybe you will, " said Donnelly. "But if I had to waitthirty days in that thing and somebody told me it was only a matter ofhours--" "I know what I'm doing even if you think that I don't. The Governmenthas developed a set approach in matters like this. Fortunately, therearen't many of them. Perhaps if there were--" "Let me take over, Doc, " broke in Donnelly. "I'm a space-engineer andthat makes me far better qualified to handle this than you are. Why thehell they ever put a psychiatrist on this job in the first place issomething I'll never know, if I live to be a hundred and ten. It's a jobfor an engineer, not a brain washer. " "There's a lot of things you'll never know, Donnelly, " the gaunt, thinlittle man sighed wearily. He sat down at the long mahogany table in theRadio Room. With a careless wave of one arm, he swept a pile of papersand magazines to the floor. "Try and get this through your head, Donnelly. There's not too much youcan do by yourself for that boy up there. You just don't know how tocope with the psychological intangibles. That's why they have mehere--so that we could work together as a team. "Now the sooner you get on that radio and follow my instructions for thepilot the sooner we'll get this over with. Then maybe I can go home andspend a hundred years trying to forget about it. Until then please tryand keep your personal opinions to yourself. Please. " Donnelly's face flushed a still deeper red. His fists clenched and, as amuscle started to twitch warningly in his cheek, he started to get up. He stopped for a moment--frozen in silence. Then he relaxed and pushedback his chair. With a heavy sigh, he maneuvered his huge bear of a bodyto its feet. He rumbled something disgustedly in his throat and then spat casually onthe floor. "Williams, " he thundered. "Get the hell out of here and getus some coffee. " He waited a moment until the only witness had left the room and then, with grim determination, he turned to the little psychiatrist seated atthe table. "You, Doc, " he said coldly and with deliberate malice, "are a dirty, unclean little--" * * * * * Williams, when he eased his slight body through the door a few minuteslater, found a suspicious scene. The little doctor, his face flushed andrage-twisted, his effortless and almost contemptuous composure shakenfor once, was on his feet. Speechless, he faced the grinningspace-engineer who was waving a huge and warning finger in his face. "Easy, Doc, " Donnelly roared in a friendly voice. "I might takeadvantage of it if you keep on giving me a good excuse. Then where wouldall your psychiatry and your fine overlording manners get you?" "Joe, " yelled Williams in explosive sudden fright. "Leave him alone. You're liable to have the Government Police down on us. " "Sure, Williams. The police and the newspapers too. They'd just love tohave the taxpayers find out what they're doing to those kids out in deepspace. What would they call it, Doc? Just an interesting psychologicalexperiment? Is that what it's meant to be, eh, Doc?" He chuckled suddenly as the little doctor flinched under his virulentattack. "I really hit the spot that time, didn't I, Doc? So that's whatthe Government's so scared and hush-hush about. They're really scared tohell and back, aren't they? I wonder what's really going on behind allthis?" He leaned forward, suddenly roaring and ferocious. "Why are Williams andI followed everywhere we go when we leave here? To see who we talk to?Is that the way of it? Why do quite a few of the ships you and I andWilliams have rescued in the past few years never show up again? Justwhere are they? I don't see them reported missing in the newspapers, either. " He leaned back in exhausted satisfaction at the look on the littledoctor's face. "Yeah, Doc, the only way to get anything out of you is toblast it out, isn't it?" Pale and frightened, Williams hurried across the room to the table and, with shaky hands, took out three containers of coffee from the paper bagand passed them out. Nobody bothered to thank him. The hidden tension in the room had begun to mount steadily, so Donnellyhelped it out a little. "Is this the first time you've ever been on the defensive, Doc?" heasked. Williams jumped in before the explosion. "When will the rocket get tothe kid's ship, Doctor?" he asked. "In about thirty days, " the little man answered, coldly anddeliberately. Williams blinked in surprise. "Good Lord, " he said. "I thought it wassupposed to be in twelve hours or so?" "That's the whole point, " snapped Donnelly. "That's what I'm so fightingmad about. Think of it yourself, Williams. Suppose you had a son or abrother up there, how would you feel about this whole infernal, lyingbusiness? "I don't get it, " he went on. "I just don't get the big central ideabehind it. Don't all these tugs we send out ever get there? First theytell the kid he'll have his life saved in twelve hours or so. Then theyget him to take a shot so his mind won't crack up while he's waiting. "Now they know very well the shot won't last for thirty days. If it didhe'd starve to death. So what have they accomplished? Nothing. As amatter of fact they've made things worse instead of better. What's goingto happen to that poor kid when he wakes up in twelve hours and findsout he still has to wait for thirty more days? What's going to happen tohim then, Doc? Don't you think that kid will really go off his rockerfor sure?" Donnelly and Williams both looked at the little psychiatrist. He satagain at his former place at the table, white and shaken. His face wasonce again buried in one hand. "Come on, Doc, " whispered Williams, quietly. "What's going on here, anyway?" "That's enough, " cried the doctor, suddenly. He sprang up and strodetoward the door. "Leave me alone, " he exclaimed, almost in tears. "Byheaven, I've had enough of this. I've had all I can stand. " Donnelly moved to block the door and the psychiatrist came abruptly to ahalt. "That ain't enough, Doc. You get out after you talk. " "For God's sake, Joe. " "Shut up, Williams, I'm warning you for the last time. " "Let me by. I warn you, Donnelly. Let me by. " Williams moved in, regaining a sudden spurt of assurance. "What aboutthat kid up there, Doc? Nobody's letting him by, are they, Doc?" A look of utter weariness swept across the doctor's face. "All right, " he said. "You may as well know the truth then. You won'tlike or understand it, but here it is anyway. You see, there isn't anytug up there, experimental or otherwise. There was only our need for agood excuse--in this present case--to get him to take the drug. You're aspace-engineer and a good one, Donnelly. That's why you were chosen forthis job. If anybody could help those kids, you could. " Donnelly's face tightened warningly and the doctor hurried on. "Youwould have known about it if there had been any experimental modelsdeveloped even if they had been secret. As a matter of fact, with yourstanding, you would probably have been working on them. " "Why all this, then, Doc? Why?" "Because, " the little doctor hesitated--and then shrugged. "I may aswell tell you. It's not going to make any difference now, anyway. It wasall done to put him out for several hours until--" "Until what, Doc?" Donnelly's tone was harsh and uncompromising. "You must understand that I'm under orders. I'm doing what is done inall these cases. Though heaven help me, I wish I didn't have to--" "Doc, " Donnelly roared. "You have been contradicting yourself all alongand I intend to find out why. " "There isn't much more to find out. .. . Wait. " The doctor strode quickly over to the radio, and glanced at hiswristwatch. His face haggard with strain, he turned to Williams. "Willyou contact the MR4, please?" He held up a silencing hand to Donnelly. "There's a reason behind allthis. Just wait for a moment, please. Just wait and listen--" * * * * * It was a fumbling-fingered ten minutes later, after Donnelly had signedoff, that Hal Burnett finally found the tiny red plastic box in thelittle emergency medical kit. Trembling he held it in his hand as hefloated in free fall. It was a little red key--a key to Earth, to life and to the chance toram every cold, precise, contemptuous word down his father'sover-analytical mouth. He didn't really hate the old man but he knew that he feared him. Hefeared also that his father might be right about him after all. Who inhis own mind, he thought bitterly, should know a son better than thatson's own father. A quick surge of elation swept over him as he swam quickly to theTele-screen and switched it on. It wasn't a bit like saying good-bye toan old friend, he thought, as he gazed at the flaming prominences not sofar below him. After a while he switched the instrument off and swamtriumphantly back to his bunk. There were some tri-dimensional color slides in the ditty bag hanging byhis bunk. He took them out and looked at them. None of them were of hisfather. The girl was there, though. She was a small, cute girl with a rainbow oflaughter wreathed about her. She hadn't been really important before, but she sure was important now that he was going to live. His old manhad foretold that, too. After a little while he put the slides back in the portable holder andbroke open the plastic box. It contained a gleaming hypo filled withwhat looked like a small quantity of water. There was an oddpeppermint-like odor about it. There were no instructions. Just the needle and the little red box. He wondered how many hours he would have to wait before help would come. But that didn't matter. He would be asleep, anyway. The temperature had climbed. It was burning, roaring hot. Gently he slid the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger. .. . * * * * * The MR4 continued to spin even more lazily in space. Her sun-blackenedhull, pitted by the glancing blows of by-passing meteor fragments, wasslowly overheating. Her refrigeration units were gradually breaking downunder their tremendous overload. She was inching in ever-shortening circles always in the direction ofthe massive, molten globe not so far below. .. . Sometime later, Hal Burnett awakened slowly, as if from some distant anddimly-remembered dream. The haze of a deep and foggy sleep clung to theunfamiliar mass that was his mind. A distant alarm bell had rung deep within the primitive, subcorticallevels of his brain. It had rung--but not loudly nor insistently enough. It had failed to cut through the eddying fog that was rising slowly intohis ebbing consciousness. He did not remember undoing the straps with benumbed and aching fingers. He did not remember the befogged and stumbling "walk" into the ControlRoom. Dimly, as if viewing himself and the room from a distant world, heswitched on the dying hum of the radio and tried futilely to transmit amessage. The faint crackle of the radio grew more distant. He slumped forward inthe bucket seat, his head striking the controls in front of him--and, for him, the sounds of the muted radio died out completely. The burning heat seared into the metal hull of the MR4. Its outer hullwas almost at the boiling point. Inside, it was a burning, suffocatinghell. Perhaps it was the heat that aroused Hal Burnett once again. Somehow he managed to stumble to the Tele-screen. With the last vestigeof a waning strength, he managed to switch it on and hold himself erect. The stupendous white blast of the Sun struck across his staring eyes, but he did not flinch. Unconscious, his hands clutched at the controlknobs as his sagging legs let him drift weightlessly toward the floor. He was like a drowning swimmer, out of control and helplessly floatingunder water. He seemed to become aware for a moment as a last flicker ofconsciousness crossed his mind. He mouthed something unintelligible--alast, forgotten word. Anchored only by his grip on the control knobs, his weightless bodyfloated aimlessly in the almost steaming cabin as the awful stillnessre-echoed throughout the hollow vault of the ship. Down below, with ever-growing closeness, the Sun waited patiently, likea bright and hovering vulture. The MR4 swung and pivoted gently like a ship at sea straining at itsanchor in the first, fresh breezes of a gathering storm. For a moment itseemed to hesitate like a coy maiden on the verge of some unknownthreshold. Then, abruptly, she climaxed her voyage and plunged directlytoward the waiting Sun some twenty million miles below, carrying withher only her dead cargo; her pilot-- * * * * * The radio crackled noisily after Hal Burnett's last incoherenttransmission. It crackled aimlessly for a few moments--and then wasstill. "Something's wrong, " said Williams, a thin thread of moisture shiningdown his face. "Something's gone wrong up there!" "It sure has, " said Donnelly, quietly. "And I know who I'm going to askabout it. " The little doctor said nothing. His face was an embittered parchmentmask. "It's happened. God help me. It's happened. He's gone, " hemuttered, almost inaudibly. Donnelly sighed heavily, a look almost of defeat sweeping momentarilyacross his features. "See here, Doc, " he said exhaustedly. "Don't be soheartless about people. You've got a son of your own in space, so youought to understand how other people feel. What kind of a father woulddo a thing like this to another man's son anyway?" "Look, Donnelly, " said the little man with bitter weariness. "Do me afavor will you? You fill out the reports tonight. Somehow or other Ijust don't feel up to it. " "Maybe it's your conscience, " said Donnelly, sarcastically. "But I'll bedamned if I'll do it for you. You don't like to do your own dirty work, do you, Doc? I thought you just loved to fill out Government reports. " "Donnelly, Donnelly, " cried the doctor in sudden anguish. "Can't youunderstand yet. Even an undertaker's job is unpleasant but somebody'sgot to do it. Don't you see yet? _It has to be done!_" With a muffled groan of disgust, Donnelly sprang to the radio onceagain, pushing Williams roughly aside. Futilely, and in desperation hestrained at the controls for a moment and then, with a roar of fury, heturned back to the doctor. "Now see here, Doc--" he thundered, and then stopped in amazement. The door to the dim and ill-lighted outer hallway of the lab wasstanding open. And at the far end, the outer door was quietly closingbehind the disappearing figure of the bent-shouldered little man. Donnelly started to spring after him, and then abruptly stopped. Hishuge figure slumped in sudden despairing futility as he recognized thetragic hopelessness of the situation. "Let him go, " rasped Williams. "There's nothing we can do now anyway, Joe. " "Yeah, yeah. Let's write the report up ourselves. That's real important, you know. The Government needs it. " He sat down at the typewriter, his heavy features twisted in hopelessbitterness and anger. He started typing, and then stopped for a moment. "What was this kid pilot's full name, Williams?" Williams checked the Government order sheet. "Hell, " he said. "Strangely, it's the same as the doctor's, Dr. Alfred Burnett. Only thekid's name is Harold Burnett. " Donnelly sat, suddenly transfixed, staring at his typewriter. A peculiarlook flashed across his face. Then he shook his massive head in anunbelieving gesture of agonized understanding. "Hell, no, " he muttered to himself. "It couldn't be. It just couldn'tbe. It just isn't possible. Burnett! _Burnett!_" Swiftly he was on his feet and moving through the door after thevanished figure of the little doctor, his face a mask of grim remorse. "It was merciful, " he muttered. "Yes, it _was_ merciful. It was the onlything Doc Burnett could have done. " Williams stared after Donnelly's disappearing figure in frank andopen-mouthed amazement. "Hey, Joe, " he yelled. "Where the hell are you going?" The outer door slammed shut on the departing echo of his words. "Well, I'll be hung for an ugly son!" he muttered to himself. "Nobody makessense around this place, any more. " He shrugged half to himself and then began to type out the rest of thereport. "I don't get it, " he mumbled to himself. "I just don't get it at all. There's no logic in it. " Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ September 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Although _polaroid_ appears as originally printed, given the lack of a capital letter, it may be a printer's error for _polarized_.