Troubled Star
A Novel by GEORGE O. SMITH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, February 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
FOREWARD—EN SAGA
At least once in every generation there turns up a person who isembarrassing to the Custodians of History. With neither talent norambition, nor studious application nor admirable character, this personsucceeds where the bright and the studious and the intellectuallyhonest would have failed miserably. Stubborn, egocentric, vain—oftenstupid—our person blunders in where the wise and the sincere wouldnot dare. His hide is thicker than that of the rhinoceros. He is notabashed to tell the surgeon where to ply his scalpel, or to instructthe statesman on a course of diplomacy. His little knowledge is adangerous thing—for other people.
His success is due to the law of averages.
History holds many accounts where the brave and the brilliant havestepped in at the right time to avoid disaster. Yet there are morebums than geniuses, more cowards than heroes and more laziness thanambition in our human race, so it is not surprising that there shouldbe occasions when a bum or a self-centered braggart should find thathistory has a special niche waiting for him.
I
They were parked on the dark side of Mercury, snug and comfortable intheir hemisphere of force that kept out the cold and kept in the air.At one side where force met ground, a tall silvery spacecraft rose likea chimney.
They were three:
Chat Honger was tall, red-headed, and thin faced. He looked as thoughhe were incapable of quieting down, but he was really the type ofperson who has an incredible amount of patience for things which cannotbe performed in a hurry.
Bren Fallow was shorter than Chat Honger, darker, stouter, more roundof face and more amiable. Definitely, Bren was the methodical type.
The third man was Scyth Radnor. Scyth was the kind of man who is quickto grasp a new idea and as quick to reduce it to practise. His failingwas that he seldom looked deep or planned far ahead. Being quick ofmind he preferred to play everything by ear because planning requiredstudy, and Scyth felt that study for the sake of study consumed toomuch time—time that could better be spent in the pursuit of fun andgames.
Teach them the language and drop them in Greater New York and theywould be lost among Manhattan's millions. Better change their clothing,though. Striped shorts, Greek sandals, a Sam Browne belt across a barechest, and a Roman toga of iridescent changing hues is not the kind ofcostume seen on Fifth Avenue.
Aside from their costume they were human to the last detail. Even theirspeech, when translated, sounded like the human tongue. They usedslang, elision, swearwords and poor grammar. They made bum jokes andpuns. They sounded more like displaced earthmen than technicians from aculture that had been establishing galactic centers of population forthirty thousand years.
"You're certain?" asked Bren.
Scyth nodded. "Dead certain now. It was that last computation that soldme."
"Then I'd better shut down."
Chat Honger shook his head. "We've got a job to do. We're behindschedule now, fellows, because of this question. We've got a beacon tostart here, I say let's get along with it and bedamned to the—"
"You can't," said Bren. "The first time you put down in the log thatthis is