Prelude to Space Read Free

Mark might still be waiting above the cruel rocks for
     the ship that brought Iseult, while on the hills Merlin might yet be talking with
     the winds and thinking of his doom. From this height the land would have looked the
     same when the masons laid the last stone on Tintagel’s walls.
    Now the liner was dropping toward a cloudscape so white and dazzling that it hurt
     the eyes. At first it seemed broken only by a few slight undulations but, presently,
     as it rose toward him, Dirk realized that the mountains of cloud below were built
     on a Himalayan scale. A moment later, the peaks were above him and the machine was
     driving through a great pass flanked on either side by overhanging walls of snow.
     He flinched involuntarily as the white cliffs came racing toward him, then relaxed
     as the driving mist was all around and he could see no more.
    The cloud layer must have been very thick, for he caught only the briefest glimpse
     of London and was taken almost unaware by the gentle shock of landing. Then the sounds
     of the outer world came rushing in upon his mind—the metallic voices of loud-speakers,
     the clanging of hatches, and above all these, the dying fall of the great turbines
     as they idled to rest.
    The wet concrete, the waiting trucks, and the gray clouds lowering overhead dispelled
     the last impressions of romance or adventure. It was drizzling slightly, and as the
     ridiculously tiny tractor hauled the great ship away, her glistening sides made her
     seem a creature of the deep sea rather than of the open sky. Above the jet housings,
     little flurries of steam were rising as the water drained down the wing.
    Much to his relief, Dirk was met at the Customs barrier. As his name was checked off
     the passenger list, a stout, middle-aged man came forward with outstretched hand.
    “Dr. Alexson? Pleased to meet you. My name’s Matthews. I’m taking you to Headquarters
     at Southbank and generally looking after you while you’re in London.”
    “Glad to hear it,” smiled Dirk. “I suppose I can thank McAndrews for this?”
    “That’s right. I’m his assistant in Public Relations. Here—let me have that bag. We’re
     going by the express tube; it’s the quickest way—and the best, since you get into
     the city without having to endure the suburbs. There’s one snag, though.”
    “What’s that?”
    Matthews sighed. “You’d be surprised at the number of visitors who cross the Atlantic
     safely, then disappear into the Underground and are never seen again.”
    Matthews never even smiled as he imparted this unlikely news. As Dirk was to discover,
     his impish sense of humor seemed to go with a complete incapacity for laughter. It
     was a most disconcerting combination.
    “There’s one thing I’m not at all clear about,” began Matthews as the long red train
     began to draw out of the airport station. “We get a lot of American scientists over
     to see us, but I understand that science isn’t your line.”
    “No, I’m an historian.”
    Matthews’s eyebrows asked an almost audible question.
    “I suppose it must be rather puzzling,” continued Dirk, “but it’s quite logical. In
     the past, when history was made, there was seldom anyone around to record it properly.
     Nowadays, of course, we have newspapers and films—but it’s surprising what important
     features get overlooked simply because everyone takes them for granted at the time.
     Well, the project you people are working on is one of the biggest in history, and
     if it comes off it will change the future as perhaps no other single event has ever
     done. So my University decided that there should be a professional historian around
     to fill in the gaps that might be overlooked.”
    Matthews nodded.
    “Yes, that’s reasonable enough. It will make a pleasant change for us non-scientific
     people, too. We’re rather tired of conversations in which three words out of four
     are mathematical symbols. Still, I suppose you have a