The Rescue

By Jon Picciuolo

For thousands of years only the Guardian's liquid crystal eyes, fixed on the blue-white beswirled planet, protruded above the Moon's featureless dust. At first they observed only random geologic scarrings and the natural cycle of seasons. Gradually, though, other changes became apparent.

The Guardian identified spreading cultivation, recognized primitive settlements followed by great stone monuments, and finally the cancerous sprawls of industrial cities. It slid more sensors through the lunar surface, sniffing for telling wisps of modulated energy, studying expanding areas of nighttime illumination.

At last the Guardian was sure — an intelligent species had ripened for contact.

The Masters might return at any time.

The pilot shivered in the Long Island dawn as he untied his hammock from the Jenny's struts. He rolled the canvas and stowed it behind the rear cockpit seat, then unwrapped what was left of last evening's sandwich, craving for coffee. He thought of the farmer couple he visited last night, but was unsure of his welcome. With the whisky bottle bouncing across the table between him and the older man, they traded Great War reminiscences, but towards the bottom of the bottle the farmer's wife became shrill with disapproval.

He finished his meager breakfast and began the preflight checking, inside and out. Wires and struts proved right, control surfaces moved freely. He was about to turn his attention to the biplane's engine when a polite cough broke the silence around him.

The farmer stood there, smirking, with a steaming pitcher and two dented tin cups in hand. "Screw the Kaiser!" he cheerfully announced.

The pilot chuckled and licked his lips. "Yeah, screw him again. Hope your wife's okay this morning."

"Oh, she'll get over it." Coffee perfumed the air as it splashed into the mug. "No sense of humor, that woman. Your machine all right?"

"Checks out fine." The pilot took a sip and smiled as it went down, warming his throat to his stomach. "Thanks for the use of your field. Damn, that's good!"

The farmer tipped his dregs into the dirt. "Infantryman's brew — threw in some crushed eggshells and a pinch of salt. Just leave the pitcher and mug. I'll pick them up later. Where you flying next?"

"Got a job over Coney Island. Then maybe I'll hop to Bridgeport. Heard they might have work over there. Well, thanks again."

"Always glad to help a flyboy," the farmer said, extending a callused hand.

"Drop in anytime." He hurried away, laughing at his little joke.

The engine was two quarts low. The pilot poured clear castor oil into the sump, then topped the fuel tank with five gallons from the battered can stowed in the front cockpit. He wobbled the smoke barrel: three-quarters full, enough for the Coney Island job. He examined the rubber tube to the exhaust manifold. No twists, no crimps. He yanked one wheel chock and, pulling a dime thriller from his back pocket, sat down in the sun to wait.

The drone of insects and the faint popping noises of the drum-tight canvas lulled him into drowsiness. The smells were reassuring: pungent earth, doped fabric, gasoline.

An hour passed. Two. Finally the pilot stood and stretched. He sauntered to the side of the biplane away from the farmhouse and urinated onto the field. He picked up a wisp of straw and watched it drift downward in the breeze.

He climbed into the cockpit. Ignition off, throttle open. He clambered out. Eight cylinders noisily sucked fuel as he propped the engine once, twice, once more for luck. He walked back, leaned into the cockpit and flipped the ignition switch. Another heave on the propeller. The engine coughed twice, then roared to life. He pulled the remaining chock, vaulted into the rear cockpit and wedged himself into the seat. He throttled back and tapped the oil gauge. Satisfied, he pulled on his leather helmet and scratched goggles. A throttle nudge started the Jenny rolling. A little rudder, and the flimsy machine yawed into the wind.

No cows on the field. So he opened the throttle wide. When the bouncing stopped, he knew his wheels were off the ground. He circled the cluster of farm buildings, waggling wings in farewell, nosed the biplane southward, and began to climb.

The Guardian's sensors pivoted a few degrees and began another sweep. It peered obliquely onto the sunlit side of the planet where Its Masters had programmed It to concentrate. It patiently searched as It had for millennia.

The little Jenny crossed over the barrier islands and turned westward over the ocean, climbing through 3,000 feet at seventy miles per hour. When Atlantic Beach slid away to the right, the pilot tested his smoke generator. A quick twist of the valve sent a spurt of kerosene from the barrel into the right exhaust manifold. Pleased at the streaming white, he shut the valve and enjoyed the view of Brooklyn sprawled to the west.

At 9,000 feet, just past Breezy Point, he began to circle, picking up altitude. The blueness of cloudless sky was captured in the sea below. His Jenny was running flawlessly. No engine misses, rock-steady oil pressure.

He pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket, took a glance, then crumpled it and tossed it over the side. Piece of cake, he told himself. Hell of a lot easier than that crummy politician's slogan over Norfolk last week — smoke pictures are more fun than words, anyway. He snappily banked the Jenny toward Brighton Beach.

The Guardian registered a brief sea-related anomaly. The highly reflective streak did not correlate with any pre-stored signal, but the unnatural linearity piqued the neural analyzing-node's interest. The scan program lingered, hoping for something more.

A mile off Brighton Beach, the Jenny banked west again and leveled at 10,000 feet. The pilot smiled at the nickel-a-ride amusements below. A huge roller coaster humped and dove in tight ovals. The beach was peppered with holiday bathers spilling into the surf. Like those battlefields in France, he thought.

He flew the first leg directly south from the roller coaster. Exhaust belched white as the Jenny roared seaward, then doglegged right. He twisted around in the cockpit. Not bad for a start, but the next part was trickier.

He turned off the smoke and made a tight turn back toward land. At just the right moment, he snapped open the valve and mirror-imaged his outbound leg. As he doglegged left, a beer bottle began to take shape to the delight of the waving crowd. A minute later, the two sides were formed, and he was positioning for the short run to form the bottle's base. One stroke for the bottom, two for the slanted label, and the job would be done. He checked his pocket watch.

The Guardian focused all sensors on the evolving pattern. Logic circuits noted proportion and symmetry, searched archives for a signal correlation. No exact match. But one archival pattern was close — close enough, considering the gravity of the message: EMERGENCY RESCUE REQUIRED. The Guardian increased optical magnification one thousand, then ten thousand times. It identified a tiny dot as the source, assessed the speck as a probable exoatmospheric escape capsule.

The long wait was over. Propulsion systems gulped power. The Guardian balled itself into near-solidity, preparing for acceleration. A millisecond later, fifty tons of lunar dust vaporized as the silver sphere leapt away. Within a minute the newborn ship covered one-quarter of the distance to Earth. It pivoted in translunar space and decelerated to radiate its inhaul beam.

The pilot waggled his wings at the crowd. He peered back at the enormous beer bottle. It was art. He was an artist and people loved it. And, by God, he was flying!

He glanced at the oil pressure and decided to treat the crowd to a show. He plummeted to 500 feet and roared along the surf, white smoke billowing behind. At the point where the crowd was thickest, he snapped the biplane into a flurry of barrel rolls.

As he came out of the third roll, he knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Zero control response. He pumped rudder pedals, levered the stick. But the Jenny remained absolutely level. It was cold.

The engine coughed, and died.

There had been no sudden jolt, no upward acceleration. He glanced up from his instruments to see the earth's fuzzy curvature, blanketed with a cobalt, starry sky. He marveled at the beauty of the North American continent. Then, with combat pilot's detachment and an odd pang of questioning joy, he accepted it as the last sight he'd ever see.

Three thousand miles above, the Guardian reconfigured Itself to prepare the rescue chamber. A section of the outer hull melted away. When the capsule was enveloped, the Guardian rematerialized the hull. Probes caressed the precious cargo, searching for a life's spark, however faint.

Contingency programs took over. The Guardian energized electrofields, blended frigid gasses and internal temperature gradients. The chamber stabilized into its biopreservative mode. Propulsion and navigation systems surged into action.

Within an hour the silver sphere crossed the orbit of Pluto, distorting space with a supra-lightspeed wake. Soon, very soon, the Guardian knew, Its grateful Masters would rejoice in the rescue of one of their own.