"But what place is this, Paul? It's not space, not even space in another universe. It's no planet that could ever exist. It's not like anything that's logical at all."
"You're right. God knows. I don't think that I could give a name to this place. I don't think that any man could. Could you even hope to describe it to anyone, Jocelyn?"
"Not if I knew more words than Shakespeare. Paul—if this is nowhere near the lab or even our universe—why is gravitation in the ship normal as far as I can see?"
Gaynor smiled. "Awfully simple, woman," he said. "Obviously we have artifical gravity. We invented it almost a month ago. And—by the way— this is a spaceship too. We installed a gravity-drive. "Now then, Art, get away from that window and rig up the cameras. Jocelyn, take notes. I'm going to fiddle with a spectroscope."
The girl balanced a pad on her knee, dashing onto paper the random notes and observations of the two men. Minutes later, Clair was trying to develop a photographic plate and let loose some particularly blistering adjectives. "Shall I take that down?" she asked, raising her delicate eyebrows.
"Better not," he said. "But this—this—this lousy pan won't come out like it should. It doesn't look like much out there, I know, but this crazy plate won't show it anyway. Come here, Pavlik!" he called. Gaynor came from the other end of the ship.
"So Dr. Clair shouts aloud in the middle of a triple spectroanalysis," he said nastily. "So Dr. Gaynor comes running to find out what disaster has endangered our valuable lives. So the spectroanalysis is ruined from beginning to end. What's eating my esteemed colleague?"
Clair held up the plate. "I'm sorry, Pavel, " he said, "but this thing won't develop. I thought that since you are the expert of this expedition and I your fumbling but well-intentioned subordinate you might diagnose this little dab's trouble."
Gaynor took the plate. "Your labored sarcasm—" he began. Then his voice trailed off. Tensely he asked, "Is this the first that you've developed or tried to?"
"Yes," said Clair. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Plenty. Did you ever hear of Kodak mining? Probably not. It was like this. In the primitive days of excavation—say 1920—radium mines were driven hit or miss, win or lose. Then some bright chap discovered that if you leave a roll of film in certain spots the film will be ruined and thus mark the spot of a radium deposit. Art, this film is ruined, having been in the presence of richly radioactive matter. Need I say more?"
Clair smote himself on the forehead; "Radioactivity—here!" he cried. "I see it all and apologize for having been a blind imbecile in the face of the facts. Let's not talk about it just yet. Let's have dinner first. Being stuck in the middle of somewhere else puts an edge on your appetite."
"Any excuse for a meal," said Jocelyn, dumping a can of beans into a heating unit. "Just like a man. And when will I be told these dazzlingly obvious facts that you two seized on and curse yourselves for being so long about it?"
"After dinner, woman, you will hear all," said Gaynor firmly. They sat down in silence to eat.
The dishwashing—which consisted of dropping several cans and plates into a sealed container—was accomplished, and the three lit cigarettes. Jocelyn placed herself obtrusively before the two physicists and demanded, "Secret. Now."
Vaguely. Clair began, "I don't exactly know. It's just that we have a feeling we're out of time entirely. Indications show that we've been pulled out of our own universe and not just chucked into another one at random, but that we've been slung outside of all the universes that ever were." He examined the tip of his cigarette intently, crossing his eyes.
"Damn it!" cried the girl. "And damn it twice! We have to be somewhere, don't we?"
"Obviously, my dear," said Gaynor soothingly. "And so we are. But as nearly as I can see, we aren't in any space-time that's ever been used before. We've got a brand new one all to ourselves. It must sound like boasting, I know, but I think we created this hunk of nothing."
Jocelyn began to laugh. "Well," she finally gurgled, "we sure made one lousy job of it! Listen, Messrs. Jehovah—why haven't we got a nice spot to land on? This seems to be an awfully big universe for just the Prototype and us three."
"Sure; it has to be," answered Clair seriously. "Einstein announced to a breathless world a long time ago: The more matter, the less space; the more space the less matter.' We are probably the closest approach that ever has or ever will be made to one of his limiting extremes—a universe of all space and no matter."
"Excuse me," said Jocelyn humbly. "The more I hear from you two enraptured scientists the stupider I feel. But would you mind explaining that no doubt pertinent axiom of Mr. Einstein? It seems very silly. I mean, the more space is displaced by matter, the less space there is. Obviously—no. I mean the less space—that is, matter—the less matter in a universe the more room there must be for space!"
The men looked at each other. "'Space displaced by matter.'" said Gaynor pityingly.
"'Room for space,' " Clair richly announced, rolling the phrase over his tongue.
"I'd feel a lot safer in recommending a good book on the subject, but roughly what Einstein implied was this," said Clair. "Space isn't nothing. Or, putting it differently, it is something. Since you don't know math, I can best describe it as a thin, weary substance partly squamous and partly rugous. Its most striking property is that when it surrounds—or penetrates—or engenders—what is called matter, which is only space, but somewhat thicker and more alert, there is a certain amount of strain.
"So naturally space gives somewhat at the seams. It wrinkles and curves all out of shape—but space, when it is curving keeps right on extending itself, and so it sort of grows crooked. In its extension it keeps on until it meets itself coming back, thereby generating a closed curve.
"Obviously the more matter the bigger a beating space takes and the sharper it curves and the sooner it meets itself. So then the closed curve is smaller and more limiting of itself."
"Thank you," said Jocelyn sweetly. "I'm sorry I asked you in the first place."
"Never mind that cad," said Gaynor indignantly. "When we get back you can tell your friends that not only did you have a whole universe practically to your self but that yours was at least three billion times bigger than theirs."
"Speaking of getting back," Clair interrupted. "What shall we do now? There isn't anything to see here—want to get home? Or shall we wait here and dope out some way of getting somewhere else where there is something to see?"
"We can't do that, Art. At least I don't want to try. If we start breaking into brand-new frames we may get so lost that we won't even remember we have a home. We'd better just scat. As it is I'm licking my lips over what we're going to tell the honorable academy of science. Hell, we've seen enough here to leave us limp—even though all we've seen is nothing."
Clair nodded, but a bit wistfully. There were lots of things that could be done here—lots of places to be visited from this jumping-off point.
"We're on our way, then," he said. "Position, Paul. Let's tap the broadcast." Jocelyn looked a question, so he explained. "We're using our own system of beam-power. Naturally, we couldn't carry enough."
Gaynor turned the switch on the audio receiver. A second passed as the tubes warmed up; then a faint hum.
"God, Art, but that's dim," he said worriedly.
Clair was equally perturbed. "Yeah—try to tap it now. There's no use stalling. Even if we don't get enough power to just slap us back we might accumulate enough to limp home."