Synthetic Hero

                            By ERIK FENNEL

           George Carlin had ruthlessly trampled his way to
              industrial power. Naturally, to win undying
        gratitude, he had to buy a one-way ticket to the moon.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Planet Stories Fall 1948.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Every day people travel great distances to stand in silence before the
statue at Southwestern Spaceport. It is a shrine.

The figure stands with arms raised in an upreaching, yearning gesture
that invokes thoughts of man's potential greatness, and the face
seen beneath the helmet wears an expression of inspired nobility
and idealism. In the indestructible impervium alloy image that is
his masterpiece, Hayden Brush successfully captured the spirit of
enthusiasm and adulation which swept the world. In a strange way it is
not so much a statue of an individual as of an idea, for the sculptor
worked entirely from photographs taken with a telephoto lens. He never
met his subject.

A plaque on the granite base carries numerous words--sacrifice for the
Greater Good--advancement of Man's frontiers--conquest of disease and
death. And a name, George Carlin. Whenever I read that I recall the
ancient witticism about this history being the fabric of accepted lies.
In it there is much truth.

On the moon is another shrine, unvisited because the surface of Luna
is still a perilous and inhospitable place. No compelling work of art
is to be found there. Nothing but a roughly circular blasted area
containing scattered fragments of spaceship hull that scorch in the
direct sunlight and freeze in the unrelieved darkness, riddled by
colonies of creeping moon-lice that penetrate the toughest metal.

That is the real, the veritable shrine.

       *       *       *       *       *

The idea of building a spaceship did not enter George Carlin's
mind until after he contracted the dread--and at that time
incurable--Matson's Disease. And then he thought of it only as the most
spectacular form of suicide ever devised. That was typical of the man.

George Carlin, owner of Carlin Industries and indubitably the richest
and worst spoiled individual on the North American continent, was an
irresponsible egocentric who had never done anyone a good turn in all
his thirty-six years of life. Bad turns he had done in plenty.

Take just this one example. A doctor had the effrontery to submit to
a medical journal an article suggesting a possible connection between
the bone-destroying virus infection called Matson's Disease and
Carlin Industries' highly profitable operations in thawing Antarctic
areas with atomic heat. He hinted that age-old spores might have been
released from the melting ice, and been carried to seaports.

Carlin's private intelligence operatives got wind of the article before
publication, and Carlin himself ordered that measures be taken. The
campaign was short and filthy, ending with the unfortunate doctor
discredited and barred from practice on framed evidence. The article
was not printed.

And then came a morning when George Carlin noticed a slight soreness in
his ribs and his fingers detected a peculiar flexibility. For a while
he could not believe it. Such things just did not happen to him. To
others perhaps, but he was above them. For he was George Carlin.

But when the symptoms not only persisted but increased he was at last
forced to a realization of doom. Gradually his bones would soften
and dissolve, until in a year or two he would be a mere lump of
quivering flesh without a skeleton to give it shape. He did not tell
his physician. That was useless, for the atypical plague had defied
all efforts of medical science. Instead he reacted in characteristic
fashion by getting grossly and disgustingly drunk.

During the hangover he decided upon suicide. There was nothing unique
about this; thousands upon thousands of victims had taken the short
road rather than helplessly endure the horrors of the final stages. But
mere suicide was not enough for George Carlin. He was not just anybody.
He was different.

With his money it had always been easier to arrange spectacular
gestures than to force himself through the hard work necessary for
more constructive achievements, and the substitutes had been just as
satisfying to his ego. This habit of thought persisted even in planning
his own death.

Verne Harris was an obscure junior engineer at one of Carlin
Industries' minor branch plants. A confidential report rated him as
extremely brilliant and original, although somewhat visionary and
inclined to overlook commercial possibilities. His very obscurity
was one of the reasons he was placed in charge of constructing the
spaceship. He could be handled, and the impression would be given in
all publicity releases that George Carlin himself was the moving force.

Carlin was annoyed at their first personal interview. Harris appeared
fascinated by the technical problems presented and insufficiently
impressed by George himself. Carlin felt slighted, but Harris possessed
the ability. The only stipulations upon which Carlin insisted were that
work be rushed and that all major arrangements should be made through
him personally. It pleased him to keep the reins in his own hands.

And so the spaceship went into design and then production, with all
other projects of Carlin Industries postponed or cancelled outright.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, was allowed to interfere, and money was no
object.

Once Harris recommended that three particular specialists be hired to
work on the navigation equipment. When Carlin discovered that the men
were under exclusive contract to American Calculator Company, which did
not wish to release them, he issued orders backed by eighty million
dollars. When the flurry of reorganization was over he owned majority
control of American Calculator and took revenge for the slight delay
by instituting policies that soon forced the other directors into
bankruptcy.

Seven months later the ship lay in its launching rack on the Arizona
desert. It was sleek and relatively small, built to carry a single man
and fuel for a one-way trip to the moon, with oxygen and supplies to
last five weeks. Harris had performed miracles of design, including
several intricate devices intended to insure a not-too-rough landing,
and in the nose compartment was stored a huge folding reflector and
high-intensity light which could be set up and operated from the ship's
electron-displacement power packs. Trajectory and power settings had
been worked out and set up in the automatic control equipment.

The ship was intended to land in the dark of the moon, as Harris had
calculated it would be easier to generate heat than to dissipate it on
an airless surface.

Harris tried to explain to Carlin why he had not used the almost
unlimited power of nuclear fission in the driving rockets. No shield
against the deadly radiations had been devised and a human would have
lived less than five minutes. But Carlin had not been interested. He
lacked a technical education, and he was quite content that the ship
was incapable of a round trip. It was more spectacular that way.

There had been a tremendous barrage of publicity throughout the
construction period, but all of it dealt with Carlin Industries or
George Carlin himself. Not a single public mention of Verne Harris had
been made.

Carlin had spent those seven months alternating between prolonged
drinking bouts and periods of flogging his organization to ever
more frantic activity. Anything to avoid thinking. And it required
increasingly clever and time-consuming use of cosmetics to hide the
progress of his disease. Concealment was a compulsive psychological
necessity, for Matson's Disease was so common, so plebian, that he
felt deeply ashamed. More and more he insisted upon being entirely
alone, afraid his secret might be discovered, conducting his affairs by
telephone and radio.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then one evening, with the ship awaiting only final loading, Harris
drove over from the technicians' camp to the luxurious desert villa
which Carlin had caused to be built near the launching site. The two
men had come face to face only half a dozen times.

It was a thinner, older-looking Verne Harris than the young engineer
who had accepted the assignment with such enthusiasm, and the haggard
lines in his face showed the almost inhuman lengths to which he had
driven himself.

"Arrangements for the liquid oxygen are complete and I'll be ready to
blast off next Tuesday morning, right on schedule," the engineer opened
the interview. "I came over to thank you for the wonderful opportunity
you are giving me, and I promise you, sir, that I shall make the most
of it."

Carlin came out of his chair with a roar.

"You don't think _you_ are going to take that ship out?" he bellowed.

Verne looked profoundly shocked. No words had passed between them about
who was to handle the vessel and Harris had assumed unquestioningly it
would be he. It was only logical. Carlin had been smart enough to let
him think that way, knowing that thus he would receive Harris' greatest
efforts.

"Then who is?" the engineer asked.

"Me. I'll take it myself. That's why I had it built."

[Illustration: "_I'm taking that ship out myself!_"]

Harris looked incredulous. "But why?"

Carlin did not believe he owed him any explanation--he was receiving a
fair salary--but something, perhaps a couple of drinks, made him speak.

"The ship is my way out," he said. "A way by which I shall be
remembered. I have Matson's Disease."

If he had expected sympathy he was disappointed.

"So have I," Harris announced. "Can't you see?"

Carlin could, now that his attention was called to it. That subtle
softening of the lines....

A flush spread across Harris' hollowed cheeks and his eyes took on an
almost maniacal glitter.

"Look here, you. To you this is just a great big childish show-off
trick. Like those people who hesitate and draw a big crowd before
jumping from some tall building. And it will accomplish just about as
much. You'll either louse up the controls and crash, or else you'll
have enough liquor aboard to stay in a drunken stupor until your oxygen
runs out."

Carlin, livid at those outrageously disrespectful words, tried to break
in as Harris continued in mingled pleading and fury.

"My God, man, don't you see what this means? This is the first
spaceship ever built without scrimping and cutting expenses. This one
will reach the moon _without crashing_. Why do you think I had it
equipped with all sorts of scientific instruments? And why do you think
I put so much thought into that light-flash communicator?"

A thought came to him. "Good Lord, you probably don't even know Morse!"
he said disgustedly.

Carlin spluttered.

"I had planned a definite program of investigation," Harris continued.
"Physical studies of the moon's surface, astronomical observations
without atmospheric interference, collection of experimental data that
could forward the progress of space-flight by at least a century. And
you, an untrained individual who knows nothing but money, would throw
away that chance merely to satisfy your ego!"

Carlin looked thoughtful and made a few remarks about reconsidering the
matter. He could be extremely sly and devious when that would gain his
ends, and Verne Harris was completely taken in.

But Carlin was taking no chances on having his show spoiled by some
pipsqueak engineer he could buy and sell ten thousand times over. It
was easy enough, with his money and influence, to have Harris adjudged
insane and quietly committed to an asylum. The matter was attended to
the next morning.

Carlin spent the night before blast-off alone in his desert villa. He
had given orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances, so he was
not informed that Harris had escaped. And he had enough drinks during
the evening to miss the sound of a window catch being jimmied and the
tiptoeing footsteps behind him.

Only when the hypodermic needle plunged into the muscles of his neck
did he know anything was amiss, and then it was too late.

       *       *       *       *       *

He awoke five days later in a hot and dingy furnished room in a nearby
city. His clothes were strange, cheap, and did not fit. In his pockets
was a large roll of money--and nothing else. Even the signet ring had
been removed from his finger. He was ravenously hungry, and after a
period of indecision he went out in search of a restaurant.

Less than a block away he passed a newsstand.

"CARLIN LANDS ON MOON!" the headlines screamed. Almost the entire front
page was devoted to the story, and several inside pages recounted in
greatest detail how George Carlin had come out to his ship alone, his
body taped and encased in a bulky pressure suit, mumbled a "no comment"
which had produced a deeper impression than any elaborate speech, waved
once to the huge throng that had gathered, and then left Earth in a
blast of flame while every telescope in the hemisphere swiveled to
follow his flight.

George Carlin walked into a liquor store and pointed to a very superior
brand of whisky. "Give me a bottle. No, make it two."

Then he went back to the room in which he had awakened. He had no place
else to go. For the hundredth time he searched himself for some proof
of identity, and for the hundredth time found nothing. For hours he sat
with his head in his hands, trying to think of something to do. Finally
he opened the second bottle.

Next day the headlines read, "CARLIN REPORTS LIFE ON MOON."

George Carlin had no cosmetics with which to hide the increasingly
visible ravages of his illness. He bought a supply of food as well as
liquor and did not emerge for another six days. Thus he missed the
period in which the world waited with bated breath for further news
from the moon. It was during this time that a spontaneous wave of mass
emotion swept the world and George Carlin became a hero. The grasping,
evil deeds of the organization he headed--and they were numerous--were
forgotten. No publicity staff could have produced such a reaction.

"CARLIN BELIEVES DISCOVERED CURE FOR MATSON'S DISEASE!" The newspapers
brought out their largest type and public acceptance verged on hysteria.

Reports from the moon were carefully condensed, for the power available
from the electron-displacement packs was strictly limited and every
flicker of light must be made to count. Carlin did not even sign his
name but all the world knew who he was.

The story, as pieced out and expanded by the news services, was this:
On the moon Carlin had found creatures resembling the terrestrial
louse. They looked like insects but they were of an entirely different
chemical structure and their metabolism was suited to their airless
surroundings. Their food was apparently any metal or ore.

While he was engaged in setting up the reflector, working in darkness
and terrible cold, one of these tiny creatures had climbed the leg of
the pioneer's armored suit and punctured it, eating its way through the
metal shell and rubberized fabric liner. Only hasty application of an
emergency patch had prevented disaster from loss of air.

The man had run to the shelter of his ship, but before he could remove
his armor the alien creature had bitten him on the upper leg. There had
been excruciating pain from the venom the thing injected, and a large
ulcer had since developed.

But, the dots and dashes reported, the course of Matson's Disease had
been not only arrested but reversed. His bones were hardening again.
Perhaps under proper conditions the venom might....

It was the first hint that the pioneer had been suffering from the
deadly plague, and public sympathy and fascination multiplied.

George Carlin bought more whisky.

Two days later the light on the moon winked again. A rough analysis of
moon-louse venom showed it to be a complex pseudo-protein, with silicon
substituting for carbon and chlorine for oxygen.

There followed a series of recommendations that set the press and radio
of the world completely wild. There was almost no questioning of the
wisdom of the voice from the moon, only acceptance and enthusiasm that
swept aside all hesitation.

Within hours the leading governments of Earth had pooled their
resources in one gigantic effort. The officers of Carlin Industries
accepted the message as a command from the owner and all personnel who
had had anything to do with construction of the first spaceship were
assigned to supervisory and coordinating positions.

Fifteen spaceships were to be built at top speed, and each was to carry
to the moon as much excess fuel as it could lift. There all fuel would
be transferred to one ship, which would return with a supply of living
moon-lice.

Thousands of welders were at work on the plates of a huge, hermetically
sealed laboratory building, while an army of machinists prepared the
vacuum pumps and huge refrigerating machines that would reproduce lunar
conditions for the alien creatures, and special laboratory equipment
was being assembled.

But George Carlin knew little of all this.

       *       *       *       *       *

One more message flashed from the moon. The pioneer was dying. His
Matson's Disease had been cured but the ulcer was spreading into vital
areas. However, he suggested, tiny doses of diluted venom, administered
over a long period of time, might....

The message ended in the middle of a word as through their telescopes
astronomers saw a great flare go up from the moon's surface, a thousand
times brighter than the communications light.

The explanation was self-evident. Electron-displacement power packs
were treacherous. When their stored power reached a certain minimum
level they became highly explosive. The pioneer had sacrificed his
remaining days of life to transmit vital information to the world which
had given him birth.

Everything stopped for a day and night as the entire civilized world
went into deepest mourning for the man who had died 238,840 miles
away--everything but work on the fleet of spaceships. That did not
even falter.

George Carlin gave up his rented room, bought a car, and drove across
country to the Midwestern city housing the headquarters of Carlin
Industries.

He did not get past the outer offices. Carlin Industries had been
forced long before to develop a system for handling cranks and
crackpots, and it operated only too well. Matson's Disease had made
such changes in Carlin's features that he was not recognized. At last
he was forcibly ejected.

That was his final effort. He had become a nonentity, a nobody, and so
he wanted only to die. But with his identity he had lost his nerve. He
did, however, have enough money to avoid drawing even one sober breath.

It is history how nine rockets reached the moon, transferred their
remaining fuel, and one finally returned bearing a cargo of living
moon-lice as a gift beyond all price. The frantic medical campaign,
during which two thousand victims of Matson's Disease had their deaths
hastened as doctors sought the proper dosage, is also history.

But then there was a cure--and another--and still more. The treatment
became standardized as means were found for stabilizing the venom and
controlling its potency. The government assumed charge, and every
citizen afflicted with the plague was not only entitled to treatment
but compelled to take it.

When the health officers found George Carlin in his isolated cabin he
was almost dead. His skeleton had softened to such an extent that he
could not stand, and could crawl across the dirty, littered floor only
with the greatest difficulty. His atrophied muscles had almost nothing
against which to work, and malnutrition and alcoholism complicated the
case.

After six months in a sanitarium bed he had recovered enough to
become bored. He borrowed a book from the man in the next bed and was
disappointed to find it an advanced treatise on rocket fuels. But he
read it through and surprised himself by becoming interested.

Still flat on his back, unable to move, he began an intensive course
of study. He had been so nearly boneless when admitted, one of the most
advanced cases to survive, that the complete cure took three and a half
years.

When he was finally released he had learned enough to obtain a minor
job as technical assistant--under an assumed name--in the Carlin
Institute For Research which had replaced the old Carlin Industries.
He has been there fourteen years now, trying to compensate for lack of
brilliance by earnest effort and long hours.

He still has one dream. He hopes some day to stand on a barren, airless
spot marked by twisted fragments of a spaceship. And he hopes Verne
Harris' spirit still hovers there to hear his apologies.

He has long since given up trying to have his story believed. The myth
is too deeply embedded in the public consciousness, and no one has ever
heard of Verne Harris. Even the history books teach the children that
George Carlin was the first man to reach the moon alive. The last time
he attempted to tell the truth he was excoriated as an evil-minded
muckracker, probably insane, and received a fractured nose at the hands
of an irate listener for maligning a world hero. So he has surrendered
to the inevitable.

How do I know all this?

Once I was George Carlin.