“We wouldn’t get no astrogator in his right mind to go with us, Sep. How many times the thrust will we need over what we would use if we was just cutting space? We start out in about a foot of topsoil, then some hard rock and then more hard rock. Can we harness enough energy to last through the diggin’? Do you mind if I change my mind for a very good reason which is that I’m an awful coward?”
“Of course not,” I says. “It would be a coincidence if you quit though, my dear old friend, and right after Coordinator One found out who was sipping Jovian drambuie on a certain space bistro last Monday with his Venutian wife.”
“You have sold me,” Zahooli says. “I wouldn’t miss this trip for one of those four-legged turkey farms up in Maine. It is kind of frustratin’ though, don’t you think, Septimus? We are still not thirty and could live another hundred years what with the new arteries they are making out of Nucrolon and the new tickers they are replacing for the old ones.”
“Let us look over the model again,” I says. “You are just moody today, D’Ambrosia.”
It still looks like it would work to me. It is just a rocket ship pointed toward terra firma instead of the other way, and has an auger fixed in place at the nose. It is about twenty feet long and four feet wide and made out of the strongest metal known to modern science, cryptoplutonite. It won’t heat up or break off and it will start spinning around as soon as we cut loose with the tail blasts.
“How much time do we need and how much energy for only four thousand kilometers?” I asks Zahooli. “We got enough stored up to go seventy million miles into space? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to the river.”
“You mean the Styx?”
“That is one thing I will not believe,” I sniff. “We will never find Attila the Hun or Hitler down there. Or Beelzebub.”
All at once we hear a big rumbling noise and the plexidomed house we are in shakes and rattles and we are knocked out of our chairs and deposited on the seats of our corylon rompers. The viso-screen blacks out, I get to all fours and ask, “You think the Nougatines have gone to war again, D’Ambrosia?”
“It was not mice,” Zahooli gulps. “It is either a hydroradium plant backfired or a good old-fashioned earthquake.”
After a while we have the viso-screen working. The face of Coordinator Five appears. He says the worst earthquake in five centuries has happened. There is a crack in the real estate of Department X6 near the Rockies that makes the Grand Canyon look like a kid just scraped a stick through some mud. Infra-Red Cross units, he says, are rocketing to the area.
“There might be somethin’ goin’ on inside this earth,” I says. “If you don’t poke a hole in a baked potato its busts right open from heat generated inside. Our project, D’Ambrosia, seems even more expedient than ever.”
“That is a new word for ‘insane’ I must look up,” Zahooli says.
Professor Apsox Zalpha comes out with a statement the next morning. He says the quake confirms his theory that the inside of the Earth is as hot as a Venutian calypso number, and that gases are being generated by the heat and that we haven’t volcanoes enough on the surface to allow them to escape.
Exmud R. Zmorro comes and asks me if I have an opinion.
“Ha,” I laugh. “I have many on file in the Neuropsychiatorium. Just go and take your pick. However, I will give you one ad lib and sub rosa. There is more downstairs than Professor Zalpha dreams about. Who is he to say there is no civilization in inner space as well as outer? How do we know that there is not a globe inside a globe with some kind of space or atmosphere in between?”
Exmud R. Zmorro says thanks and leaves in quite a hurry. I snap off the gadget and head for my rocket jeep, and fifteen seconds later I am walking into the factory where a hundred citizens are already at work on the inner spaceship. It is listing a little to port from the quake but the head mech says it will be all straightened out in a few hours. It is just a skeleton ship at the moment with the auger already in place and the point about three feet into the ground.
D’Ambrosia Zahooli comes in and says he has been to see Commander Bizmuth Aquinox. “He will give just enough of the atom pile for seventy million miles,” he says. “And only enough superhydrogenerated radium to push us twenty million miles, Sep. I think we should write to Number One. I explained to the space brass that we have got to come up again after going down and have to reverse the blast tubes. It is radium we have to have to make the return trip. I says a half a pound would do it. You know what I think? I bet they don’t believe we’ll ever git back. And was their laughs dirty!”
“Skeptics have lived since the beginnin’ of time,” I scoff. “They laughed at Leonardo da Vinci, Columbus, Edison, a guy named Durante. Even the guy who first sat down at a pianer. We will take what we can git, pal, and then come back and laugh at them.”
“I wish you was more convincin’,” D’Ambrosia says. “I have claustrophobia and would hate to git stuck in an over-sized fountain pen halfway to the middle of this earth.”
“Hand me those plans,” I says sharply. “And stop scarin’ me.”
Three months later we have it made. Technicians come from four planets to look at the Magnificent Mole. The area is alive with members of the Interplanetary Press, the Cosmic News Bureau, and the Universe Feature Service. Two perspiring citizens arrive and tear up two insurance policies right in front of my eyes. An old buddy of mine in the war against the Nougatines says he wants to go with me. His name is Axitope Wurpz. He has been flying cargo between Earth and Parsnipia and says he is quite unable to explain certain expense items in his book. A Parsnipian D.A. is trying to serve him a subpoena.
“You are in, Axie,” I says. “A crew of three is enough as that is about all the oxygen we can store up. Meet D’Ambrosia Zahooli.”
“Why is he wearing a mask?” Wurpz quips.
“You are as funny as a plutonium crutch,” Zahooli says.
“No hard feelin’s,” Wurpz says, and takes a small flask out of his pocket. “We will drink to Operation Earthworm.”
As might have been expected, we run into some snags. The Euthanasia Society serve us with papers as they maintain nobody can commit suicide in the year 2022 without permission from the Board. Gulflex and other oil companies protest to Number One as they say we might open up a hole that will spill all the petroleum out of the earth all at once, so fast they couldn’t refine it. A spark could ignite it and set the globe on fire like it was a brandied Christmas pudding. But then another earthquake shakes Earth from the rice fields of China to the llamas in Peru just when it looks as if we were about to be tossed into an outer space pokey.
The seismologists get together and agree that they can’t possibly figure out the depth of the focus and state that the long waves have to pass through the epicenter or some such spot underground. Anyway, all the brass agrees that something is going on in inner space not according to Hoyle or Euclid or anybody else and that we three characters might just hit on something of scientific value.
The Magnificent Mole is built mostly of titanium, a metal which is only about half as heavy as steel and twice as rugged. It is not quite as big in diameter as the auger, for if it was any Martian moron knows we would scrape our sides away before we got down three miles. We store concentrated chow to last six months and get the acceleration couches ready. We are to blast down at eighteen point oh-four hours, Friday, May 26th, 2022. Today is Wednesday. The big
