INTRODUCTION
"Boomerang" was published under the pseudonym Jorge Mora, who according to Héctor Germán Oesterheld, was the pseudonym of his brother Jorge Oesterheld (1917-1994), and that Héctor helped in what Rachel Haywood Ferreira describes as "trimming down and focusing this story" for Jorge.
"Boomerang" was published in the December 1953 (#7) issue of the Argentine science fiction magazine "Más Allá" ("Beyond") and illustrated by Olmos. For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".
For complete scans of Más Allá, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/
BOOMERANG
WE HAVE two weeks of oxygen left, which means we'll live until our inexorable limit of 336 hours... And no more. Maybe a few extra minutes of agony for those who decide to wait until the end.
Spencer is pensively seated, staring into space through a small window of the spaceship. For a moment he seems overwhelmed by a feeling of renunciation, of failure. But only for a second, a mere flash of weakness. He immediately regains his usual calm composure.
Rocky, standing with his hands in his pockets, stares blankly at the complicated control panel. Something like contempt is evident in his expression.
I, Barry, am lying in my bunk, watching them absentmindedly. I think of the minutes we're losing; of time, which in this immutable stillness seems to be the only thing with a life of its own.
Total silence envelops us; impossible, material silence. In contrast, the slightest movement provokes a noise that alleviates the nerves.
But we can't constantly make noise. The moment comes when silence returns to dominate us, like a physical enemy. It seems to be an accomplice of Time. And it envelops us. And little by little, feeling more incapable of beating it, we resigned to accepting our defeat.
* * *
TODAY marks one month since we departed. Ours was the third human attempt to reach Mars. Nothing was ever heard from the previous two. Nothing will be heard from us either.
We left Mindex, near San Francisco, a month ago. The same place where Spencer joined me on my first voyage to the Moon; a perfect voyage, carried out with mathematical precision, without the slightest setback. That's how it seemed to us this time, at first, until we established our position.
And now we find ourselves condemned, enveloped by this void...
I look at my two comrades. As men of science, we are three friends, three brothers.
Spencer is already a veteran of these launches. He's made four voyages to the Moon, and is responsible for the most advanced calculations and projects which culminated in the recent establishment of a stable base on the satellite. He left his wife and three children on Earth.
Rocky is a debutante. This is his first voyage, and it will be his last. Fortunately for him, he has no family. But as a talented physicist, it will be a long time before anyone can replace him.
And I, Barry, am the inventor of the procedure for regulating the rate of disintegration of new uranium 313 atoms. Every starship to date uses this power source for its initial thrust. What I call my family is reduced to Fadi, my dog, and Adams, my assistant. I miss both them in their absence and I think of Spencer.
* * *
WE EAT. Nature continues to impose its will.
We exchange few words. The worst thing is the inactivity, combined with the certainty of being prisoners and hopelessly condemned to death within a fixed term...
Now Rocky is writing, scribbling at great speed in his notebook.
Spencer amuses himself by playing like a child, monotonously throwing a sharp paper knife, which sticks, shaking, into a board.
I, always lying down, am thinking. On Earth everyone dreams about space; now, here, my thoughts always go back...
* * *
WE didn't realize it. I had thought about it too, but I didn't think it was possible for any of my comrades. And I was just sitting there writing...
His death was instantaneous. He must have foreseen that this might happen and brought a suicide capsule with him.
We clearly heard his death rattle. When we got him up, he was already dead.
In a note he told us: "Friends, goodbye forever! I'm leaving you and giving you both seven days of life. I've calculated our updated position and discovered we were wrong. We'll begin to feel Mars' attraction and will be diverted from the dead, drifting orbit that we're in. According to my new calculations, we'll make it to Mars in 612 hours, 35 minutes. Unfortunately, you both have 504 hours, or 21 days now to live, and that's not enough for you to arrive together. Instead, *just one* will be able to land on Mars on day 26 following this trajectory, starting today. I'll leave the problem to you. I've solved mine. Rocky."
* * *
WE looked at each other in silence. Words failed us. Death immediately proposed itself to us in order to save our comrade's life.
I never for a moment thought about his death. And I'm sure he never thought about mine either. But...
- "Wait a minute, Barry," Spencer said in his deep, calm voice, "let's leave 'that' for later. Let's verify Rocky's claim first."
We laid our friend down and set ourselves up at the work table.
After a minute, I caught a quick glance from Spencer and saw the sharp paper knife, stuck there on the table, within reach of his hand... A suspicion crossed my mind, disturbing my thoughts...
The calculation we were about to do normally takes fifteen minutes. At his request, we agreed to do it separately in order to compare the results. But my thoughts were gone. My instinct for self-preservation was screaming, warning me...
I no longer thought of dying by my own hand to save him. The conviction crept into my mind that the same petty instinct of self-preservation was gnawing, like a worm, at my comrade's noble soul. At times, I began to feel the fatal blow in my body...
It's obstructing my work. It's poor. I start over. And Spencer seems to be finished already... Will I let him kill me? But why?... What if I... I'm struggling with the evil that wants to envelop me... I'm exhausted, there, trembling, while he... Now he's made a very slight movement; I feel his gaze upon me... I slowly close my eyes... My body would like to defend itself, but no... no...
And suddenly I felt the blow.
I saw him fall, still holding the dagger that was stuck in his chest. He looked at me smiling, with infinite peace in his expression.
- "Go on, Barry; I didn't do the calculations... it wasn't worth it. And you'll get to Mars... You'll be the first..."
* * *
SPENCER'S ultimate sacrifice had been in vain.
Rocky was wrong. I'll come close to Mars, but passing tangentially through its zone of attraction. Due to the enormous velocity, my course will be only deviated by almost 30°, and I'll continue onwards, towards the unfathomable mystery, incorporated into a fixed orbit around the Sun.
* * *
TWO days have passed. Or should I say, 48 hours, as in this monotonous solitude there aren't even nights.
Still under this impression, I've periodically repeated the position calculations and finally discovered a deficiency in the automatic pilot control apparatus. As we had suspected, there must have been a fault at the start, which set the voyage back by several days. The initial thrust was insufficient and our subsequent efforts exhausted the reserves and weren't enough to compensate for them. Because of the delay, our expected landing will never take place.
* * *
EVERYTHING happened as I've predicted. I passed close to Mars and with my telescope, I could see its immense cities, its fantastic canals and the great inhabited expanses, but covered by eternal ice.
Then I started to fly away. And powerless to avoid it, I verified a deviation of 28° 55' 37" and a fraction.
* * *
I have barely an hour left to live.
For several days, to distract myself, I've been doing calculations, and more calculations, and I've arrived at an incredible result: in 1,478 years, my orbit will cross that of Earth's. By an irony of fate, I'll return to my departure point. Although a little late...
Perhaps by that distant time, my dream will come true from my nights spent looking at the stars. In my beloved garden, there, in the suburbs of San Francisco, I dreamt of a time in the future when spaceships will depart daily to these regions, following fixed routes with the utmost safety.
Was I right?
Goodbye!! See you later!!
* * *
This diary was found next to a perfectly preserved body, in the interior of an ancient spaceship that landed on Earth in 3463, thanks to its automatic braking device.
As if prepared for a long journey, the body was lying on a bunk bed, fastened in with a seat belt. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Perhaps he didn't want to hope either...
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