Step to the Stars
A Science Fiction Novel
Step to the Stars
By LESTER DEL REY
Jacket and Endpaper Designs by Alex Schomburg
Cecile Matschat, Editor Carl Carmer,
Consulting Editor
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
Philadelphia * Toronto
Copyright, 1954 By Lester del Rey
Copyright in Great Britain and in the British Dominions
and Possessions Copyright in the Republic of the Philippines
first edition
TO
Willy Ley who taught us to believe
Only a Decade
Away!
ny normal man
can jump over an eight-foot fence, even though he can't jump eight feet
straight up! If a step-ladder is placed beside the fence, he can climb up that
and then make the small jump needed to clear the fence. It may not be a way to
break records for the high jump, but it is one way of getting over the fence.
In
the same way, we can use a stepladder—or step, since only one lift is needed—to
get to the Moon and other planets. We can't build practical rocket ships that
will develop the speed of seven miles a second (25,000 miles an hour) needed to
tear us completely away from Earth. We can, however, design a ship which will
develop five miles a second speed, and which will reach a height of a thousand
miles above Earth, carrying a crew and practical cargo. If a space station is
built to circle the Earth at that height, a rocket could refuel there and it
would be quite practical to develop the extra speed needed to reach other
worlds in space.
We can build such a station, and we will do
it! Already men are busily at work on the plans and techniques. Government
contracts have been let for such work. All the basic knowledge is
available—which was not the case with the building of the atom bomb! We have
fuels, materials and engineering skills to do the job.
It
will take time and large amounts of money. Dr. Wernher von Braun, who was so
largely responsible for the V-2 rocket, estimates it will take ten years and
cost twice as much as developing the atom bomb, though new fuels and techniques
might reduce both the time and expense. Most experts feel the station will be
built by 1970, at the latest.
It
is the only sure way to the planets beyond Earth. But even if there were no
Moon or other planets, we would need such a station. Observations from it will
make real weather forecasting possible; such accurate forecasts a week in
advance could save us far more than the cost of the station. Its value as a
scientific laboratory, with conditions impossible on Earth, cannot even be
estimated. And finally, it is the only possible means for policing the whole
world to insure peace. If we get it up and provide it with a stock of guided
missiles, no other nation would dare to attack us; if we wait until some
foreign power builds a space station first, we can never feel completely safe
again. We need such a station for peaceful purposes—and we have to have it to
make sure of peace! Hence, it may be built earlier than 1970.
Building it will be unlike any construction
job ever done before. The station must be built in space. There is no
conceivable way to lift such a huge structure up to its final orbit around the
Earth, nor would it be practical to
Only a Decade
Awayl \x
build
the station heavy and strong enough to stand such a take-off from the ground.
The parts must be shipped up by rocket ships and assembled in the orbit in
which the finished station will travel.
Working
there will require new ways of living and even of thinking. There is no air in
space, and men must work inside airtight suits. The centrifugal force of the
motion around the Earth—the same force which keeps a whirling stone at the end
of a string—will exactly balance the pull of the Earth, and there will be no
feeling of weight or sense of up and down. Yet it will still take work to move
objects; even on the smoothest ice, starting or stopping a heavy sled is
difficult because of inertia, which resists any change in speed or direction;
this inertia will still exist. The men will be baked by the Sun on one side; on
the other, there will be the freezing cold of space. And their lives will
depend on the success of the rockets which bring up new supplies.
They
will be engaged in the greatest feat of the human race — the first step which
will free men from a single world and give us the whole universe for a
frontier. The men who live through it will never again be quite the same. And
no man who follows them can ever quite equal their experience.
To me, it seems the greatest story that can
ever be told, and I believe that Step to the Stars
is the first scientifically
accurate novel about the building of a space station. It is also one of the few
science fiction stories of the future which needs no presently impossible
gadgets or unknown scientific tricks. In fact, I have been careful to use only
known methods. Even the rocket fuel is in use today.
For many of the facts in this, I am deeply
indebted to
X
Siep
to ihe Stars
the
work of Dr. Wernher von Braun, Willy Ley, and others who have worked out a
practical means of building such a station as I describe. A fuller
description, together with some of the best pictures I have seen, can be found
in a book entitled Across
the Space Frontier, which
was edited by Cornelius Ryan and published by The Viking Press; everybody
should read it.
For
any errors or faults, I can blame no one but myself, though I have done
everything I can to avoid mistakes in both facts and methods.
My
deepest regret is that I can never be one of the men who help Jim Stanley build
the first station in space!
L. d. R.
Contents
chapter page
Only a Decade Away!
1.
No Strings Attached............................................ ....... 1
2.
The Big Shush........................................................ ...... 13
3.
Space Station One................................................ ...... 25
4.
Operation Misfit................................................... ...... 37
5.
A Little Sunlight.................................................... 49
6.
Vertigo..................................................................... 60
7.
Paint Job................................................................. ...... 71
8.
Foul Weather Below............................................. 83
9.
The Stolen Papers................................................. ..... 93
10.
Spin It!..................................................................... ..... 104
11.
A Problem in Ethics............................................. 116
12.
Earthside................................................................. 127
13.
Errand Boy.............................................................. .... 138
14.
Decision and Rumor............................................. .... 149
15.
Blowup in Space.................................................... 160
16.
Castaways from Earth........................................ 171
17.
Penalty Clause....................................................... 182
18.
Deadline................................................................... .... 194
19.
Step to the Stars.................................................... .... 204
ChUptCF 1 No
Strings Attached
i |
he floor of
the big garage was bitterly cold with the first touch of winter. Jim Stanley
shoved his short, stocky figure out from under the big turbine-powered car and
stood up, beating his hands together to warm them. He put his tools and grease
gun back on the rack and headed for the warmth of the washroom, shucking off
his cap and goggles as he went.
Where
the goggles had protected his face, rings of clean skin contrasted with the
grease and oil smudges elsewhere, and there were still hints of freckles over
his snub nose. As a kid, he'd hated the freckles even more than his carroty-red
hair and the blue eyes that went with his complexion. But now he was used to
his looks and didn't notice them as he began scrubbing off the grime.
"Griswold
wants you," one of -the other mechanics shouted at him from the doorway.
"Better make it snappy, Jim. Looks like one of his bad days!"
Jim nodded and began drying his face in front
of a blast of hot air. It was a bad day for Griswold most of the time, but the
owner of the garage was usually fair about things, even though his disposition
left much to be desired. Jim tried to think of some error he might have made,
and could think of none. He shrugged and went back into the shop.
"Stanley!"
Griswold was waiting by the outer door of the office, scowling. He waited until
Jim reached him, and then jerked his hand back toward the office. "Stanley,
there's another FBI man in there, asking about you. I thought you told me you'd
never been in any trouble."
"That's
right, sir. I told you before, I applied for some kind of job. And I don't know
how the FBI got into it. They were around to see my landlady, too.
But
. . r
Griswold
grunted doubtfully. "Since when do they check up twice on job
applications? I don't like it, Stanley. Don't like the FBI prowling around
investigating here, taking up my time. And there's something else I don't
like! How old are you?"
"Eighteen,
Mr. Griswold. I never told you anything else."
The
man pondered over it, and nodded doubtfully. "Maybe you didn't—but you
knew blamed well I took you for a lot older. You're getting a man's wages here,
and I don't pay that to kids. I can get plenty of them at half price if I want
them."
"Haven't I been doing a mans work,
sir?" Jim protested.
Griswold
nodded again, reluctantly. "Maybe so. I'm not kicking about the work. But
I don't like this whole business. Finish the job?"
He
followed Jim to the big Chrysler, inspected the work sheet, and started the
motor, listening to the steady purring sound it made. "Good job," he
said finally. "Better'n most of the men do. Look, Stanley, I want to be
fair with you. But the rest of them can't be expected to work for the same
wages a kid can get. And I'm not going to have them all yelling for more pay.
How much you got coming to you?"
Jim
felt his face tighten, and there was a hard knot in his stomach. But if there
had ever been any redheaded impulsiveness about him, he'd had it beaten out of
him by other, larger boys years before. He kept his voice under control.
"Four days, sir."
"Okay.
Change your clothes and see what the FBI man wants. I'll have your pay check
ready when you come out." He hesitated, then shrugged. "And I'll
throw in a week's severance pay and give you a top letter of recommendation.
Okay?"
"Thanks. I—I appreciate it." Jim
tried to make it sound sincere, knowing the man was being more than fair
according to his own ideas. He headed for the lockers.
The other men were staring at him as he
passed, but he avoided their glances. He'd been getting along all right with
them, but he hadn't made friends with anyone in particular, and he was hoping
that he wouldn't have to answer any questions. Now that he was fired again, the
sooner he was gone the better. Yet somehow, it hurt when none of them came into
the locker room after him. He switched to his regular clothes with fumbling
fingers and headed back to the office without looking at the others. One
started toward him, then turned back to work. That was all.
There
was a tall, rough-featured man waiting for him. The man stood up, smiling
pleasantly, and held out a hand. "James Stanley? I'm John Mattern."
He flipped a badge out of his wallet. "About your application . . .'
"Can't
we talk about it somewhere else?" Jim asked. "I mean, I'd rather not
block Mr. Griswold's office. My room's just a few blocks away."
The
other nodded at once. "Sure, let's get out of here. As a matter of fact,
I'm supposed to take you for an interview at the office." He hesitated for
a second, clearing his throat. "Stanley, I'm sorry about what happened. If
I'd known your boss didn't know your age, I'd have handled things differently.
But maybe it's just as well. Your application has been getting a lot of
attention."
"Yeah."
Jim brushed the apology aside and managed something like a grin. "It
isn't the first time I've been fired because of my age, Mr. Mattern. What kind
of job is this I'm being investigated for, anyhow? I didn't think the
government was mixed up in it."
"It isn't, exactly. Maybe you'd better
ask about it at your interview."
Mattern
was still pleasant, but he refused to say anything more. Jim collected his
check on the way out, endorsed it, and waited while Griswold cashed it from the
till. The garage owner shook Jim's hand briefly and wished him an automatic
good luck. Then Mattern led the way to his parked car. Jim climbed in and sat
watching the street without seeing it as they headed toward the heart of the
city.
"We're
early. Want to stop for lunch?" the FBI man asked. At Jim's assent, he
swung up in front of a small steak house. It was still early enough for seats
to be available.
Jim
let Mattern order and asked for the same. It turned out to be sirloin. He began
eating it automatically, wondering what a government job would pay to someone
who had no special training. It would be less than Griswold's wages, probably.
Yet with jobs harder to get the last few months, it might take too long to find
another. He couldn't afford to live on his savings, if he ever intended to go
back to finish his course at Central Tech. And that was something he had to do.
Jim's
mother had died when he was born, and he'd always traveled with his father, who
was a construction engineer. It had been tough at times, but he'd loved it,
and it had been taken for granted that he had to be an engineer someday, too.
Then, when his father had found a job on a government rocket project, Jim had
known exactly what he wanted. He'd nearly "killed" himself forcing
his way through high school in half the normal time so that he could enter the
rocketry courses at Central Tech while the field was still new. With the help
of some of the men on the project, he'd been admitted as the youngest freshman
in his class. And a few months later, he learned that his father had been
killed in the wild explosion of one of the rockets.
When the shock wore off, he found himself
living with his only other relative, his mother's older brother, who had been
appointed his guardian. He'd swallowed his grief and dug into his studies,
swearing that he'd use the money his father had left to become an engineer his
father would have been proud of. He finished the first year, came back to his
uncle's house to study all through the summer, and rushed back to his courses.
The next summer, his uncle disappeared before
he could return. Apparently the man had meant well, but his business had been
failing, and he'd borrowed Jim's money—as well as what he could get from his
friends— and had lost it all. Rather than face his nephew, he'd slipped away,
leaving only a fumbling, unhappy letter and a check for the few dollars that
had remained.
When
college started again, Jim had been working in an airplane assembly plant. When
the union discovered his age and protested, he'd found work at Griswold's.
Rocketry wasn't a subject that could be studied while holding down a part-time
job, and his
only hope had been to save enough in one year to pay his way through his
courses the next. And now . . .
He
shoved the empty plate aside and followed Mattern out of the restaurant,
stopping to buy a paper. He glanced at the headlines. Employment was down
slightly. There were new threats of possible trouble being stirred up by the
Combine, the big collection of countries occupying eastern Europe and most of
northern Asia. The editorial was one of the paper's regular blasts at the
administration for not building a space station. It was obvious the writer knew
nothing about space stations, but was using the idea for purely political
purposes. And there were no jobs that looked possible.
They
were heading downtown again as Jim dropped the paper. Mattern glanced at him,
and shook his head. "I feel like a heel for letting your age slip, kid. I
don't blame you for being a little bitter."
"Bitter?"
Jim considered it, wondering if the man was sounding him out. But it didn't
matter. "I don't hate the world or anyone in it, if that's what you think.
And if I'm bitter, what about everyone else?"
Mattern
shrugged. "At your age, you should be bubbling with hope and idealism. I
was. But now all you young men seem to be confused and uncertain. You're like a
bunch of pups out in the rain, wondering if they'll ever be dry again. It's as
if you still had your ideals, but they'd gone sour. What's behind it?"
"I
don't know." It was an uncomfortable conversation, but it dug into Jim's
mind somehow. He stirred uncertainly. "Maybe they should have built that space
station!"
Mattern
grunted, ending the conversation abruptly. But there was no sign to show
whether the remark had scored for or against Jim. It might be a sore subject.
One of the leading papers had uncovered the fact two years before that a
leading industrial firm had offered to begin building a space station from completed,
practical plans—if the government would give permission—and had been refused.
The government had claimed the plans were impractical, while the paper and
quite a few political commentators insisted it was untrue, and that the
government had secretly agreed with other nations to have nothing to do with
attempted space flight.
It
had been a scandal for some time, and it had nearly destroyed the hopes of most
people for peace and new frontiers from such a station. Those hopes had grown
slowly for years, and they died hard. Even Jim's faith had been shaken. There
was no reason he could see for not having a station in space already— but there
was no sign of official interest in such a project.
They
arrived at the Federal Building finally, and threaded their way through endless
corridors and past innumerable guards to a small office. Mattern motioned Jim
to a seat and went in. A few minutes later he came out, motioning Jim inside.
There
were two men in the office. Mattern introduced the one in uniform as Colonel
Halpern. The other, who seemed to be a gray-haired man of the type seen in the
better businessmen's clubs, was introduced simply as Mr. Jonas. The colonel
nodded faintly at Mattern, who left. Mr. Jonas motioned Jim to take a chair.
"Sit down, Jim. I've seen you before,
though I guess you wouldn't remember."
Jim
stared at him, and then blinked. The man had come into the garage with a
powerful imported car and had stood around while it was repaired. Now he
nodded. "Certainly, I was spying on you. You've no idea how carefully
you've been checked. We even know who sent you the application form you filled
in. Or did you think that was a form circulated generally? You've got friends,
boy!"
"Who?"
Jim asked doubtfully. He'd been puzzled to receive the application, but had
finally decided that it must have been one sent to all former employees of the
aircraft plant. Now it seemed he was wrong.
The
colonel shook his head, and Jonas smiled cryptically. "We can skip that,
Jim. And maybe you'll find out by yourself—because we've decided we can use
you. Oh, if this were a routine application, we might pick someone else; after
all, some of your qualifications are a bit weak. But as I said, you have
friends, and there are things about you we like—things you probably don't know
about yourself. That is, we've almost decided we can use you . .
Jim swung to the colonel. "Sir, can you
tell me what this is all about?"
Jonas' face fell, but the colonel leaned back
and laughed softly. "Jonas is trying to rattle you—and you don't rattle.
Good. Jim, I want three questions answered as fully as you can answer them.
We've checked indirectly, but we want your answers. One, do you have any
friends—including girl friends—you see or correspond with regularly? Two, do
you have any debts or obligations you have to meet? And three, when you were
moving around with your father, we know you sometimes went up to the top of one
bridge he was working on. Were you ever afraid of the height?"
Jim
considered them, his head spinning. The questions made as little sense as
anything else in this interview. He shrugged his shoulders, mustering a grin.
"When I know what kind of job it is, I'll be glad to answer, sir."
"Suppose
I told you we're considering you for two jobs—one that pays two hundred dollars
a week, the other paying a great deal more?" Jonas asked, studying him
with obvious amusement.
"I'd say you wouldn't get your money's
worth, sir," Jim answered. "I don't have any skills worth that—
unless it's a pretty dangerous job."
"It
could be," the colonel said. "You'd have to sign a waiver in advance.
Let's say the higher-salaried job might be dangerous, but that you wouldn't
have to take it. It would be up to you. Suppose I said it had something to do
with rockets?"
Jim felt something twist in his stomach. He
swallowed, and the words poured out before he could think. "I—I'd say no
to all three questions. No, sir."
"Absolutely no strings
attached here, Jim?"
"Absolutely
none, sir." He took the pen the colonel held out and signed the papers on
the desk with hands that trembled a little.
The
colonel folded them and put them away carefully. From a drawer he drew out a
small envelope. "All right. Mattern will drive you to your room. He'll
help you pack a small suitcase, and will take everything else to put in
storage for you. Tell your landlady you're moving, and nothing else. Then
Mattern will take you to a plane and put you aboard. You're to give this
envelope to the man who meets you when you land. And don't bother opening
it—it's a punched card that makes sense only to a machine. That's all. Good
luck, Mr. Stanleyl"
Both
the colonel and Jonas shook hands with Jim before Mattern came in to take him
out.
It
wasn't until he was finished his hurried packing and on the way toward the
airport that he began to think clearly. Then he sat up sharply, cursing
himself.
"Something biting
you?" Mattern asked.
Jim
grinned crookedly. "I guess I did the biting," he said.
The
two men in the office had told him exactly nothing. They hadn't actually said
the job paid the wages they had mentioned. They hadn't really said it had
anything to do with rockets. In fact, they'd managed to avoid answering, while
getting him to
answer
them. All he knew was that they were strangely concerned with making sure that
he had no strings attached—and that nobody could ever miss him after he left.
He
glanced at Mattern, estimating the strength of the man. Then he shrugged. There
was nothing he could do now except go along peacefully. But what sort of mess
had he gotten himself into?
ChaptCr 2 The Big Shush
he plane had
proved to be no clue to the destination. It was one of the big, four-jet models
used for carrying heavy loads at high speeds and could have been
■
going five hundred miles or five thousand. Most of the space inside was filled
with boxes and crates, but there were four seats over the wings.
Mattern
handed him the magazines they'd bought, and held out a friendly hand just
inside the doorway. "This is as far as I go, kid. Have a nice trip."
Jim
shook hands with him, feeling he was breaking the last contact with
familiarity. He headed up the aisle toward his seat, grimacing slightly. There
wasn't anything that he was leaving behind which he'd miss much. As to what was
coming, he'd face that when he reached it. So far, he'd always been able to
take care of himself, and he was pretty sure he could handle things in the
future.
The two seats on one side of the aisle were
occupied, one by a big man who had the tan and calloused hands of an outdoor
laborer, and the other by a thin, elderly man busy with charts in a big
notebook. The other two seats were empty, and Jim dropped into the one across
from the laborer. He waited until the man looked across at him and grinned in
as friendly a manner as he could.
"Looks
like good weather for flying," he said. "I hope it lasts all the
way."
The
man grunted unhappily. "You don't hope it like I do. First time they ever
got me on one of these things."
"Oh?
Well, I've never been on a trip this long on one either." He waited to see
what the reaction to that was, but drew a blank. "I wonder what it will be
like when we get there?"
The
third man turned around to study Jim, and there was an amused grin on his face.
"You'll find out when you get there, young man," he said. "And
you can stop probing. He doesn't know any more than you do."
"But
I suppose you know, sir?" Jim asked with careful respect.
The
grin broadened, and the man nodded. "I do," he answered, and turned
back to his charts.
Jim
muttered to himself, but he had to admit he'd been asking for it. Then the door
of the plane was shut and locked from outside, and the big jets began roaring.
He turned to the window as the ground streaked past. They rose smoothly,
circling for altitude. At about eleven thousand feet they ran into a thick
cloud blanket, and passed through it, to level off and begin pouring on speed.
The clouds cut off all view of the ground below, and the sun had set, while
there were too few stars within Jim's view for him to guess their direction. He
was sure they'd headed west, however; it fitted, since most of the rocket
fields lay in that direction. Maybe the colonel's hints had been true.
The
man who knew where they were going had put his notebook away in a locked brief
case, and now was settling down to sleep. Jim shrugged, and decided he might as
well do the same. He found the catch on the seat and tipped it back all the
way, realizing that such seats were seldom installed on short-range ships. He
cut off his seat light, and turned over. The little hum of the air pressure
system blended with the muted roar of the jets, and sleep came quickly.
The
change of pressure hit at his ears and woke him up hours later as they glided
down for a landing. He swallowed and stared out of the window, but could make
nothing of what lay below. His watch indicated that eight hours had passed. They
must be on the West Coast.
A
few minutes after the landing, the door opened and a man in major's uniform
stuck his head in. "You'll be here for some time while we refuel," he
announced. "However, I'll have to ask you not to leave the plane. Food
will be brought to you. Oh, hello, Dr. Swenmark."
"Hi, Major," the man in the front
seat called back.
"How
about some of the Yankee pot roast? That still on the menu?"
"Can
do," the major said. The door shut behind him, and Swenmark smiled at Jim.
"I
make the trip about once a week," he said. "Any idea where we're
going now? If you guess it the first time, I'll admit it."
"Johnston
Island," Jim said. If they were refueling here, it had to mean a long trip
over the Pacific. And it wouldn't be anyplace without rockets with Swenmark on
board. The man was one of the experts whose name was known to Jim from his
studies at Central Tech.
Swenmark's face hardened abruptly, and he
switched to the seat ahead of Jim, swiveling it round to face the boy.
"How did you know about that?" he asked sharply.
"A
guess. If they're working on long-range rockets in the Pacific, it has to be in
United States waters— and Hawaii is too well settled. There've been rumors that
Johnston Island was being used."
Swenmark
relaxed, and the smile returned. "Central Tech, I'll bet? I thought so. I
heard they were investigating a young man who'd studied there. Henrix still
using my book in his course?"
He'd
switched the conversation to safe grounds smoothly, but Jim let it drift as
Swenmark wanted. He knew there were rockets
involved in his future work now, and he stopped worrying. They discussed the
school and Jim's courses while a pretty stewardess brought their food and then
took the plates away. Outside, the mechanics were working on the far right jet.
When
they finally took off, they ran into rough weather that pitched the plane
about. The worker was violently sick. By the time Jim and Swenmark had taken
care of him and cleaned up, they were cruising smoothly again. The older man
went back to his charts, and Jim settled down to a halting conversation with
the third man. Finally it died out, and he turned to the magazines.
Hours
later, Swenmark moved over again and pointed down. The sky was clear, and the
blue of the Pacific was bright below them. On it, the tiny outlines of a ship
showed up—but no ship such as he had ever seen. It looked like a stubby ship
that was split into a letter U at
the rear. From it, big cranes of some kind were pulling an object into the
U-section.
It
could only be a vessel especially built to rescue the big first stage of a
three-stage rocket, dropped off after it had used up all its fuel. Having
fallen on its parachute, it would now be carried back to its base for re-use.
Jim knew the theory from his studies, but he hadn't known that they were
actually to the point of building and using such rockets! He looked up at
Swenmark, but the man shook his head, indicating no questions were to be asked.
No
more reading was possible for Jim. He knew they must be near their destination
now—about two hundred or less miles away, if what he knew of the trajectory of
the first stage was correct. He tried to realize that he was to see and
probably to work on the true space-reaching rockets that he'd only dreamed of
before.
Then
he frowned. If they had them, why was it kept secret? Why leave people thinking
that research was still puttering along with slightly improved V-2 rockets and getting nowhere? The mention of danger came back to him,
sobering him. There must be something wrong with the whole setup, and that was
probably where it lay—the big rockets were still unsafe. He was willing to take
the risk, if he had to, but he didn't like the idea of being tricked into it.
They
came in for a landing finally, dropping down onto the field of what must be
Johnston Island, nearly a thousand miles beyond Hawaii. Almost at once, the
door opened and Swenmark headed out, while two other men came in. One of them
looked at the two remaining passengers and headed for Jim. "Mr. Stanley?
You're to come with me."
Jim
stretched gratefully when they got out, but the guide was moving toward a
little three-wheeled jeep. He fidgeted impatiently as Jim swept the horizon,
until the rocket field finally showed before his eyes, over the roofs of the
temporary buildings.
The
swell of the two ships answered his question. The ships were three-stage jobs,
without any doubt.
"All
right, Mr. Stanley," the guide called. "You can gawp at them
later."
Jim reluctantly got into
the jeep, which headed along a street outside the airfield, away from the
rockets. The men along the street were about evenly divided between those
wearing uniforms and those in civilian dress. He turned to the guide, with
questions already formed.
Then a roar of thunder sounded, and he swiveled
to stare back toward the rocket field. Over the roofs of the buildings, a
monster rocket was rising slowly, teetering on a huge gout of fire. It seemed
to hover at first, and then to gain sureness. Its speed increased, and the last
signs of red vanished from the brilliant blue of the exhaust. With a thunder of
sound that lowered in pitch as it diminished, it lifted, leaped, and rocketed
upward and out of sight.
The guide looked bored, but slightly amused,
at Jim's expression. He swung the jeep to a doorway, stopped, and got out. Jim
followed, with the roar of the rocket still ringing in his ears. They went down
a hall and into the back of the building. Three men were waiting in one of the
offices. "Mr. James Stanley," the guide announced, and left.
"You've
got an envelope for us," one of the men said. He was a huge bear of a man,
with an accent that sounded faintly Germanic. His smile was friendly, but he
seemed bored with the routine they were going through. He took the card from
the envelope and handed it to another man, who put it into a huge machine at
the back. "Now, young man! We will see what they've sent us this
time!"
He sounded doubtful. Jim began to understand
why as they threw questions at him—questions that involved everytfring in his
life, and squeezed him dry as to his abilities. The big man was frowning as he
listened to the experience Jim had had. He reached for the sheets the machine
had typed out from the information on the card.
"Hmm,
so! Well, you have enough friends, Mr. Stanley. I thought so. There had to be
some reason behind their sending you to us. Jonas! He should have been in
politics."
"You
mean I'm not hired yet?" Jim asked. "But I was told the job was
definite." He should have known there would be a catch to it. A million men
would have been happy to apply for any job that had to do with rockets, and he
had nothing to offer beyond his own desires.
"You're
hired," another man told him. "You didn't think you'd be permitted to
leave here after seeing the ships, did you? You've been on salary since you
signed the waiver. Now our problem is to find what to do with you."
Jim
sighed and nodded. "All right. For two hundred a week and a chance to be
where the ships are being flown, I don't care what you want me to do."
"Good."
The big man laughed suddenly. "Very good. But suppose it isn't two hundred
a week? I suppose you'll work for nothing, eh?"
"If I have anything to say about it,
sir, I will not. I want to do what I can to help with the rockets, but I can't
pay for an education with empty pockets."
The laughter came again, richer and more
approving. "I like that, Stanley. We want men with ideals here—but we
can't use fools who have their eyes filled with stars and their heads stuffed
with nonsense. Well, you have some good points. You're young, you're used to
work, you're unattached—and you're about the right size. We like that when we
can get it. Do you think we should test him, gentlemen?"
Jim
stared at them in amazement. After weeks of being checked by the FBI and the
long quiz here, it seemed to liim that he'd already been tested. Apparently
they didn't think so. The other two debated for a moment, and finally seemed to
agree. The older one spoke for both of them. "I guess we might as well. We
can use a few replacements. All right, send him in. And I hope that's all of
this routine for a while."
There
was another hallway, and a ride in another jeep. But this time the card was
studied carefully by the man who received him. Finally he was turned over to a
man who was obviously a doctor.
The
doctor smiled, and studied the material from the card. "All right,
Jim," he said finally. "Better take off your clothes and prepare to
stay for a while. This is going to be long, rough, and probably nonsensical to
you. But it's for your own good."
Some
of the tests, such as the heart and blood pressure test, the check on his basal
metabolism in the big chamber that measured his temperature after he ate a
piece of candy, and the routine check, made some sense. He was X-rayed,
examined for scars, and had the inside of his eyes, ears, and nose studied with
strange instruments. He was put on a whirling table and spun until he was too
dizzy to stand—and then ordered to stand up, while a doctor kept a record with
a stop watch.
At
first he'd counted on being done in a few hours. But he soon learned better.
The medical examination took most of a day, and that was only the beginning.
There was a psychologist who put ink blots in front of him and asked what he
saw. He answered innumerable questions. He did things with blocks and holes,
memorized nonsense syllables, and was pronounced an ectomorph, an introvert, a
normal, and other things he couldn't understand.
The
second day was better. He was given work to do with a welder, and had to learn
by experience that the piece marked Mild Steel was actually stainless. They
seemed approving when he guessed that another wasn't aluminum, but a magnesium
alloy, and insisted on welding it in an atmosphere of an inert gas. Most of
that was familiar from what he'd seen in the aircraft plant. But he was totally
unfamiliar with the next test.
They
had him climb up fifty feet inside a tower, walk out on a narrow beam, and try
to bolt together a meaningless collection of parts that hung on strings just
out of reach. He demanded and got a safety belt for that. From the reaction on
their faces, he suspected that it had been partly a trap, and that he'd have
flunked if he hadn't asked for the belt, even though there was a thin nylon net
below him. They gave him a rest then, and sent him into a big centrifuge—a
little cabin at the end of a big boom
which was swung in a circle by a huge motor until the outward pressure made him
feel that he weighed ten times as much as before. Then they sent him back to
finish his medical tests.
It
was three days later when he went into a small office and found the big man
he'd first met on the Island. There was a smile on the man's face again, and he
held out his hand,
"You've
passed, Jim. Oh, there's a lot that isn't all we want. But you just qualify,
and your friends have done you no harm. Your professor at Central Tech
practically forced us to consider you. Swenmark turned in a good word,
too."
"So
I can work on the rockets?" Jim asked. He hadn't dared to think about it
too much, but he wasn't fool enough to think that all those tests were needed
for a simple mechanic. "Do you think I can learn to handle them?"
"Not
so fast." The man sat down, studying him. "I don't know about that,
Jim. We have plenty of pilots who are better fitted than you are. No, you won't
be working on the ships. Did you ever hear of the Big Shush?"
"No, sir. But. .
."
"Ever wonder why we didn't build a space
station when that eager-beaver company volunteered?" "Yes, sir."
They must know the answer to that. The man took a deep breath, and his voice
sounded
unbelieving. "Well, Jim—it was because
we were already working on one here. The Big Shush is a space station. And
you're going to work on it, if you are willing to take the risk." His
voice softened, and his eyes turned toward the rocket field. "We're finally
in space, Jim."
Jim
saw tears in the man's eyes. His own eyes were curiously blurred as he tried to
realize what had happened to him.
ChCiptCr 3 Space
Station One
I |
he wages Jim
was to receive were almost as fabulous as the job: the starting salary was
fifteen hundred a month plus all his living expenses. He'd gotten used to the
idea that jobs in out of the way places involving high risks paid far more
than the usual work, but this was more than he had dared to think of. And since
it carried a guarantee of six months of work if he lasted for two weeks, it
meant he'd be able to save enough to return to Central Tech without future
worries.
He
signed waivers to protect his employers in case of accident, and documents
attesting that he was going of his own desire. The name of the company building
the station was one he had seen all his life—Major Electric Company—and he
discovered that it was a private contract, with government supervision.
Then for two days he was fitted for clothes
made of the thinnest and lightest material, and for a space suit that would
protect him from the vacuum of space. That couldn't be light, no matter how
important weight saving was on a rocket. He was taught how to handle his air
supply, the method of sealing it, and to avoid tearing the fabric. He was
lectured on everything that could be told about working conditions outside the
atmosphere and without any effective gravity.
In
the two days of that, he had time to adjust to some extent. One sobering fact
helped to keep him from losing his head. He was warned that all they could do
was to send him up. Whether he stayed would depend on his own ability to adapt.
Only about one man in three could adjust. It meant that his chances were not
even fifty-fifty.
He
gritted his teeth with his determination to stay at least the minimum ten days.
And then he berated himself for thinking of the money while he should be
planning to do and die for glory. But he'd had too much experience with the
need of a cushion of savings, and too little with whatever glory might be.
Finally,
though, he was ready. He was dressed in one of the two sets of coveralls and
soft, insulating underclothes he'd take with him, his space suit was folded
over his arm, and he had all his other permitted possessions in one pocket.
There was even a special wrist watch, made out of light plastics, and he had
been sweated down to seven pounds less than usual. The cost of fifteen dollars
a pound for the trip was less important than the need to carry as much useful
cargo as possible each time.
He
was taken out to the field and had his first full view of the big ships. Three
were in. The one on which he was scheduled to go stood ready, resting on a huge
platform that held the exhaust deflectors to handle the first blast, before the
ship could rise. It was already fueled with hydrazine and nitric acid, and the
hydrogen peroxide which would drive the fuel pumps was in the tanks. It needed
only a spark to start.
The
ship stood on its base, the first stage. This was over sixty feet in diameter
and one hundred and twenty feet in length. It was equipped with huge fins which
would stabilize it for its short passage through the denser air. Coupled to
that was the second stage, forty-five feet in diameter and nearly seventy in
length. As against the seven thousand tons of the first stage when fueled, the
total weight of the second stage was a mere thousand tons.
Rising
above the rest was the final stage—the rocket that would actually get out into
space. It was only about twenty feet across, and its length of not quite eighty
feet tapered up to a needle point that stood two hundred and sixty-five feet
above the ground. Its base was equipped with two wings which would be be used
on the return trip, and its nose held the steering stabilizers. Complete with
cargo and fuel, it weighed about one hundred and forty tons.
Jim
was staring up at its dizzy height, awed by the bulk of what had been only
figures on paper before, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and was swung
around to face a small, slim man who seemed to be all whiplash and whalebone.
"Welcome, spaceman!"
"Mark
Emmett!" Jim caught the other's hand and pumped it furiously. Emmett had
been his favorite assistant instructor in the first-year courses at Central
Tech. He'd exploded through the courses like a meteor, but with a sound, clear
sense of exactly what should be said to make the hardest problem clear. The
thin silk shirt and brief shorts of a rocket pilot somehow went with him, as
did the crew cut over his still boyish features. "You—you're the one who
sent me that application!"
The
pilot grinned. "Who else? Didn't I tell you we'd live to hit space
together? Come on aboard, and see how it feels!"
A
lift wheeled up to them. It was similar to a multi-sectioned fire ladder
mounted on a wheeled base. Now the ladders were all down, and the little
platform that slid along them was at ground level. Jim followed Mark onto it,
and it began wheeling forward toward the rocket, while the platform ran up to
the top. The ladders began cranking upward, each adding its length to the
others until they were swaying dizzily halfway up the length of the ship.
It
moved in closer, and Mark caught a rope and aluminum ladder that stretched down
from above. He moved onto it easily, and turned to help Jim. But the boy had
mastered rope ladders years before on the bridgework, and he climbed up after
the pilot, glad that he didn't need assistance. It swayed under their weight,
but they swarmed up the ship. The ground crew became mere dots below them.
Finally, they were at the crew hatch in the third stage, near the top.
The
hatch was thinner than Jim had expected. He'd unconsciously pictured the heavy
air locks of the movies, but this was a circle made of light metal, braced with
struts. Mark pulled it shut by hand, and secured it with a series of clamps.
Three feet beyond, another door opened inward, equally light. They went
through, and shut it. "Air pressure inside would hold it closed,"
Mark said. But he snapped the locks and tested them, anyhow. "The hatches
seal against silicone rubber, so they're airtight."
They
went through a small tunnel, and up a narrow ladder into the control cabin at
the nose of the ship. The copilot and radioman were already seated in contour
chairs heavily padded with foam rubber and mounted to swing in all directions.
"Jim
Stanley, this is Lee Yeng." Mark pointed to the copilot, a smiling Chinese-American.
He turned to the radarman. "And this is Hank Andrucci. They know about
you. Here, I've saved the best seat for you, up by me. You can see all the
screens."
He
pointed to the seat, and Jim sank into it, buckling himself in with wide, soft
webbing straps. There were banks of radar and television screens there; windows
in a space ship were out of the question, since they would have required bulky
metal shields when making the high-speed return through the atmosphere. Small
television cameras were lighter, also, with the transistors that had replaced
most of the older electron tubes. Each screen was marked, and he tried to memorize
the location. The side ones were already on, showing the bustle of activity in
full color.
Most
of the cabin was taken up with various machinery that hummed and clicked.
There was almost no waste space. Mark patted one of the machines fondly.
"Here's your real pilot, Jim. Under acceleration, no man can function
well—and things have to be done more precisely than a man could do them. The
whole course is here in these gadgets—they pilot all the way, except in
emergencies. It gives me the easiest job in the world. We take off in three
minutes. Better lie back and relax."
It
began as a muted mutter that rose to a roar. In the screen, Jim could see fumes
of fuel run out, then ignite into a harsh red that gradually turned blue. The
great ship stirred slowly and began to lift, only a few feet the first second,
but gaining speed. It teetered uncertainly, while the full power of its
fifty-one rocket motors bellowed out behind. Then pressure began to build as
the acceleration increased. Jim was shoved back deeper and deeper into his
seat. At first it was no more than the pressure of an express elevator
starting. Then his weight seemed to double, and to build up until the breath
was nearly squeezed from his lungs. He felt the muscles of his face and body
pull back like melting wax, and his sight began to blur. He could barely see
that the ship was turning from its upward course and leveling out to a path
that was only about twenty degrees from horizontal.
"There
goes the first stage," Mark shouted a minute and a half after take-off.
There was a halt in acceleration pressure as the burned-out first stage was
blown free by a charge of powder, to go falling back to Earth on its parachute.
They should already be thirty miles from take-off, twenty-five miles up and
doing about five thousand miles an hour. The second stage began firing almost
instantly, its smaller blast working against less weight with the huge first
stage gone. He suffered through the pressure for more than two minutes this
time.
"Second
stage out," Mark called. It, too, was blasted out, to drop in the ocean
eventually, nearly a thousand miles from the Island and be recovered. They were
hurtling along at fourteen thousand miles an hour, already hundreds of miles
around the Earth.
The
final stage went into operation. It was the rocket proper, the section that
carried the cargo and men to their destination. For another minute and a half,
it blasted them savagely ahead, before the automatic pilot cut it off. There
was still fuel left, but they had reached their maximum speed of eighteen
thousand miles an hour. In five minutes, they had come seven hundred miles and
had risen more than sixty miles above the Earth. Now they were rising slowly,
heading out to space!
There
was no feeling of weight now. Earth's gravity still pulled them downward, but
since it acted on the ship as much as on the men, it couldn't be felt. They
went on rising on their momentum, and would continue upward, losing speed
under the pull of that gravity—men and ship alike.
Jim
had expected something unusual, but it felt almost natural—like lying in a warm
pool of water, just barely floating. He turned his head, and dizziness struck
at him: there was nothing to keep the fluid in place in the inner canals of his
ears, and it was that fluid which gave a sense of balance. He fought against
the dizziness as he had been taught, using a fixed point in front of his eyes
to maintain his relation with his surroundings. The feeling slowly faded,
though his hand clung to the restraining strap for reassurance.
Mark
Emmett had been watching him closely. The pilot now let out a slow sigh of
relief. "Praise be, Jim, you don't get space-sick. When that happens up
here, it's pretty messy. Feel okay?"
"Not
bad," Jim said. He was beginning to see some reason for the tests he had
undergone.
There
was nothing to see on the screens except for the hazy globe of Earth slowly
growing smaller as they rose. A hum sounded in the cabin as the gyroscopes
began to turn the ship under the maneuvering of the automatic pilot. It had no
effect on the movement of the ship through space, but only served to swing the
ship on its axis, to bring the rockets around, pointed where they would have to
be. According to Newton's law of motion, every action was balanced by an equal
and opposite reaction; the eighty tons of the ship would turn once for
thousands of turns of the gyroscope's few pounds. It was cheaper than trying to
steer with side rockets.
Their
speed had fallen to fourteen thousand miles an hour when they reached the
station orbit at 1,075 miles up. To keep from falling back toward Earth, they
needed a speed of just under sixteen thousand. Now the rockets went on for
fifteen seconds, adding the needed speed.
"Station
two miles ahead," Lee Yeng reported. He waited while Mark fed figures into
the automatic pilot. There was a weak blast, a pause, and another. "Nice
going, Mark! We're here!"
It had
taken fifty-six minutes altogether to bring them to a stable orbit around
Earth, like that of the distant Moon, neither rising nor falling. Centrifugal
force from their motion held them out, like a stone swung on a string, exactly
hard enough to balance the downward pull of gravity.
Mark
grabbed a space suit out of a locker. "We'll unload when I get back, boys.
Jim, I'll swim you over."
The
suit was of airtight fabric, with thick-soled boots and a helmet something like
a diver's; on the back was an oxygen tank for breathing. It used pure oxygen at
three pounds of pressure. Earth had air at fifteen pounds, but eighty per cent
of that was useless nitrogen which added weight without any use. On the
rocket, they had slowly switched to the low-pressure, pure oxygen atmosphere,
and Jim's lungs were used to it. It saved much of the strain on the suit and
avoided all danger of painful "bends" from nitrogen bubbles in the
blood.
The
inner seal of the air lock opened, and swung shut behind them. Pumps began
hissing, pulling the air out of the lock, while all sounds faded. Then the
outer seal opened. "Grab my shoulders and hang on," Mark ordered. He
braced his feet against the edge of the door, aimed himself, and kicked off,
out into nothingness!
The
ship slipped away from them. Below lay the hazy ball of Earth and to the side
was the leaping, burning flame of the Sun. Around them was—vacuum! Jim's
stomach lurched and sweat popped onto his forehead. He dug his fingers into
Mark's shoulders to keep from screaming. He could feel himself falling, falling.. .
He
fought it out. Logically, he knew they couldn't fall, and the hours he'd spent
working on girders as a kid helped. He had to think of space as a great ocean
that buoyed him up. He forced himself to see Earth as a ball floating with him.
Floating!
It
worked. He took a deep breath, relaxed, and was himself again.
Mark
bent his head back to touch helmets with Jim, and his muffled voice came
through. "Space station one ahead."
Jim
looked, excitement rising in him. But all he could see was a collection of
metal parts, boxes and crates of machinery scattered about like toys on a
nursery floor. Ahead of them lay a big metal cylinder, perhaps forty feet long
and thirty feet in diameter, with a skeleton of girders sticking out from each
end, bent to form part of a circle. Around it floated collections of
meaningless stuff, connected by thin cords, with little figures of space-suited
men here and there in a meaningless pattern. It wasn't a space station, but a
cosmic dumping ground!
"That's
a space station?" he asked incredulously. It looked not at all like the
pictures he had seen. Nothing could have been a bigger letdown.
Mark
chuckled. "That's the beginning. It beats living in a rocket. You're
lucky this is the fourteenth trip instead of the first."
The leap had carried them to the right of the
air lock on the cylinder, but Mark caught a handhold and pulled them ro the
entrance. They passed through the outer door, waited for air pressure to build
up, and went through the inner door, into a room walled off with thin sheets of
metal. Mark threw back his helmet and yelled, his voice echoing hollowly in the
air that smelled as stale as a schoolroom after the class was over.
"Hey, Dan! New fish.
Come and get it!"
A
figure scarcely five feet high with shoulders nearly as wide shot into view.
The man's head was completely bald, though his flat face seemed no older than
thirty. He spotted Jim, and his mouth split into a wide grin, while one huge
paw went out.
"Dan
Bailey!" Jim caught the hand, bumping against the low ceiling of the
partitioned room as he leaped.
He
felt himself pulled down, but hardly noticed. Bailey had been his father's
assistant and closest companion for years. He must have been another of the
friends working to get Jim up here. "Dan!"
"You
young baboon! You crazy young idiot!" Dan's voice boomed in the room,
while his hands squeezed on Jim's. Then his face sobered, and he shook his
head. "Jim, it's good to see you. But I'm afraid this is no favor to you.
It's a tough job, boy! Look."
Two
men had come in, holding a third who was wearing a space suit and bound with
webbing straps. The bound man saw the air lock and began screaming and writhing
as they carried him out.
"He's
going back," Dan said unhappily. "Three days here, and he's gone to
pieces. That's space! When three come up and only two go back, we're lucky.
Space!" He made it sound like a curse.
One
out of three! Jim shivered. The wonder and the glamour he'd expected seemed to
have evaporated out into the great, unfriendly emptiness that stretched
endlessly around them.
Chapter 4 Operation Misfit
n dan's office
the foreman dug out a chart and consulted it briefly while Jim stared at the
walls where furniture seemed to pop up everywhere. It was hard to get used to
the idea that there was no floor or ceiling here.
"You'll
share quarters with Bart Smith," Dan decided. "Come on and I'll show
you."
He
bent forward and jumped casually through the doorway, to go sailing down the
narrow hall, guiding himself with a touch of his hand to the wall. Jim braced
himself and tried to do the same. He had to keep reminding himself that he was
floating, not falling, but he managed to keep behind Dan in a series of bumping
glides.
The
quarters turned out to be a small room, six feet on a side, completely bare
except for the canvas walls which held a few big pockets. Dan grinned at him,
pointing to a set of straps on one wall. "Stow your
duffle
in the pockets and strap down with these to sleep, so you won't bother Bart.
The bathroom's down the hall."
It
was even more nonstandard. Without weight, everything had to be handled in
covered containers or fastened down. Liquids were even harder to handle. The
bath consisted of a plastic bag into which a man crawled, leaving his head out.
The water could be sucked out after use. For other washing, a carefully
dampened sponge served; it was squeezed out in a similar bag. There was no
shortage of water; in fact, the body burned some of the food to carbon dioxide
and water, giving off more of the liquid than was drunk, and all of it could be
recovered and distilled. But handling it was difficult.
Jim
studied it, realizing how much preliminary work must have been done. It might
not look like much of a station, but he was beginning to realize that the beginning
was genuine enough. It was hard to believe after all the years of staring at
the sky, knowing men could get there, and waiting until it seemed that nothing
would ever be done. "The greatest thing in all our history," he said
bitterly. "And they keep it a tight-locked secret. You'd think they were
ashamed of progress!"
"I
suppose they should take newsreels!" Dan shook his head slowly.
"Don't you read the papers, boy? We're having enough trouble keeping out
of war with the Combine now. Let them get wind of this and they'd figure it was
an act of war. They'd swear we were putting this up for the sole purpose of
carrying atom bombs over their heads. And then there would be trouble! Maybe
we'd have that war. Once we get her finished, they won't dare do anything. But
until then, we'd better keep it secret. Of course, if the World Congress had
any real power . . ."
Dan
was right, Jim realized. The World Congress, like other international bodies
that had been set up to keep peace and order, had been unable to control the
separate nations. He wondered, though, whether even war wouldn't be easier on
the people below than the feeling that science had betrayed them by giving them
horrible weapons but nothing to hope for the future. This would at least be
proof that they could hope. "How long until it's finished, Dan?" he
asked.
"A
year from the date we started, so our contract says. And we'd better finish in
time. There's a penalty clause Major Electric can't afford, if we don't."
Dan reached for his helmet and began zipping up his space suit. "Time I
got out and supervised the new cargo. It's a nuisance having something drift
off because nobody tied it to the rest."
Jim
reached for his own helmet. He had no love for the idea of going back into the
nothingness of space again, but it was part of his job, and he'd better get
used to it. "Want me to handle cargo, or do I start with something
else?"
"You
stay right here until you get used to moving without weight," Dan told him
firmly.
"I don't want any
special treatment," Jim protested.
"If
I make it, fine. If I don't—well, nobody's going to fire me for my age this
time, at least."
Dan
chuckled, then sobered. "Like that, eh? Okay, you won't get any favors.
But you'll still stay here today. Look, Jim, when I first came up, there was a
guy named Joe with me. The first day he spotted some cargo drifting off and
leaped for it. Put out a hand to grab it—and, naturally, when his arm moved one
way his body moved the other. His suit hit a sharp edge of metal. A man dies
fast out here when the air runs out of his suit, and it's not a pretty tfiing
to see. You stay inside."
Jim
practiced dutifully, gaining some proficiency as he did. He had to learn by
experience that the twitch of a foot at the wrong moment could throw him off
balance. Once he sneezed and was shocked to find himself sailing rapidly toward
the opposite wall. But Dan nodded approvingly when he came back.
Jim
was near the lock when the work shift came in. They were an odd crew. Most of
them were small, since a smaller man weighed less and used slightly less food
and oxygen, though a few were at least six feet in height. Some looked like
college freshmen and others had the rough cocksureness of men who had sweated
out a living on other construction jobs. A big, dark-complexioned man of the
latter type took one look at Jim and motioned him over.
"Kid,
there's trouble. You go find Dan and tell him Bart Smith said the ground jerks
sent up the wrong size again. Have him give you a couple of pipe-stretchers—the
big ones."
Jim
let his expression match the seriousness of the man who would be his roommate.
"Yes, sir. What grade of stretching oil do you want? And how about some
prefabricated holes?"
Bart
stared at him for a second, while the other men broke into laughter. Then the
big face stretched into a grin, and he dropped one hand approvingly onto Jim's
shoulder. "You're all right, kid. I thought you were one of the college
grunts they're sending up from the rocket courses to learn space. We'll get
along fine, though." He grinned as some of the younger faces turned red,
then cocked his ear as a bell sounded. "Come on, chow's on."
It
was a strange meal. Food was served in covered plates that were magnetically
fastened to the steel table, or on skewers. Liquids came from plastic squeeze
bottles.
One
of the men whose face had reddened was apparently still worrying about the
crack against college men. He swung toward the big man, brandishing a fork
angrily. "Bart, can't you lay off ever? What's wrong with college? How
else are we going to learn enough to fly the rockets?"
"Not
a thing, Buster," Bart said cheerfully. "If I'd had the money, I'd
have gone to college myself. But don't think there's anything wrong with a man
who knows how to work, either." He chewed on a piece of meat thoughtfully,
then shrugged. "And don't think it'll always be like it is now. You know
how they'll teach rockets? They'll start kids at high-school age where they're
still adaptable. They'll bring them out here and give them experience along
with all that theory. 'Smatter, kid, you sick?"
Jim
shook his head. "I'm all right," he denied. But he shoved up from the
table and pushed out through the doorway into the hall, with Bart's words
ringing in his ears. The man was absolutely right. Age counted in space—he'd
been picked largely because he was only eighteen. A few older men, like Dan,
could take it. But in the future, people wouldn't take chances. They'd start
the rocket men young, and they'd start them in space.
Courses
would take longer, too, as a result of what would be learned from practice. By
the time he could finish his education, he'd probably be nearly twenty-five,
and too old!
His
only chance lay in getting the experience here— if he could stay on, where
fewer than one man in three could make the grade. He had to be one who could—
and he kept remembering the doubt with which he'd been passed.
He
was still practicing when Bart found him later. "Come on, kid," he
said. "Time to sack in. Dan tells me you go to work tomorrow and I'm to be
your lead man. Can't have you so tired you'll fall off and break your neck on
the rocks!"
Jim managed to laugh at the joke, as he was
expected to. He felt grateful to Dan for putting him under Bart. But once he
had strapped himself down to keep from drifting, sleep was a long time coming,
and it was full of dreams of falling.
Next
morning Bart took him to a big chart in the office to give him some idea of
what they were building. It looked like a lot of the pictures Jim had seen.
There was to be a great doughnut wheel about two hundred and fifty feet in
diameter, of which the "hut" was the first section. That would be
connected to a central hub by two hollow spokes. Their present job was to
extend the girders that would form the frame for the outer structure.
Work
began with a briefing in which they studied a tissue-thin blueprint of the
day's expected operations. Dan laid out the rough details, and the lead men
filled them in, giving each man a run-down on what would be done during the
shift. Each had a tiny radio transmitter and receiver connected to his helmet,
but the power was so low that it could only reach a few hundred feet. They were
supposed to require as few instructions on the job as possible.
Jim's
job turned out to be running a small welder that operated on compressed oxygen
and acetylene. "You'll be working on some tricky alloys," Bart told
him. "Keep the oxygen supply a little under what you need for the best
burning. And before you turn it on, get a good grip. It's a small rocket, and
don't forget that!"
They filed out. Some of the men seemed to be
fully at home already, and simply dived off into space, kicking themselves
toward the work. They carried tiny rocket tubes which could be used to kick
themselves back in case they misjudged, but it wasn't something Jim cared to
try yet. He was glad to see that others pulled themselves along the girders
hand over hand.
Everything
seemed to be done by hand power. Men were moving out to the piles of material
scattered about, sorting them, and attaching cords before pulling them back by
hand. There was no weight, but the inertia of the objects sometimes required
the power of several men to overcome it. Once in motion, anything tended to
keep that motion, and jockeying the parts into place and holding them there was
a tricky business.
The
welding proceeded well enough, however. Out here without air, the metals could
never tarnish. They were given a brightening before being assembled to remove
any corrosion from Earth's atmosphere, and then remained bright until they
would be welded. Even aluminum and the titanium alloys were manageable.
Bart
came over after a few minutes and inspected his work. "Good enough. But
don't sit facing the same way so long. That Sun's hotter than you think. Sit
too long in one direction and you'll heat one side of your suit near melting,
while the other side freezes stiff. How do you feel?"
Jim
had almost stopped thinking about that, under the pressure of the work. A boy
who'd collapsed on the previous shift had put the welding behind the assembly,
and Jim was driving himself to catch up. Bart clapped him on the shoulder and
started to move on. Then he swung back.
"Jim,
don't ever let me find you with your belt unfastened on the job again!"
He snapped the siliconeplastic strap around the girder and to a hook in the
suit. "I told you that torch was a small rocket! Let go, and you'll sail
out like a bird if you're not strapped down."
"I
guess I forgot this time," Jim admitted. "Sorry, Bart!"
The
other nodded. "Okay, I expect
you to be a fool once. But not twice! Next time I find it that way, I kick you
off and watch you try to blast back!"
He
went on his way, leaving Jim's face burning. But Bart had been right, and the
boy knew it. He'd been trying to work too fast, and getting careless. Like any
man on a dangerous job, he'd started out being overcautious, and then had
gotten cocky. Until the right habits became automatic, he'd have to watch
everything.
Later,
when the welding had nearly caught up, Bart put him to bolting down. That proved
to be tougher. He had to handle his tools through heavy gloves. The material
was either too hot from sunlight or too cold where it had been in the shadow.
He had to fumble into a tight bag without letting any of the bolts escape, find
a bolt and a nut, force the metal parts firmly together with a spikelike awl
through the holes, and then bolt it down. The final operation was to spread the
end of the bolt with a special hammer so that the nut couldn't work off.
Each
blow of the hammer was a test of his skill. He had to keep insulating pads
between himself and whatever he was sitting on or clinging to. These had a
habit of slipping, and there was no firmness to anything. The least motion of
his arms made his body shift unless he was set just right for it, and that
would throw the hammer off. The sharp cone at the end had to hit exactly in the
center of the bolt to spread it.
He
studied the others, but no one else seemed to be doing the work where he could
see. Finally he called Bart on the radio.
The
man came over in a few minutes and listened while Jim outlined his troubles.
Then he nodded. "Okay. And you did right. I figured you'd probably had
some experience at this. My fault. I should have done what you did—ask when I
didn't know." He reached for his belt and strapped it around the strut,
taking Jim's hammer. Bart twisted to the side, putting the thick soles of his
boots against it and snapping out against the belt. "Watch!"
He
caught another piece quickly with the awl, took a bolt and nut from Jim, and snapped
them in, spiiining the nut on with sure fingers, and pulling it tight with a
wrench. The hammer came up and down once, and it was done. "See? Don't
think you have to keep pointing up from Earth. Switch over however's best—and
make a tripod of your legs and belt. Then you can lever it."
It went better after that—until Jim was
switched to assembling. He welcomed the chance to learn all the work being
done, knowing that Bart was doing the changing deliberately. Another man was
muscling the parts to him, small I-beams with ends cut to lock into others. For
the first few, he had no trouble, though making them stop without long
seesawing was tricky.
Then he ran into trouble. He could get them
to seat halfway, but they refused to go further. The man bringing the beams
went on until the right number were strung out, all lashed together by cords,
and then took off on his hand-rocket for other work. The men in the crew passed
on, leaving Jim behind. At last he called Bart again, but apparently the lead
man was out of reach of the tiny radio.
Jim stopped to measure the ends of the beams
with the catchplates into which they fitted. The top of the plate matched—but
the bottom was too small. It should have been a straight groove, but it
obviously wasn't. He fought on, trying to force them home, repeatedly being
saved by his belt. But he couldn't get the knack, in spite of the evidence from
finished work that others before him had succeeded.
Bart came over later.
"Quitting time, kid," he said.
The
lead man ran his eye over the incompleted work and paced back to where Jim had
begun—a pitifully small distance. He came back, walking the beam by throwing
his belt ahead and using it to hold himself down. He sighted along the work
again.
Jim opened his mouth to
explain, and then closed it.
Out
here, he was sure, work had to speak for itself. His didn't do much talking.
Bart
made no comment as they went back, but Jim could see the frown in the man's
eyes. He was surprised when Dan made no mention of his work at dinner, but Jim
didn't stick around to wait for the decision. He left the men busily kidding
with the girl who apparently was the nurse here and went to his quarters where
they couldn't see him sweating it out.
He'd
accepted the fact that he might not be able to take space—but he hadn't
expected to find that he couldn't do the work. If he were washed up, it was his
own faultl
Chapter 5 *
Little
Sunlight
im wasn't surprised when he found a slip by his breakfast plate. He picked it up
worriedly, and read
y |
the
typing there. It was an order to report to the nurse. He'd already gathered
that the nurse was named Nora Prescott, and that there had been two doctors up
already, neither of whom had been able to stand space. Until one could be
found, she was both the only woman and the only medical help on the station.
He left his breakfast unfinished and headed toward her quarters at the rear,
near those of the project engineer.
His
muscles ached almost as badly as his thoughts. He miscalculated the shove out
of the hallway into her office, and went sprawling into her desk, to lift
himself awkwardly and face her.
Nora
wasn't beautiful, though she was easy enough to look at. She was smaller than
Jim, and too thin for beauty. Her hair had been cut to half an inch in length,
to
avoid having it bush up around her head without weight to hold it down. Her
nose was too short, her upper lip a bit too long, and it was hard to tell
whether her eyes were green or blue. But her smile was the nicest Jim had seen.
She
helped him to a better position with an ease and grace none of the men had.
"You'll get used to space, Jim," she said easily. "That is, if
you're in condition to work today."
"Work?" he asked
stupidly. "But I thought..."
She stared at him quizzically, then smiled
again. "All the new men have to have checkups. It doesn't mean a thing,
unless I find something wrong. And you wouldn't want to work if you're not
able, would you?"
He
didn't disagree with her, though he had his own opinion. He waited while she
took his pulse, blood pressure, and reactions to hammer taps at the knee.
"Any trouble with itching inside your suit?" she asked.
It
had bothered him, but he had managed to overcome it. The knowledge that he
couldn't scratch had exaggerated the normal small pricklings of his skin, and
only by digging into his work had it been possible to forget. He debated what
to answer, and then told the truth. "Some."
She
nodded. "Good. That's normal. Okay, Jim, you can report to work. It looks
as if you may make it."
He
couldn't believe it until he handed her slip to Dan, who looked it over and
grinned. "Okay, boy. Go out and help Bart again."
Bart met him, walking him along the span of
work until they came to the welder. Jim could see that another man was working
on the assembly, seemingly having no trouble with the beams that had refused to
fit for him. They passed that section, just as the man began fighting one of
the I-beams.
"Won't fit." he
reported to Bart.
"Let
it go and find one that will. I'll have the misfits collected later," Bart
told him. He shook his head as they went on, his voice sounding tinnily in
Jim's earphone. "I dunno. I guessed you'd run into misfits last night.
There are too many of theml I've been wondering if it's sabotage on Earth. We
had some trouble before with food that wasn't safe. If those darned Combine
spies know about this project . . ."
He
let it go. Jim took a deep breath inside his suit and raged at himself. He
should have reported it. He'd been sweating it out for nothing, because he was
too stubborn to admit things were going badly. And the frowns he had seen
hadn't been at his work, after all. He'd been told at the aircraft plant that
his work was good, but that he tried to depend too much on himself and not
enough on co-operation with others. He'd insisted on doing the full job on the
cars at Griswold's, even when another man could have saved him a lot of work.
Now it was time he stopped being a fool.
The
welding went on for several hours, until he finished what was ready. Part of
the time, he'd been within reach by radio of one of the young college boys, and
had struck up a conversation, forcing himself to stop being a lone wolf. He'd
found that there was a sound reason for using the oxyacetylene welder instead
of an electric rig. The compressed gases were lighter than batteries, and the
station was still underpowered. They'd put up a sun mirror out of sheets of
station walls and had used sections of pipe to make a boiler where the heat
converged. It was driving a small steam plant and generator, but there were
only about ten kilowatts to power the whole station until they could get the
main power plant going much later.
Jim
turned to find Bart, but stopped as he spotted a rocket coming up from Earth.
Seeing it was like a breath of home in these alien surroundings. It crept up
almost alongside and the hot exhaust shot out for a few seconds while it
matched speed. But now it was over a mile away. There was another blast and
still another. At the end, it was over a mile and a half from them.
Bart
was standing with Dan, watching it. The foreman shrugged his shoulders.
"Lousy piloting. Mark's the only one who worries about us. Well, we've got
the taxi now, anyhow. Send Jerry Wales out, Bart. Hi, Jim—you all finished?
Good. You might as well go along. Do you good, and there's work enough."
Jerry
was a slim man of about twenty-one, with a tense, bitter face and a grin that
seemed forced. But he took Jim in tow and headed back toward the hut. Jerry was
a genius at moving about out of gravity. He watched Jim's face, and grinned
tautly as they landed precisely in the air lock. "Used to be with a circus
until my folks got killed. Aerialist. Once you get the feel, it sticks. Come
on, we'll walk around to the taxi."
There
were guidelines on the outside of the hut, and they grabbed these, using them
as anchors to hold themselves against the outside while moving around the structure.
At the rear, they came to the taxi, which Jim hadn't seen before.
The
taxi looked like a huge, short salami, twenty feet long and eight in diameter.
There was a small dome for the pilot to see out, and an air lock at the front,
while the rear carried a small rocket motor. They went through the lock. Inside
were two seats, fuel tanks, and steering assembly, as well as cargo space.
Jerry
blasted off, after cranking a hand gyroscope to turn them. It was a weak,
cautious blast that used little fuel. "Better to take your time and not
waste fuel," he explained. "Once you get moving, there's nothing to
stop you."
They
drifted toward the rocket, turning over by the use of the gyroscope, and Jerry
brought them to a stop with a single quick blast of the rocket tube. It was
precise, beautiful work. They coasted a few feet away, while he turned them
over again until the nose pointed to the rocket's lock, which was open.
"Slip
your helmet back on, Jim," Jerry ordered. "Go out into the lock and
catch that rope."
The
man in the ship ahead had already thrown the cord. Jim found the end and
fastened it to a bite inside the lock. The taxi was pulled
up to
the main
lock, where it fitted snugly against
the silicone-rubber
gasket to make an
airtight seal.
There were two
new men
this time, both looking sick from the trip up.
With them was a young
man whom Jerry introduced. "Jim, this is Mr. Thorndyke,
our project engineer. Been
down trying to get things
straightened out."
They took the
passengers back, and then began
making trips to ferry
the supplies.
These were dumped out of the
big rocket
by the
pilot and his men. Apparently
they put on space suits,
evacuated the air from the cargo
section and lock, and simply
pitched the crates and pieces into
space. It was Jim's job
to go
out of the taxi and secure
these with cords to a
ring on the back of the
taxi, leaving enough distance so
the rocket blast wouldn't hurt them.
He began to
get the
feel of space slowly. The
trick was always to use the
smallest amount of effort, and
to make no unnecessary
move. It wasn't too hard
to jump to whatever he was
aiming for, carrying the rope,
nor to slip back the rope
into the taxi. They pumped
the air back to
leave the lock permanently open and worked in their
suits.
At the proper
places near the station, other
men unhitched the supplies and began
fastening them into place. Jim saw
Dan and
Bart come out, using their
rocket tubes for a
long jump, to begin opening
one of
the crates that held
catchplates. Apparently they were running low on them, and
it was
holding up the work.
After the final trip, the big rocket turned
over slowly and began blasting back away from the orbit, slowing itself to a
speed of about fourteen thousand miles an hour, where it would begin drifting
toward Earth again. Jim watched it go with a feeling of relief. It was hard to
believe that he wasn't going to be on it, sent back in disgrace to pick up some
routine work around the rocket field, with his chance at space gone forever. He
reminded himself that it was still too early to be sure, but every day here was
so much progress.
He
had a new reason for staying now. If he could ever get a chance to use the
taxi, it would be almost as good as piloting one of the rockets up from Earth...
Jerry
cut off his thoughts. "Okay, Jim, thanks. I'll leave you here and put the
taxi back. Tell Bailey it's low on fuel and I'm filling it again."
Jim
hesitated on the pile of material where he stood. It was nearly half a mile to
the group at work on the framework. He considered making the jump. Finally he
shook his head and began hauling himself along the connecting cables.
Bart
handed him a pile of the catchplates when he got back, and nodded toward the
end of the structure. "Better start bolting these on, Jim—you know how
they go now."
He
found a bag of bolts, the necessary tools, and headed to the end of the
extension, letting them float along at the end of the cord behind him. They had
swung around Earth to face into the Sun, as they did every two hours, and he
had to hold his head down to keep the savage glare out of his eyes. The faceplate of his helmet was equipped with a filter, but it wasn't
enough.
He found the end of the work and began fitting the plates to it. He dogged them in with his pick and ran in the first bolt, setting all
within reach at first, before finishing up the
bolting. Then
he went back and began
lining them up.
Or trying to line them up. The Catchplates had the right number of holes, and in what seemed to be the
right places. But
no other hole matched the
bolt holes in the girders to which they were fitted. He checked the code number stamped
into them with that on the girder. It was
correct.
One
of the men stuck up an arm
to indicate he was relaying Jim's call, and a minute later Bart's arm flashed up in acknowledgment. The lead man rocketed over, landing with a practiced twist of the rocket
tube that lined him up with the work. He stared
at the plates, checked the code, and let out a call for Dan.
"Sabotage
again," Bart reported, when the foreman arrived. "Dan, this can't go on. We're losing half the supplies."
"There
were those beams yesterday
. . ." Jim began. Then
he stopped, staring down at the plates.
The
beams hadn't fitted. And yet, on this shift, the man who was installing them had had no trouble
with a lot of the same ones Jim had been unable to handle. The other man might have had more skill—but not that much more. There had to be some other
explanation. Jim stared at the beams that were stacked off at the side, and
down at those in place. Then he let out a shout that swung the two men to face
him.
"It's
the sunlight." He heard himself beginning to stammer as he forced the
words out, took a breath, and went on more calmly. "Dan, I remember Dad
had trouble on a bridge once when he couldn't get the two sides to line up at
the end. One side was in the sunlight, the other in the shadow. And the heated
side of the span had expanded. It's the same here."
He
pointed it out, showing how the girders and beams in the piled supply dump were
shielded from the Sun in places by the shadow of others, while those installed
were receiving the full heat from the glaring sunlight.
"That's
it!" Dan nodded. He found one of the plates that had been warmed already,
after coming out of the cooler interior of the rocket ship, and jerked it into
alignment. The bolts went through easily.
The
beams before had been forced into the slots left by the catchplates—and the
upper side of the slot had been heated, while the lower was contracted in the
shadow. Until the beams were in the same position for some time, they couldn't
fit. Then those that had been stacked sidewise were still wrong.
"String
out the parts the way they should be," Dan ordered. "And bolt them on
with one bolt at a time until they warm up to match. We'll change our storing
after this. Jim, this will go on your record; there's a bonus for smart ideas.
I don't know how I missed it Too many things, I guess. Space!"
Bart
nodded his own approval. "I spent
a year as a grunt on a line crew," he told Jim. "Half our work was
figuring how much to allow for metal shrinkage in winter—and I never thought of
it here. Neither did our engineer! Wait'll the college kids hear this."
"My
father was a college man," Jim pointed out. "And he was the one who
figured it out first. That's what education is for."
Bart
laughed, turning to leave. "Sure, kid. I know it. But you don't have to
tell them that, do you? Leave me a little fun in life."
The
work went well enough after that. Once the metal was attached to other metal,
convection of heat between the parts helped. Jim took time off to move out and
turn all the beams lying alongside into the right position. Some had to be handled
several times, since it was impossible to place them in position without any
motion at all left. But when he began to run out of catchplates, he felt sure
the beams would be ready.
He
bolted the last plate down, feeling better than he had since he'd first learned
that he was to go out into space. He unsnapped his belt, congratulating himself
on having automatically fastened it without thinking about it. Then he stood up
to go back for the beams.
His first awareness that he'd made a mistake
came
when
he took the first step. His foot moved back, and his body jerked forward, but
there was nothing under him! Ten feet way, the beam on which he'd stood seemed
to be drifting off.
He'd
reacted with Earth habits, just as he was congratulating himself that he'd
overcome them. He'd tried to step, and the force of his effort had simply
kicked him off into space, where he was sailing away from the work at several
feet a second. He hadn't carried a line, counting on the belt. Now he was where
he couldn't possibly reach for anything to get back.
For
a second, panic hit him. If there had been another man near, someone could
have thrown a rope. But he'd been too far.
Then
he caught himself, and let out a yell for help. He waited for a reply. None
came.
He'd
been using his set a good deal, particularly during the ferrying with Jerry. He
tried to remember the directions—something about checking his battery every
shift. Had he checked it that morning? There'd been the visit to the nurse;
he'd been held up while the other men filed out.
He
hadn't checked it or replaced it for a fresh battery. It must have been
growing weak for some time, and now had discharged below the level where it
could trip the relay for speech!
He
was cut off from the others—and rapidly leaving them behind for the empty,
hungry depths of space.
Chapter 6v«*v>
im fought his mind. His thoughts were racing off
in
a million frantic directions, but he pulled them | back. There had to be an
answer. He shut his eyes ' to cut out the sight of the distance that was separating
him from everything else. He bit his teeth together, and clenched his fists
inside the big space mittens. It must have happened to others. There was
something that could be done.
Then
he realized that there was still the space taxi. Jerry could take off in it and
rescue him. He relaxed and began to breathe easier. The sweat was still running
down from his forehead, threatening to blind him, but it began to dry as the
worst of the fear left him.
He
was swinging about slowly in an awkward end-over-end manner. He waited until he
could spot the hut, and checked the position of the taxi.
It wasn't there!
While
he swung about, he tried to spot it. Maybe Jerry was out on some other job—one
where he could be called back. Maybe he was already on the way!
Then
Jim saw the little taxi, lying beside the dump of material which was used as a
machine shop for the repairing of their tools. Jerry was beside it. Jim swung
over again, losing sight, but he strained to see as soon as he came around.
Then he groaned.
Jerry
had something lined up on a big block and was busy with that, while there was
no tube sticking out behind the taxi as there should have been. The man was
changing the lining of the rocket motor! He must be putting in a new nozzle!
And it would mean that minutes—perhaps half an hour—would go by before he
could get the taxi into operation.
The
clicking of the breathing mechanism in Jim's suit reached his ears. He tried to
estimate how much oxygen he had left, but his wrist watch was inside the suit
where he couldn't see it, and he had no idea of time. He hadn't learned to
count the revolutions around the Earth, allowing two hours for each. It might
be the middle of the shift, or it might be near the end, where his oxygen
supply would be running low.
He
shouted again, knowing that no one could hear him, because his vocal cords had
to let some of the tension out of him. He screamed, and caught himself. This
was no time for hysteria. He'd seen men fall from a bridge construction job to
their deaths because they panicked and went down thrashing about, instead of
reaching out a steady hand for the cable or girder that was near.
He
got control of himself again. When men were sent out on such a job, provision
was always made for every emergency that could be predicted; a man was too
valuable to waste, and Jim's society was one that placed the life of the
individual first at all times.
Then
he had it, and cursed himself for forgetting. There was the rocket tube hanging
at his side. With that, he could blast out and force himself back.
Now
suddenly he began to hope that no one would see him, and that he could get back
on his own. He pulled out the tube with its heavy bulb at one end, its
handgrip, and its tiny rocket nozzle at the other. There were printed
instructions on the fuel bulb. He stared at them, the letters blurring in front
of his eyes. He read enough to see how it was worked, and gave up on the rest.
It was too hard to see against the glaring dazzle of the Sun—and in the
shadow, the blackness was nearly complete with no air to diffuse light about.
He
waited until he was facing away from the structure on which he'd been working,
pointed the tube outward and pressed down on the little button.
It
nearly tore his hand off. He'd set it for less than full force, but he'd
underestimated the push it developed. He gripped it and fought against the
pressure until it was back at his side. Then he cut it off to see what progress
he was making.
Sickness
clamped down on his stomach as he saw. The tube had bucked in his hand, moving
out of the correct direction and going wild. Now he was spinning sideways and
head over heels in a complicated motion that brought him face to face with the
Sun once every second, and left it almost impossible to estimate his progress.
He
forced himself to catch the swing of it, and to look only when he was facing
the hut. It was coming toward him, but he was going to miss it by three hundred
feet. He'd added speed away from the spot he'd left, instead of counteracting
it.
He
tried to get a line on his direction. This time he put the rocket tube against
his stomach and held it firmly, before firing it as he came to the right spot.
It
kicked back on him, like a mule, and he doubled over with agony. The tube went
wild again for a few seconds, before its fuel was completely exhausted.
By
sheer chance, it had nearly counteracted his sideways spin. He was still moving
end over end, but more slowly. For a second, he began to hope as he seemed to
be making progress toward the hut. Then he groaned. He'd slowed himself down
somewhat, and had set his course closer to the hut. But he still was going to
miss it by at least fifty feet more than the length of the cord he had tied to
him. Even if someone got there in time, he didn't have a chance.
Vainly,
he tried to squeeze another blast out of the rocket tube, but it was empty. His
eyes fell on the printing he hadn't read, and he grunted. It was a warning to
set the valve to the red dot and to use it only at low power for short bursts
until the user could familiarize himself with its effect. He'd let himself be
panicked into overlooking the simplest precautions.
He
laughed bitterly at himself. He'd done everything wrong. He had no one to
blame except himself. He'd always been able to take care of things by himself,
and he hadn't had sense enough to know when he couldn't.
The
self-denunciation helped to clear his thinking, somehow. Now he could see that
the men at work on the station were all watching him. Apparently the rocket
blast had called their attention to him, at least.
They
were strung out, a long way from the hut. Two of them were busy tying cords
about their middles and adding other cords to it. He saw them lift their rocket
tubes. They were going to try to come after him.
He
breathed more easily, beginning a prayer of thanks. Then someone else ran over
to them, pointing toward Jim and the hut with short, choppy gestures. The two
men stopped and stared. For a time, they seemed to hesitate. Then they began
taking off the cords, and going back to work.
Jim
was trembling with reaction from the hope he'd had. They could at least have
tried! There would have been no harm in that, since they would have had the
cords to pull themselves back. Maybe they couldn't have reached him, but they could
have tried! The blood rang in his ears, and he could hear the ticking of his
breathing apparatus. It sounded slower to him, and there was a stuffy quality
to the air. It might have been his imagination, but he couldn't be sure.
Then he became aware of a faint buzzing in
his ear. He shook his head, as he made out one of the figures who might have
been either Dan or Bart—probably Dan from his size—waving toward him. He
realized suddenly that the buzzing must be his earphones working; no relay was
needed to receive. He tried to listen, but the batteries were wearing out too
fast, and he only got a few faint hisses.
He
tried to make sense of the waving arms of the man who was trying to signal him.
The man seemed to be trying to wave toward him and the hut.
Did
they think he should swim over to the hut? Didn't they know that his rocket
tube was exhausted?
He
shook his head. The man waving stopped, shrugged, and nodded emphatically,
making a curving motion toward the hut with his arm.
The
other men were back at work. If they were watching him, there was no way to
see.
Jim
estimated his distances again, this time coldly and clearly. He found a point
on the end of the girders and used that to sight himself against the hut. He
would come a little closer than he had thought, but he was going to miss it by
too far for any chance of rescue if they were afraid to take chances with their
rocket tubes.
It
hurt. Somehow, he could have taken it if they had made any effort to save him.
It was like the men in the garage when he was fired. They could have said that
it was tough luck and wished him better luck elsewhere. It had been the same at
the aircraft plant. He'd gotten along all right with everyone, but nobody had
been close to him. He'd been too busy at his work to stop for the horseplay
that went on among the others. He'd been so busy trying to make good that he
hadn't even learned the names of most of them.
But
they'd have tried to save him, if he'd been in trouble like this. He was sure
of that. What kind of men did it take to work in space—men who had no emotions?
He couldn't believe it, knowing Dan and remembering what he could of Bart.
For
long minutes, his emotions caught him. His stomach was heaving with the strain,
and the emptiness of space pressed in harder and harder. The feeling of having
nothing under him came back. He could feel himself falling. His eyes centered
on the Earth, a thousand miles away, and he could feel himself falling every
foot of the way.
He
was sick abruptly. He had barely time to duck his head so that he missed the
inside of his helmet. His stomach heaved and tears of shock ran from his eyes.
That
sobered him. The vertigo passed, and he went through a period of reaction where
the idea of dying no longer seemed so horrible. It wouldn't be too bad— there'd
be no pain. He'd simply pass out from lack of air.
Then
he shook it off, and began thinking again; for the first time since he'd lost
his footing, his mind was clear and cold.
For every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction. If he could throw anything to his left, his body would drift
to the right. He had the rope, the empty rocket tube, and his hammer! Together,
they probably had a mass of one-fortieth as much as he had. He could throw them
with a force great enough to give them a speed of at least forty miles an
hour—a good pitcher could double that, at least—and that should change his
direction of drift by a side thrust of at least one mile an hour—a foot and a
half a second!
But
it had to be soon, before he passed the hut! Maybe that was wnat the man
signaling him had meant. Jim groped for the hammer, and took careful aim.
Then
he shoved it back in amazement. He was moving toward the hut in a direction
that would bring him much closer than he had thought! He'd pass it within the
length of a normal rope. And standing on the hut near where he'd pass was a
figure in a space suit, waiting for him.
He
puzzled over it. Once a body was given motion in any direction, it tried to
stay in that direction in a straight line, unless acted on by some outside
force. The station tried to go in a straight line, and the gravity of the Earth
bent it into a circle. But what had changed his direction here where there was
no such outside force?
He
puzzled over it, while watching the figure with the rope get ready for him, and
the answer was obvious, once he realized it. Everything in the universe has
some gravity attached to it—but for anything smaller than a planet, that is a
very tiny force. Small as it was, however, the pull of the station hut on him
had been great enough to change his direction slightly. It had had a great deal
of time to keep pulling with that faint, weak force of its gravity, and it had
been enough. The men hadn't deserted him. They had known, and had tried to make
him understand.
Then
he was near the hut, and the rope came sailing out with a heavy weight at its
end. It sailed out in front of where he would pass, with two feet to spare, and
stayed there, as if it were a rigid rod. He put out a hand carefully, and caught
it.
A
minute later he was being dragged back toward the hut. The figure there was
braced against the handholds, taking up the strain of hauling him in. He made
no effort to pull himself down, knowing that it would only increase the pull on
the other.
Then
the hut was beside him. His hand went out for a hold and clung to it, while the
aching breath caught in his throat and he panted, hanging on desperately. The
space-suited figure tried to lift Jim. He bent and made an effort to help, but
his muscles were too weak. He felt himself lifted and dragged along until they
were through the air lock and going down the hall toward the nurse's office.
The
space suit fell off the other, revealing the nurse herself as the one who had
saved him. She began stripping off his space suit, then stopped and led him
toward the bathroom.
"Can you take care of yourself?"
she asked. "I don't mind helping, but if you'd rather . .
."
"I'll
do it, please," he begged. He swallowed thickly, and tried to smile his
gratitude. "And thanks! I—I. .."
She
smiled back, and there was more warmth in it than in most professional smiles
he had seen. "It wasn't anything, Jim. I happened to be the one to take
the call when it came in here, so I went out. Take it easy, and yell if you
need any help. When you're finished, come into my office."
He
rolled the space suit and his underclothes into a matted ball and shoved them
inside the plastic bag in which he kept the space suit. Then he was climbing
into the welcome bath bag, feeling the reviving touch of the clean water. He
was still shaking, half with reaction and half with a memory of how he must
have looked to her.
When
he finished, he tried to wash his clothes. But the nurse knocked and shoved the
partition aside a crack to throw in his other clothes. "Leave those,"
she told him. "I'll take care of them. And I want you in here for an
inspection."
He
hated the idea, but he did as he was told. Dan was standing at the door of her
office as he came through. The foreman looked at him apologetically. "Jim,
I tried to tell you ... I thought you
got it. If I'd known your battery was shot, I'd have come out to you
myself."
"Mr. Bailey, you'll have to leave,"
Nora cut in quickly. "You can explain all that later. Jim, get up here on
this table and strap down. I'm going to go over you with the massager while I
check up on you. There, now. Nice and gentle. Just relax, Jim. Isn't that soothing?
You can go to sleep if you want to. Sleep."
He
felt the soft, regular motion of the massager. It soothed him and he pretended
to sleep to humor her, while she checked on his heart and blood pressure again,
and gave him a shot of something.
He
was almost asleep when he heard Bart talking to Nora. Jim felt himself lifted
before he could open his eyes and carried gently along, then placed on his
sleeping wall and strapped down. He tried to say something, but Bart held a
hand against his lips.
"Shh,
Jim. You go on back to sleep. We can talk tomorrow."
Jim
let himself relax until the big man left again. But the sleep wouldn't come
now. He'd made a complete fool of himself this time. When they gave him his
walking papers back to Earth, he'd make no protests. But it would hurt. He'd
begun to like space, before this happened. And in spite of the horror and sick
vertigo of the last hour, he still liked it.
Chapter 7 Paint Job
I |
he hardest thing Jim had ever done was to start for breakfast at the beginning of
the next shift. He had found his clothes and space suit neatly laid out beside
him, and had put them on. Now he headed down the hall. Let them say what they
would, he wouldn't hide like a scared dog in a corner.
Nora
called out from her office, and he turned, expecting another examination.
Instead, she floated over beside him. "How do you feel, Jim?"
"Grateful.
Foolish. And otherwise fine," he reported. She smiled casually. "You
should feel foolish, worrying about it. Everybody here has been in some
trouble, sooner or later. I tried to go out of the air lock without a space
suit the second day—almost got out before Mr. Bailey saw me. Bart Smith jumped
after a wrench that got away and they had to send for him in the taxi. Nobody
thinks anything of it—except that you've passed!"
"Passed? Why, because I got in a mess
you had to help me out of?"
"Stop
it!" She frowned at him, then shrugged. "No. But you were in pretty
normal physical condition afterward, and you didn't crack up. Now you're wearing
your space suit, as if you don't mind going out again. After an experience like
that, men either crack completely or else they adapt to space. Mr. Bailey and
Bart were betting you'd be wearing your suit."
He
puzzled over it, wondering what else he could have worn. Even if they had
shipped him back, he'd have needed the space suit to get to the rocket. If they
let him stay, he'd need it for work. Then he remembered the man who'd been
carried into the air lock screaming; probably that one hadn't wanted to be put
into a space suit again.
Bart
looked up as he sat down at the table beside Nora. "Hi, kid. Feel up to
some rigging today?"
"You're
the lead man," Jim answered, and heard a sigh go up from the other men.
Conversation picked up normally, with no one mentioning the trouble of the day
before.
He
could feel them watching him tautly as he headed for the air lock on the way
out to work. For a second, his stomach felt queasy, and the cold emptiness of
space nagged at a corner of his mind. Then he began checking his battery and
examining his belt for cracks, and the feeling passed. He filed out with the
others, while Dan beamed at him. The foreman caught his arm as he started out
along the ropes toward the end of the extension. "That's for new men, Jim.
Feel up to coming along with me?"
Jim
followed the motion of his hand across the open space toward the job. He
hesitated for a second. "If you think I can, it's okay with me, Dan."
"Good
boy!" The foreman bent his knees and took off across the emptiness.
Jim
swallowed once, sighted the way carefully, and leaped after him. For a second,
the falling feeling hit at him again. Then he was floating along easily without
effort, at a better speed than he could have walked on Earth. He checked his
course, saw he was going to land within a few feet of where he'd aimed, and
stretched out a careful hand to check his speed at the end.
As
he stood up, he knew one answer to the questions he had. He might succeed in
passing into space, or he might have to go back to Earth forever after this
job. He might get killed while working here. But he was a spaceman now, and he
had a job to do. Even if he couldn't stay in space, he could make sure that
someone would.
The
work went on more easily in the following days. New men came up from Earth, and
most of them went back. One of them did almost the same thing Jim had done, but
turned his rocket tube on while it was still pointing toward his helmet. Nobody
got much work done that day, and there was no conversation at dinner. But the
next day, another man passed the three-day time limit without trouble, and they
went back to work.
Down
on Earth, the tests became surer, and more of those sent up stayed with them.
Dan
had to do most of the work. Thorndyke stayed in his office or came out for
quick inspections while at the station. But the engineer's big job was to keep
things moving, and he had learned to trust Dan. He made regular trips back to
Earth, changing orders and specifications as they found it necessary. Every
third trip, Mark came up and would often talk to Jim.
On
Earth, things were coasting along as always. But there was a growing undercurrent
in the tissue-thin newspaper that came up with each rocket. The Combine was
restless, as if it knew something was going on in America. The World Congress
was bogged down in details of where the next meeting should be. The men on it
were good men, who tried hard, but they were whipped as long as even one of the
major governments didn't want them to succeed.
Jim
read the letters to the editor, and was surprised at the number who wrote in
hopelessly, angrily, or bitterly to demand why nothing was being done about
building a space station. The paper shipped to the men was a cautious, reliable
one which had never gone in for the hysteria of some of the others, but the
readers were worried. One of the new hydrogen bombs could wipe out all of New
York. Fifty could cripple the country hopelessly. And the only defense that
seemed reliable was to have a superior force of bombs in a station in the sky
to prevent aggression.
Jim remembered his own belief in that. But
now he wondered how many of them had any idea of the difficulty of building
such a station. It had taken years of planning and work to get the method of
construction developed to a practical point. Dan indicated that the men who'd
first come up with him had doubted whether they could get it started at all.
When
an India-paper set of magazines came up, Jim turned to the science fiction ones
first. There were no stories about space stations now. The writers seemed to
have decided that it was hopeless, something that would never be done. They
were writing about new atomic drives that permitted a rocket to take off from
Earth and go straight to the Moon, or about domes of force that could make a
nation safe from bombs. But under the hope of their stories was a bitter pessimism
that had never been part of science fiction as a whole before.
It
seemed wrong not to tell the people. There must be some way in which it could
be handled. But Jim had to admit that he was no expert on political affairs,
and that men who knew more might have good reasons for what they did. It was
his business to help get the station up and finished, so the men below could
announce the secret.
He
wondered if they would announce it, however. They hadn't been able to conceal
the atom bomb. But there had been endless work that might have benefited
humanity since then, locked up in restricted drawers, where it could benefit
only the few. No wonder the world was growing bitter.
Yet, curiously, there was still hope. It
showed in the fact that they wrote those letters about the space station. They
had learned to think of getting beyond Earth, and to believe that a better
world could be made. That was progress beyond what had been true a hundred
years before.
Nora
had been discussing it with him when Dan came up behind them and caught the
tail end of it. The foreman sighed. "You kids take things too
seriously," he said automatically. Then his own voice betrayed him with
its worry. "I just hope they let us get the station up. Once war is declared,
this will come to an end."
"It can't!" Jim
cried hotly.
"It
can and will, boy. Don't think the Combine doesn't know about Johnston Island,
whether they know of us or not. We've been having fleet exercises there for
three years—in the waters around. That's enough to tip them off. And one bit of
evidence can be added to another. Maybe they've tracked our rockets on their
radar. They'd think of the rockets as war weapons, and the first place to get
an atomic bomb would be the Island."
"But what about
us?" Nora asked.
The
lines in Dan's face deepened. "I wish I knew, Nora. I wish I did. I guess
we'd just have to wait here— as long as we could last."
They wouldn't have had to wait at all if the
next day one of the new cooks hadn't eaten the pie made from dried peaches,
before the men had a chance at it.
They'd
finally gotten a doctor by then to take the strain off Nora, and he tested the
pie after pumping out the cook's stomach futilely. "Botulism," he
announced grimly. "Bacillus botulinus.
And that makes no sense,
because the poison from the stuff is destroyed in five minutes of cooking. It
had to be put in after the pie was baked."
They
tried to find who could have put the poisonous germs into the food, but there
was no way of knowing. The cooks had little room in the kitchen, and had
slipped the sealed tins out into the common hall to cool before giving the men
a special treat. Anyone could have done it, but it must have required a good
supply of the deadly stuff. It was a grim place for a few days after that, as
useless checks were made on everyone. But every man in the place had already
been triply checked by Earth.
"Sabotage,"
Dan said tensely. "All we can do is watchl We've got a spy. Now let's make
sure he can't report back. And don't forget that the man who can pass all the
security checks won't be someone we can spot here just because we don't like
him."
Yet
the work went on. They finished the framing girders around the wheel, and more
men came up and swarmed along them. There were plumbers for the miles and miles
of pipework needed. Electricians laid down their lines. Carpenters worked on
the light sound-deadening board that was to serve as partitions. The place
became a swarm, and the hut had to be extended. Now Bart was a foreman, as were
several others, and Dan was working directly under the two engineers who had
come out to join Thoradyke.
They
had begun putting the metal sheathing around the whole wheel. That would serve
eventually as a meteor bumper, with a heavy fabric held inside it to form the
inner wall. With that, they were frantically trying to get up the big solar
mirror that would give them power enough to operate the station efficiently.
The generators and turbines were coming up on the rockets, and trained men were
working on the assembly and placement of them. Once the walls of the station
were up, it was easier for men to stand life up here.
Jim
was on the constant jump. Sometimes he suspected that Bart assigned the worst
jobs to him deliberately. But it didn't matter. Wliile it made it tougher on
him, it also gave him a chance to learn more than most of the others. He'd lost
four pounds, but he didn't miss them up here.
He
wasn't surprised when he was assigned to the job of helping paint the solar
mirror. This was a big trough that was to run all around the top of the
station, set to face the Sun. It was curved to focus the rays of the Sun on a
blackened pipe that ran down its center. In the pipe, mercury would be heated
into a gas, at a temperature of thirteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. This would
drive a highly efficient "steam" turbine, which would drive a
generator for the needed power. When all its energy was used, the mercury would
be returned to the outside, to cool in the shadow of the mirror, condensing
back to a liquid before re-use.
It was valuable work, and the station badly
needed a good supply of power. But painting the mirror was done with liquid
sodium. It was a silvery metal that melted easily at a low temperature. On
Earth, it was so violently corrosive that it could snatch oxygen out of water.
But in a vacuum, it made an excellent reflective paint. The only trouble was
that it had to be handled with extreme caution.
Jim
worked like a beaver trying to build a dam all alone, but he couldn't keep up
with the men who were laying the trough and piping. Dan appointed a second man
to the job. And then a third was chosen.
It
was nasty work. A drop on the plasticized fabric of the space suits would burn
a hole through them almost at once. Or a few drops left carelessly on the
special gloves they wore for the job could explode violently if carried into
the hut, to spread damage and dangerous wounds everywhere nearby.
Jim
worked on cautiously, blending his speed with safety in a hard-earned lesson.
But the first hour after the new man came out was enough to drive his nerves to
the ragged edge. At first, the man began by painting the blackened pipe inside
the trough.
Jim
explained patiently that the pipe was blackened to absorb heat, and that the
silver coating ruined it. He had to go back and construct a seat over the
trough on which he could sit without touching the sodium, and then had to
remove the metal chemically.
Finally,
he gave up. The man was one of those whose intelligence was fine, but who never
used it except for purely theoretical problems. He was either so bemused by
space or so wrapped up in some inner excitement over being there that he didn't
think—he followed orders blindly. Here no orders could cover everything. They
were already slightly behind their schedule.
"All
right," he said finally. "Go back to Dan and tell him Terrence and I
can do it alone. Put your paint in the shop, and mark it dangerous. I'll clean
up when I come in."
He
watched the man leave, and turned to the boy who had been working with him.
"Think we can do it, Terrence?"
"If
God hadn't meant me to do the work, Jim, he'd never have let me pass the tests
to get here, in spite of the prayers I said." Terrence Rodriguez was no
heavier than a hundred pounds, soaking wet, but he had never complained, and
his work was always all that Jim could ask. He'd spent his childhood doing hard
work to help a family of seven younger children, and he was used to doing his
utmost. "I'll race you."
"No—just
keep up," Jim advised. Racing was a good way to get more work done—but
also a fine way to invite carelessness.
They
swung on, unconsciously switching sides to avoid overheating one side. Behind
them, the metal gleamed like a mirror. Ahead, a gang of seven men were busy
setting up the trough, while others worked on the elaborate plumbing.
Then suddenly Terrence dropped his brush into
the sodium and pointed, his mouth open and working silently.
Jim
swung about to see what was causing it, and his own mouth jerked open
soundlessly.
The
roof of the hut ahead of them was glowing hotly, and as they watched, it
suddenly began crumbling away, while a great gout of flame rushed out as the
air escaped. Oxygen and heat were fatal to the magnesium alloy out of which the
plates were made.
"Down."
Jim ordered. He capped his can automatically, not bothering to pull the brush
out. He began scrambling down, with Terrence at his heels. They dashed into the
open section that had been left for a workshop, putting their cans carefully
into a safety tank. Then they swung toward the old air lock.
The
fire had been coming from the second air lock, installed when the hut was
extended. The old one still worked, and men were inside the hut, laboring in
space suits. An automatic door had snapped shut between the two sections at the
first break in the airtight outer sheathing. But there were still men inside
where the flames were, and they were being dragged out of a small emergency
lock between the two sections.
One
of them yanked off his helmet to cough harshly. His face was burned, but he
seemed unaware of it. "Kid came through the lock with a can of something.
He tripped, spilled it all over—and then it exploded. We tried to stop it, but
it got away. The kid—"
He
shuddered, and Jim found that his own body was suddenly weak and shaky. The
third man must have
done
it. He'd taken the orders too literally—he'd gone to report to Dan first,
before putting away the sodium. A solid hour's lecture on the dangers of the
stuff had meant nothing to him.
Then
Jim frowned. It seemed impossible that he could have made a mistake. Yet he
couldn't believe that a saboteur would willingly sacrifice his own life to wipe
out the station. He'd heard of it, but...
He
dropped it to go in with Bart and Dan to survey the hopeless wreck that had
been the hut extension.
Chapter 8
Foul
Weather Below
I |
he new section
that had been added so recently was a total wreck. Everything in it seemed to
have been destroyed, and the miracle was that no one but the man responsible
had been killed. The flames had spread through it at a savage rate; but then
the hole had broken through the outer layer, and the air had gone rushing out.
Its disappearance into space had stopped the spread backward from the big
oxygen supply that had still kept feeding it as the oxygen rushed for the
hole—and left the rear of the extension almost airless.
The
heat had been terrific, but, for the short time it had taken to get the men
out, the space suits had protected them.
Tools,
equipment, and all the things needed to protect the men from space and keep
them alive had been wrecked.
"We'll
have to double up in the remaining space until we can rebuild," Dan said
wearily. "Jim, he was with you, wasn't he?"
Jim nodded, and told what he could. The
foreman nodded in turn, his face without emotion. "Okay, it wasn't your
fault, because nobody can foresee the behavior of a fool. I don't think it was
sabotage. I wish I could; then we'd be free of our spy. But that's just the
type of nonsense I've seen time and again on the best-run construction
jobs."
There
was nothing they could do for the moment but abandon the extension. The
original hut still stood, and behind it lay another extension. Between the two,
they could exist for a while, though it wouldn't be comfortable.
"Check
the oxygen supplies first," the voice of Thorndyke, the head engineer,
suggested.
Bart
and Dan went off to do that, and Jim followed behind them. But from their
faces, he could tell that their hopes weren't too high. Obviously, most of the
oxygen had been put into the new extension, since there was more room there for
the big containers of liquid oxygen. They had been in the shadow, below the
main part of the hull, where they could stay liquid; but the heat of the fire
had bent and twisted them, and some had even exploded violently.
"Takes
three pounds of oxygen a day for a man," Dan said. "You'll find the
amount on the outside of the tanks. Gauge will tell you what per cent has been
used." He went back into the rear extension, leaving Bart and Jim to count
the amount in the original hut. It was a lot less than they would have liked.
Dan came back with his figures, and they
reported to Thorndyke. The engineer thought it over, checking his charts.
"Umm. It checks. I was hoping there'd be an error in my lists. None stored
outside?"
"Twenty
tanks for use in the welders," Dan said, "or about that. We've run
low because the supply rocket is due with more oxygen today."
Thorndyke's
mouth twitched faintly. "There'll be a little delay on that, I'm afraid. I
got word on the radar that they had canceled the shipment for today."
"They'd
better get it up," Bart said flatly. "According to those figures,
we've got just enough air left for all the men here for about thirty hours! And
we don't have chemicals to soak up the carbon dioxide they breathe out for even
that long."
Nora had come out and heard the last. She
caught at Jim's sleeve, and her eyes grew round and frightened. But she said
nothing. The engineer nodded, and motioned them back to his quarters.
Jim
had never been there before, and even the danger that was pressing in on them
couldn't completely deaden his curiosity. He stared at the blueprint table,
the files of other prints, the drafting supplies, and all the scientific books
on the closed shelves. His father had been one of the older type of engineers,
who had depended almost entirely on a few basic books, a slide rule, and what
he could carry in his head; he'd also worked closely with his men, more like
Dan than like Thorndyke. Yet Jim realized that his father couldn't have guided
the building of this station according to the enormous complexity of the
charts. Thorndyke obviously could, with the help of such men as Dan.
The
engineer opened a closet on the ceiling and pulled out a radar transmitter on a
slide. He belted himself down in front of it and began pounding on a key
attached. Jim could read enough Morse code to know that it was an SOS, but the
rest of it was beyond him.
"I
just hope no spy picks up the direction this comes from," Thorndyke said,
without interrupting his sending. "As it is, I'm going to be in trouble
for sending when we're not directly over our pickup station. But this is
emergency enough to justify it, I guess. Ah!"
He'd
stopped a few seconds before. Now an answer began coming in from the huge
transmitter on Earth. The answer was in voice, instead of code, since Jim could
hear sounds like speech from the earphones.
"Ouch!"
Thorndyke put the phones down and turned to the others. "They say they
can't send a ship up now. Johnston Island is in the middle of a storm with a
high wind. They've got the big sticks—the rockets, that is—tied down, but it
isn't safe to use them."
He
shook his head. "Any of you know anything about that? I'm no expert on
rockets. I think what they say makes sense, but if it doesn't, I want to blast
them off their fat seats and get them moving!"
"It makes sense," Jim said
reluctantly. "I had two years of rocketry at Central Tech, and we got
through that much. You can't take off in a high wind. The first few seconds,
the rocket just barely rises—and it has poor control at best. The trajectory up
out of the atmosphere has to be pretty carefully figured, or all future figures
will go wrong. If the wind tips it—even if it doesn't fall over—it will be off
course beyond the ability of the automatic pilot to handle."
"That's
about what I thought." Thorndyke tapped his pencil against his teeth,
considering. "What do you think, Dan?"
Dan's
wide face was disgusted. "You're talking theory, and you're listening to
the guy at the transmitter there spouting it at you from Earth. Why not get in
touch with one of the pilots? They're the boys who know what can be done."
"Good
point." Thorndyke turned back to his transmitter, and the key pounded
busily again. He waited. There was a short answer. "He's calling the
pilots." Then there was silence for a long time.
The
four of them crowded around, trying to get close enough to the headphone
Thorndyke held out to hear. The voice came through thinly, weakened by having
to travel from the phone through a foot or so of distance. But they could just
make out the words.
"This
is Gantry. If it's the emergency you birds claim it is, we'll have to risk it.
I figure there's a fifty-fifty chance. We've drawn lots, and I'll be coming to
pay you a visit as soon as I can get loaded. But don't count too much on my
getting through. Do what you can up your way."
The
phone went dead. Jim sighed softly, knowing that he had heard a man who
expected to be dead within hours—and the others in the room had recognized the
same tone. "If he'd thought he had one chance in ten, he'd have said it
was a cinch," Bart said. "If any of you guys know how to pray, you'd
better start doing so."
There
was no sense in trying to keep the facts from the men. If they had been the
sort who needed comfort in a time of trouble, they wouldn't have been in the
station. Dan and Thorndyke put it to the whole crew, without sparing any
details.
"We've
got about fifteen hours' supply of chemicals to soak up the carbon dioxide we
exhale," Thorndyke summed it up. "After that, things will get muggy in
here, but we may have an extra few hours to go if we let some of the oxygen and
dioxide leak out into space, replacing it with fresh oxygen from the tanks.
That wastes the gas—but it gets rid of some of the wastes, too. Still, we
either get new supplies in less than twenty hours, or we can forget them."
"How
about the storm? Is it going to let up?" one of the men yelled from the
back.
Thorndyke
moved to the lock, pulling on his helmet, and the men followed him. They
crowded out slowly, holding onto the handholds and girders around, while the
engineer pointed down to the Earth spinning below. "Take a look," he
said.
Jim
had stopped looking at the world below him. Without a telescope, not much could
be seen. Clouds and haze kept a partial cover over it, and only at rare
intervals could the outline of a continent be seen. There were gaps where the
ground or water showed through, but without magnification they were
meaningless.
Now,
as the engineer pointed out the location of Johnston Island to them, they began
studying the great ball. They were on the sunward side, and it was easy to
perceive that a whole section over the Pacific was a solid blanket of clouded
obscurity.
"All
that you see is part of the storm. It's circling over that area, and heading
east. The Island isn't going to hit the storm center, as you can see. If it
did, they'd have a little time in which things would be quiet, before the wind
swung the other way. But the best guess I can make from what they tell me is
that it's going to take about thirty-six hours before they're out of it.
Someday, after this is finished and when we get good meteorologists up here
where they can see all that goes on down there, we'll be able to predict the
weather exactly. Now, all they can do is to guess."
They
filed back inside, taking it easy under Dan's orders to avoid burning up any
more oxygen than they had to. Eating was cut down. Whether it would speed up
oxygen consumption or not, nobody seemed to know for sure, but there was no
harm in trying.
Jim
was lucky. He was kept busy bringing in the tanks from the welders and the few
small reserves that would normally have been kept in various locations for an
emergency, if a tank on a suit needed quick replacement. Valves sometimes
stuck, and it was handy to have spares. But the total didn't amount to much.
Surprisingly, there wasn't
as much fear and gloom as Jim had expected. It was as if everyone there had
stopped thinking of the station as a small island in the great sea of space;
bit by bit, they had begun to think of it as a world, and it was inconceivable
that it could come to an end.
He
wasn't kidding himself that way. He was scared, whenever he had time to think,
and he could see that Dan and Thorndyke were also scared.
Thorndyke
stayed at the radar set, until he got word that the take-off was about due.
They were always approximately within viewing range of a rocket at takeoff,
since the rocket had to parallel their course in getting itself up. The ship
took fifty-six minutes to swing halfway around the world on its upward hop, and
the station took an hour to cover the same distance in its orbit. But it was
close enough—except that no rocket could be seen from a thousand miles above.
But
it was night over Johnston Island now, and they hoped to see a faint flash as
it broke through the clouds. Jim and several others were outside the hut in
their suits, staring down at the darkened side of the globe below them. It
presented a crescent now, like the half-moon, with the Island just beyond the
edge of the darkness.
Dan
relayed the information from the radar to them, through the tiny set in his
helmet. "They've taken off. Gantry kicked out his radarman and is going it
with just the copilot."
"There!"
It was a spontaneous shout from several voices in the phones. Jim strained his
eyes, and could just see a faint, weak trail where the exhaust of the great
first stage must be spreading through the blanket of clouds. It looked wrong to
him somehow—as if it were headed straight up. But he couldn't be sure. He had
to blink his eyes every other second to keep from missing it altogether.
Nobody
seemed to be breathing. The faint trace was gone now, as if the rocket had
risen above the clouds, and was too weak to be seen by itself.
"They
report he had rough going on the way up, but straightened at the last minute.
He's planning on wasting fuel for manual correction, even if he doesn't have
enough for the return leg," Dan's voice reported. "Looks like he may
make it!"
They
waited for seconds, with nothing to see. By now, Jim knew, the first stage
should have been kicked free. But it would be too tiny a burst to show up.
Then
a groan went up. Jim blinked again, and caught it. Far from the spot where the
first blast of light had shown, there was a larger, hotter spot. It mushroomed
out to a visible circle, and then began fading slowly.
"What is it?"
Terrence's voice sounded in Jim's ears.
He
shook his head, unwilling to say what he suspected. His voice seemed to be
stuck in his throat.
"What happened?"
Dan asked harshly.
Jim
took another look, but there was nothing to be seen now. "I think we've
had it—and so has he," he reported. "There was a flash of light too
bright for anything except an explosion. He must have been pretty badly knocked
around on the way up. Something may have happened to the first stage. I'm only
guessing, but it looked as if his first stage wouldn't break free, and he
finally had to risk blowing it clear with the rockets from the second
stage."
Jim
had seen speculations on whether that could be done in some of the more
fanciful books he had read. And in an emergency, there was nothing else a pilot
could do. Without being able to free the first stage, he was inevitably bound
to drop back to the Earth.
"I
guess it didn't work," he said slowly. "The pressure blew the
explosion back into the tanks, and they caught."
He
turned to go back, but Thorndyke was coming out, staring down at the world
where nothing showed. He touched helmets with Jim. "What about the pilot?
Could he get free?"
"Maybe,
sir—if the final stage didn't get caught in the explosion. He has an ejector
and parachute built onto the seat, and the suit would protect him, if he could
get it on."
He
hadn't realized that everyone could hear, since he'd forgotten to turn the
radio off. Behind him, there was a sigh. One of the men bent forward further,
to stare at the world where their rescue had failed.
"God
have mercy on his soul," a voice said, and there was a chorus of
"Amen" from the others.
"And on us, too,"
Nora said softly.
Only
silence answered that as they stared from one to another.
ChUptCr 9 The Stolen Papers
i |
here were about
twenty at the council of war in Thorndyke's cabin. They sat about the room,
perched on the furniture, some suspended from one wall, some from others. It
brought their heads closer together than would have been possible in any gathering
of the same size on Earth, and they'd stopped thinking that a man looked odd
when upside down.
"The
big problem's in getting rid of the carbon dioxide," Thorndyke said
flatly. "If we could handle that, we might just barely survive until the
storm had let up enough for another ship to try. I've been in touch with Earth.
Mark Emmett has volunteered to try it right now, but has been refused. I
advised them to refuse. It won't do the project any good to lose another ship.
They can lose us and start over—but they can't lose the rocket."
There
were grunts at that, but no objections. Jim had thought of Thorndyke as some
outsider, but now
he
realized that the engineer was one of them—a man who had dreamed of a station
here until it meant more than anything else could mean.
"Do
we have to get rid of it?" one of the other engineers asked. "It
isn't a poison, but carbon monoxide is. That's the one which kills people, but
I've heard that carbon dioxide is safe enough."
They
all turned to Dr. Perez. He was almost forty, and the oldest man there. After
they had sent up three other doctors who couldn't stand space, he had volunteered
from the testing unit at the Island, and had surprised everyone by passing with
flying colors. In the station, he'd had a rough time of it the first three
days, but now he seemed quite at home among them.
"I'm
not an expert on that," he qualified his answer. "But no, carbon
dioxide isn't a poison, exactly. However, the presence of excessive carbon
dioxide in the air will make the heart beat faster and the lungs speed up. The
body thinks there is too much in the lungs or system, instead of outside, and
tries to get rid of it. When the concentration is too high, it becomes very
hard for the lungs to extract it from the blood—it reaches a balance, that is.
And when it can't be extracted, the body can die in its own waste. We can
probably stand a pretty high concentration, though. Before we start spilling
air out into space, we'd better let it get uncomfortable, at least."
"Anybody
here know enough chemistry to help?" Thoradyke asked.
A young man in the
background nodded. "That's why I came to you. But now I can't help. Mr.
Bailey says we don't have any of the things I've suggested."
In
a vague way, Jim still felt responsible for the trouble. He should have checked
on his assistant. He'd been beating his head, trying to remember what he'd
learned in high school about the behavior of the gas. His father had always
maintained that a man could accomplish almost anything by reducing things down
to the basic characteristics, and then finding out what was done in other
fields.
"It's
a heavy gas," someone said suddenly. "If we all climb up to the top
where the lighter oxygen is . . .
He
realized his mistake before the others swung on him. Thorndyke chuckled grimly.
"It's the same here as anything else—neither light nor heavy," he
pointed out. "But all the same, you're moving in the right direction. What
are the basic characteristics of carbon dioxide?"
The
young man who'd studied chemistry piped up again. "It's a heavy gas,
composed of one atom of carbon and two of oxygen. Animals breathe it out, and
plants breathe it in, releasing the oxygen again. It freezes directly to a
solid, without any real liquid state, and is then known as dry ice. It
evaporates . . ."
"It
freezes at a higher temperature than air!" Jim shouted. "That's how
they make dry ice—they lower the temperature enough for carbon dioxide to
freeze, but the rest of the atmosphere stays a gas. What about the cold
side—does it get cold enough to freeze it out?"
"How cold?" Thorndyke asked.
"Never mind." He reached over for a copy of the Handbook of Chemistry and Physics and
ran through it. "If we didn't pass it through too fast, our air would
probably lose most of the gas from the cold. Dan, any way to get a gastight pan
. . ."
"You've
got the pipes under the solar mirror trough," Dan pointed out.
"They're all coupled up. We could blow it through there slowly
enough—trial and error should tell us how slowly."
They
broke up. The men who had been handling the plumbing were gone first, grabbing
for their space suits as they discussed ways of breaking into the cooling
piping and coupling it to the airtight part of the hut. Originally, it had led
to the section of the station where the power plant was being installed.
There
were parts enough for the change-over, and the air pumps used to evacuate the
air locks would do as compressors to drive air through the pipes.
"Eventually
the pipes would clog up with the stuff," Dan admitted to Thorndyke.
"But for the few hours left after our chemicals run out, they should
handle it. And we can always thaw it out afterward by leaving a section open to
space and running a little heater along it."
"Why
wait to have the chemicals break down?" Jim asked. "Why not use it as
soon as we can? It'll put less load on the tubes."
Thorndyke nodded quick
approval.
Some hope revived among the men as they saw
something being done. Jim went with Thorndyke and Dan to study the storm center
over the Pacific when it came into view under them again. Quite a few hours had
already gone by, and there was some visible change. But it still looked as if
they would be out of oxygen before they could get help from below. It all
depended on how much less than three pounds of oxygen a man could breathe in
twenty-four hours and still live.
They
came back inside to find Dr. Perez busy injecting some of the men.
"Putting them to sleep," the doctor explained. "They use less
oxygen when they're sleeping. Some have gone off by themselves, claiming they
can sleep without drugs."
Jim
turned toward his own sleeping compartment, but Thorndyke pulled him back.
"No sleep for you!"
Jim
waited, but the man made no explanation. He stirred uncomfortably. "All
right, sir. But you'll have to tell me what I'm supposed to do."
"You're
supposed to think!" Thorndyke said. He swung an arm around the hut.
"That's what all men are supposed to do, Jim—but some do it more than
others. You've been doing all right so far. Maybe you won't have any more
ideas—maybe none of us will-but I feel better knowing the men who've contributed
are awake. And stop worrying about the fact that you didn't nurse your helper
every step of the way back!"
"Yes, sir," Jim agreed. But it
wasn't that easy. He didn't really feel guilty, but the fact remained that he
could have saved all the trouble if he'd been able to think far enough ahead.
He
had no more ideas. The plumbers came back to report that the pipes had been
recoupled to the hut now, and the electricians and helpers began tearing out
the blowers and reinstalling them. The air was soon circulating through the
pipes. They had no way to tell whether it was working, except by an examination
of the contents of those pipes. Periodically, they stopped the blowers and ran
a fine wire up them, pulling it back and looking for crystals of dry ice. When
there were none, they cut the amount of air going through them.
Eventually,
the welcome sight of the tiny crystals rewarded them, and they left the
setting. The air was cold now, though much less cold than had been expected.
Most of the men were asleep, but the rest went around as if they were breathing
stale air already. Actually, it was still perfectly breathable, but the psychological
result of suppressed fear couldn't be helped by mere facts.
Twenty-one
hours from the time the fire had broken out, Nora came running out of
Thorndyke's office, forgetting all she had learned about traveling without
gravity. Her feet flew out from under her, and she continued kicking, until Dan
caught her and pulled her back to her feet. "The radio!" she gasped.
Thorndyke sailed in with a single leap, and
yanked the phones to his ears. He listened, and his face fell.
"They're simply reporting on the storm.
It's worse down there now, and they think it's going to last for another
eighteen to twenty hours. How long can we hold out, Dr. Perez?"
"Not that long,"
Perez said quietly.
Thorndyke
relayed the best figure at which they could guess. His shoulders were drooping
as he began to taste defeat after all their efforts.
"I
might as well get some sleep," Jim suggested, and there was no protest. If
they had to die, it was better to sleep—if he could—than to sit here worrying
about it.
Nora
caught his hand, and drew him into her office. "No, Jim," she said.
Her face was pinched and haggard with worry, but some of the smile managed to
creep to the corners of her mouth. "Stay here with me. I can't sleep—and I
need someone to talk to."
They
found very little to talk about. The time ran on. They reached the thirty-hour
mark, and there was still a little oxygen in the tanks, though very little.
They could live for a while on the air in the hut, but that was only a small
extension. The carbon-dioxide problem seemed licked, but there was nothing that
could be done to replace the oxygen.
Then
Thorndyke's cry brought them into his office. Only a handful were still awake.
The rest were sleeping under the spell of Dr. Perez' drugs.
The
engineer was bent over the radio, listening on the phones. Now he put them back
and faced the few who waited.
"Mark Emmett has insisted on taking off,
and he's got permission somehow. As near as I can gather, he is going to
scuttle the automatic pilot and ride it up on manual controls. Does that mean
anything?"
Jim
nodded slowly. It meant that Emmett was a fool beyond any he'd known. It was
almost impossible for a man to control a rocket, even with a waste of fuel,
well enough to equal the automatics. And yet a human brain could do things no
machine could equal —it could be flexible for unforeseen emergencies.
"It's
the only way possible," he admitted doubtfully. "If it is possible.
It won't help if his stages stick, but he might be able to ride the storm a
little. It'll be a miracle if he has enough fuel to get up, though, without
any left for the return."
"The
next ship can bring enough as cargo for both to return," Dan said.
"Well, we can't say they aren't trying."
This
time there was no visible sign that they could see, though they had wasted a
few precious drops of oxygen in opening the air lock and going out. The little
wouldn't matter, whether Mark succeeded or not.
It
was fifty minutes later when Dan pointed. At first Jim could see nothing. Then
he saw it, a faint dot coming toward them. The rocket seemed to crawl up. It
was turned over, waiting for the correcting blast. Now that came, obviously handled
by the automatic pilot here where that could be trusted again. It was a
beautiful piece of maneuvering, leaving the rocket less than five hundred feet
from the station.
Perez had awakened Jerry, and the man was already
in the taxi. Now it flashed across the space between them, not bothering to
conserve fuel this time. There was a single figure in the open lock of the
rocket, waiting for it.
Five
minutes later, Jerry was back, bringing the taxi to a stop just beyond the air
lock of the station. Men who looked as if they'd just been awakened were coming
out and diving in. A stream of oxygen containers began pouring in through the
locks, as fast as they could be worked. And behind them came Mark Emmett.
The man had lost all his dapper assurance. He
staggered as he braced himself to jump through the lock, and Jim's hand caught
him and pulled him inside.
"He
came alone—no copilot, no radarman," Jerry called over the phones.
"No
sense," Mark muttered. "Killing one man's better than three. And I
made it. I didn't think the old baby would hold. But she took it. About six
ounces of fuel left, I'll bet. Mr. Thorndyke!"
Thorndyke
had been standing back while Jim squeezed the hand of his friend, but now he
shoved forward. Mark saw him, and gestured toward his office. "Something
else to show you—in private."
Jim
turned to leave at the entrance to the office, but Thorndyke shook his head.
"I'm not chasing out anyone who kept this deathwatch with me. Unless you
insist, Emmett?"
"Right now I wouldn't insist on
living," Mark said.
"I
just want to get this off my chest and then find a place to curl up and sleep.
Fifty-six minutes—and I feel as if I'd had to manufacture every one of them
personally."
"When I believe you're here, I'll start
thanking you," Thorndyke began.
Emmett
shook his head. "Don't bother. My job. Here, they told me to give this to
you."
From
a pouch in his belt he drew out a small envelope and handed it over. Thorndyke
opened it; his face drew into a doubtful frown, and then shock and anger
covered it.
It
was a page torn from a paper printed by the official Combine press, with a
translation typed out on thin paper. The headline read:
AMERICA BUILDS SPACE STATION!
Under that was an account of how the war
lords of America and the American-European Affiance were secretly building a
station in space from which they hoped to drop bombs upon the peaceful citizens
of the Combine. It might not have meant anything, except that it carried with
it a fuzzy but recognizable picture of the station about as Jim had first seen
it, and a slightly clearer copy of the diagram of its finished form, still
hanging on the office wall.
"That
had to come from here—nobody else could have taken the first picture,"
Mark said. "You've got a spy up here. And there's trouble down
below."
There was obviously plenty of trouble. The
Com-
bine
had furnished what proof they had to the World Congress, with an appeal to have
the station declared illegal until it could be made international. They had
branded it an act of war against all other nations.
It
meant that there was a spy among them—and not the poor foolish man who'd
spilled the sodium. He hadn't been near the station during the time when it had
looked like the picture.
Chapter 10^»«
M |
ark stayed until
the next ship could come up, after the storm was over, bringing his copilot and
Lee Yeng. Once the strain and fatigue were over, he probably enjoyed being the
hero, though he pretended he didn't. Then he went back on his own ship, as
cocky as if nothing unusual had come up.
The
station settled back to normal. Repairing the ruined section took up their
first efforts, but it was almost worth the wasted time. The accident had forced
them closer together and had turned them into a solid community with common
interests. The new men who came up felt it and caught it from the others.
Now
more women were coming up with the men. Nora had proved that a girl could stand
space as well as any man, and there were plenty of jobs where mere physical
strength was less important than the ability to do delicate, exact work for
which women had always been noted. The girls fitted readily into the station
life, and their presence added a feeling of
social
completeness that had been lacking before. Everyone seemed happier and worked
harder.
Dan
scowled at the fact that they had slipped behind schedule again, but he was
happy at the way the work was going. On the surface, everything was as it
should be. But underneath, there was a grimmer note. Jim could sense it in the
thoughtful looks that were turned to him from time to time, as if someone were
remembering that he had come up at about the right time to take that first
picture. All of the sixty-odd men who had been there long enough were
automatically suspect.
He
found that the pockets in the sleeping cubicle had been searched, and he was
sure that Thorndyke had some of the newer men checking on everyone.
The
engineer had debated the proper procedure and had finally shown the paper and
picture to everyone. It would be easier, he thought, to catch a spy when every
hand was turned against the man than to seek him out by routine methods which
had already failed once on Earth. They were already fairly sure that no
miniature camera was on the station now.
The
big sun mirror was completed finally. The station had been set to face the Sun
at all times. Eventually, it would drift away until the top no longer pointed
toward the right direction, but a few careful blasts with powder rockets, such
as the JATO's, would correct that.
When
full power came on, it was a big event. They had been hampered badly by the
inability to use any real power tools. Now the crates of machinery were broken
open, and Dan supervised the setting up of a machine shop where it would be in
the final station.
The
station itself was a weird-looking affair now. Much of it was bare, with no
metal hull around it. Here and there, the decks and power equipment were
installed, and wires were being strung, along with the maze of plumbing. Water
would be used to trim the final station, and to keep an even distribution of
weight, since it could be pumped about easily. But it took a lot of piping to
handle it.
The
real job now was the beginning of the living quarters. The hut and its
extensions had never been meant for more than a temporary makeshift. New
quarters were being built, equipped with proper dining halls, bunks, real
bathrooms, and all the luxuries of home, according to Bart. Little Terrence
Rodriguez stared at the installation, and shook his head.
"Not
my home/' he objected. "Compared to that, this will be a palace."
It
would hardly be palatial. It was modeled on the living accommodations of the
atomic submarines, which meant that everything took up the minimum space. But
it would enable men to live in reasonable comfort, once it was completed and
the station was set to spinning.
That
was another project they were trying to hasten. In actual operation, the
station had been intended to revolve around its hub once each twenty-two
seconds. This would create a centrifugal force, weak near the center, but
growing stronger until at the outer edge it was nearly a third of the normal
pressure of Earth's gravitation. It would make it possible for the men who were
to work there to live normal lives. Without that, the new installations were
useless.
Jim
was busy helping to install the inner layer— the fabric sheathing that would
keep in the air. Around that, and held away by studs placed at definite intervals,
would be the outer metal hull. It was expected that the thin plates would halt
nearly all the tiny meteorites which might strike the station, while also
reflecting back the Sun's radiation, except for certain patches where they
could expose darkened sections when they wanted to, to regulate temperature.
The
amount of equipment was almost indescribable. It lay scattered about, some of
it waiting for further completion of the station, other parts waiting for the
men who would be skilled enough to install it. There was radar gear, television
gear, and all the complexities of electronics. The station would have to be
able to communicate with the ground at all times, and to spot anything in
space. There was even a mirror for an astronomical telescope. This would be
mounted in a separate little substation, like a doghouse in the back, where it
could be set to hold a more rigidly fixed position than was possible on the
station itself. It would also be used to study the ground below, with
television cameras to relay what was seen to the main station.
Also, there were all the installations for
military purposes. Jim avoided thinking about them. He knew that it was
necessary to have them. Without such power, war was inevitable eventually on
Earth; but so long as the United States had the power of releasing atomic and
hydrogen bombs from the station on any nation which started an attack, there
would be no attack. It was the one case where military power could bring peace.
The
framework for the spokes and the central hub had already been connected, and
two specialists had finally been found who could handle the elevators that
would connect the hub and the outer wheel, without going space crazy.
The
more they accomplished, the more apparently remained to be done. With the use
of power tools to cut and handle the parts needed, the work took on greater
speed. But again, space presented its own problems. A grinder seemed like a
simple device. Yet when it was turned on in the machine shop and Jim went to
sharpen a pair of special scissors with which he trimmed the fabric lining, it
proved a near disaster. The bits of metal and abrasive flew out in a straight
line—and then drifted and ricocheted around. Without gravity, there was nothing
to bring them to rest, and they made moving about in a flimsy space suit nearly
impossible. The use of the lathe or heavier tools was clearly unthinkable.
Thomdyke
listened as Dan presented the reasons for spinning the station ahead of time,
and shook his head.
"It'll wobble, Dan. If it isn't exactly
balanced, it will wobble like a top running down, and like an off-center wheel.
Remember, it won't spin around the hub—it'll spin around the center of mass. If
one side is light and the other heavy, it will have a center somewhere between
the hub and the heavy side. And we don't have the trim tanks ready."
"So
what?" Dan asked. "So it wouldn't work for the men who want to do
scientific experiments. And so our weight will fluctuate a little. That doesn't
matter now. We've placed most of the heavy stuff in pretty fair balance
already. If we don't get some weight, though, we'll probably never be able to
keep some of the technicians we're going to need."
Thorndyke
considered. "You've got a point, Dan. I've been trying to get some men
here who've been working on plant culture to replenish the air. But they can't
find anyone who could stand raw space. And I guess it would be pretty hard to
set up a bunch of plants in water if the water wasn't held down by some substitute
for gravity. Let me think it over."
He
had plenty to think about. There was the matter of the spy, the complaint
before the World Congress, which still hadn't come up yet, the delay in
reaching the schedule the contract called for—and the eternal difficulty of
finding men who could do the needed work under the conditions.
The
next day Thorndyke called Dan over, and nodded. "Spin it!"
They had a supply of larger
rocket tubes than those used by hand with which they hoped to set it spinning.
These were to be placed along the outer edge of the wheel, like the little
rockets on a pin wheel. When they were set off, the pin-wheel effect would be
complete, and the station should begin turning as smoothly as a phonograph
record on the turntable.
Jim
had wanted to be in on the job, and Dan nodded when he applied. He sighed.
"I've been trying to get you a job as foreman of one of the gangs, boy.
But I can't even put you up for lead man. Now that we're out of the worst
part, they keep crying for specialists. Bart and I'd be downgraded if they
didn't have contracts on us, I expect. But Thorndyke likes you. If there's any
job you want, you'll get it."
"And
you'd better tell this Jim he's a darned fool, Dan," Bart said.
"Setting those rockets off isn't going to be a picnic."
Jim
soon found that Bart was right. Each of the rockets had to be tested carefully
against a compression scale to make sure it was adjusted to exactly the same
thrust; otherwise, the stronger ones would have put uneven pressure on the edge
of the wheel with some danger of buckling sections of it.
The
rockets had to be lined up precisely. Dan and Bart insisted on working on the
job. They had brought Jerry Wales, the station taxi jockey. One more was
needed, and Jim suggested Terrence Rodriguez; the little man could be depended
on to follow orders, and he had enough sense to question orders that sounded
Spinii! Ill
wrong
before following them. Also, he could outwork most other men without
complaining.
"You
sure of that, kid?" Bart asked. "Not that Fm questioning Terrence.
He's a good guy. But how would you know about the others?"
Jim
thought it over slowly. He had to admit that there was entirely too much truth
in the implied answer to the question. He'd been far too busy to pay much
attention to what the other men were doing, particularly since the number had
been swelling beyond the original group.
"You
might have made lead man," Bart went on. "Dan didn't tell you the
whole truth. He suggested it to Thorndyke, who asked me. I turned you down,
kid. Nope, I'm not apologizing. I'm just suggesting that when you get to know
more about people and to work with them, nothing will keep you from being lead
man. Until then, the responsibility of having to learn to watch them would
drive you crazy. Sure, I think Terrence is a good man. But next time, I'd like
to have you suggest a dozen."
Jim
swallowed it, nodding glumly. He'd told himself the same often enough. But
knowing about a fault and correcting it weren't the same. "I'll try,
Bart," he promised. "And—and thanks!"
But
he wasn't sure he wanted to be lead man for a group. He'd had enough trouble
with the sodium painting when there were two under him. As long as he was doing
the job himself, he could be sure it was
done as nearly right as he knew how; with
others doing it, he could never be sure.
He
turned it over in his mind, resolving to watch the other men around him. Then
they began installing the rockets, and there was too much to do for thought.
He
went around the whole edge when it was done, checking. Dan trusted him for
that, as well as the foreman trusted himself, and it felt good. Jim was nearly
around the circle, coasting with short, sure jets from the rocket tube to keep
him circling, when he spotted trouble.
Three
of the tubes were on wrong. Even to his eye, they were out of line. He called
Bart, who came at once.
"On
Terrence's work," he said. "Wait—wait, don't fly off the handle, kid.
I inspected them myself after Terrence did them. They were right. Anyone could
have come by here and twisted them. We've got five hundred men up here now, and
it could have been nearly any single soul you could think of, except maybe a
few of the technicians who can't use rocket tubes. Well, we'll fly patrol from
now on. Let's fix them."
They
aligned them again, making sure they were fastened securely. With the blasts
tilted, they could have heaved one section of the wheel upward, upsetting the
whole spin and even twisting the frame. It could have meant weeks of repair
work.
Dan vetoed the guard duty. "Clear out
the men from the hull," he ordered after a brief conference with
Thorndyke. "All of them. Put the greenhorns between men who are able to
take space, and get them out of the way. We'll spin it now!"
It
took an hour to get everyone cleared out, and some of the newer men were having
a hard time of it. But there was no time to worry about that. The wire that
connected all the rocket tubes to the main switch was in place. Dan, Bart,
Terrence, Jerry and Jim fastened themselves to the framework of the hub, and
Dan reached for the switch.
It
wasn't as smooth as it should have been, but there was an instant response as
the tubes began blasting. Slowly, the great wheel began to turn, picking up
rotational speed. It was unbalanced, as Thorndyke had said, and it wobbled, but
the motion was bearable at the hub.
Then
Thorndyke's voice reached them over the phones. "Two rockets on section
twenty-seven aren't firing, Dan! And it looks as if the frame is going to
buckle from the pressure of the others. Better cut jets."
"Cut
jets . . ." Dan growled at the idea. Once they cut the jets, there was no
way to get them started again. They didn't have multiple starters, like the
hand tubes. It would mean doing the whole job over.
Bart
stood up, staring at the section where the tubes had mysteriously failed.
"Maybe we could get replacements . . ." he began.
Jim
swung around, and braced himself for a take-off toward the tube dump. But
Terrence was ahead of him, dipping down with quick blasts from his rocket tube.
He caught up a couple of the bigger tubes, and headed back—but toward the outer
edge of the wheel.
Dan's
voice cut off Jim's protest. "Get back here, Terrence. With this spinning,
you'd be cut in two from the blasts before you could correct your speed and
land outside!"
The
little man swung back reluctantly. Jim reached for the tubes, but Bart plucked
them out of his hands. "It's my idea, kid," he said. "I'm
going."
He
used his hand tube to sail across to the inner side of the wheel. It was
wobbling, and matching speed was almost impossible. Bart came as close as he
could, then caught a beam. Jim felt his arms ache in sympathy, but the big man
made it. He crawled through the open section of girders, heading for the
defective tubes.
It
was delicate work, lining up the new tubes. But a minute later his voice came
over the phones. "Blast!"
Dan
threw the switch, and they could see the faint edge of the trail from the new
tubes. Bart stood up cautiously, turning. He was swaying, unused to any kind of
gravity for the last few months. He reached for a beam.
The
section of the wheel where he was had reached its outer limit of wobble, and
now began moving in, like the edge of a phonograph record, with an off-center
hole moving the narrow part into view. Bart grabbed for the beam, and his body
swayed outward. He jerked his foot to secure a firmer bracing, and missed.
Jim felt a scream tear from his throat, but
there was nothing he could do. Bart's other foot tore loose, and the man shot
out from the wheel. The rocket tubes spun by him, blasting like a giant pin
wheel, sending up flames from the fabric of his suit.
His
voice cut into their earphones, surprised, shocked and almost instantly level
again. "I—I . . . Jim, kid —what I said about people ..."
It
died out as the air went out of his suit. When they reached him, Bart Smith was
dead.
ChCiptCr // A Problem in Ethics
r |
ey buried Bart
in space. It had been his own idea, Dan told them, and it was going to be done
the way Bart wanted. Nobody objected. They put the body in a new space suit,
onto which Jim had attached a framework to hold six of the bigger rocket tubes,
and aimed him toward the outer planets. In his life, he'd gone as far as any
man could; in death, he'd be the first one to reach the orbit of Mars.
Thorn-dyke had figured it out, and assured them that the six tubes would give
him enough acceleration from the station for that.
It
was Terrence who recited the ceremony over him, drawing the sad, traditional
words out of his memory. There should have been a chaplain, and would be soon,
but they couldn't wait. And at last the little man looked up from the final
prayer and nodded, while Jim set off the tubes. For a time they could see the
dirninishing
trails of the rockets, and then there was only empty space.
"God
will know where he is," Terrence said finally, and Jim nodded his head.
But the work went on, even though Jim felt
the sorrow more deeply than most. Dan said nothing, but gave up his own single
quarters to move in with the boy for the few brief days before they could
finish the more luxurious quarters and move into them.
The
station was spinning. It wobbled and danced around a spot not at its hub, but
there was a feeling of weight again near the outside of the wheel. Liquids
flowed down, and food remained on open dishes. The weight of the men
fluctuated, but it was slow enough a change not to bother them.
They
were concentrating on finishing the outer hull now. Jim pitched in with a
greater effort. For a time, he tried to hold a part of his mind to the last job
Bart had left him, but it kept slipping off to the work. It was easier to
forget when he was busy, and he wanted to forget.
Nora
watched him, worrying over him. With the presence of gravity, the boxes of
games had been broken open to provide some entertainment for the men. She found
a game which involved putting letters onto little squares to form words, and
challenged him to a running contest. When that didn't work, she tried another.
Finally, she gave up, and put him to reading to her out of some of the books
Thorndyke had, making him explain what she couldn't understand.
And she
talked about the people in
the station.
She seemed to know all of
them, though most of them
were just names to him.
"Jerry Wales is
getting to be a problem,"
she told
him one time after
his work
shift. "I suppose I shouldn't
tell you, but maybe
you can
do something.
He keeps
taking sedatives. He says
he can't
sleep without them. Ever since Bart
died, he's been like that.
Of course,
he used to take
them at the beginning of
the station,
but I thought he'd gotten over
that."
Jim muttered something,
and started
to forget
it. Then he hesitated. "Right after Bart's death?"
She nodded. "He
came the day before, but
just for a normal dose. Afterward,
he wanted
a double
dose. And he's still taking it.
I'm going
to report
him to
Dr. Perez if this goes on."
"Let him have
it!" Jim suggested suddenly. "Let
him have all he wants, Nora,
but be
sure to keep a record
of it!"
He had nothing
but a
vague suspicion to go on,
and he knew he was being
unfair. But the hunt was
still on for the
spy, and no one had
turned up anything. There had
been those rocket tubes, bent
out of line. And the failure
of the
two that
had led
to Bart's death was something he
had never
understood, unless someone had
drained away part of the
fuel.
Jerry had had
ample opportunities. He'd been part
of their group. So
had Terrence,
for that
matter—but Terrence hadn't been
on the
station during the time when the
picture could have been taken,
while Jerry
had. He groped around in his memory, looking for other things. Something seemed
to be missing.
Finally
he nodded faintly. He'd seen Jerry talking to the man who'd let the sodium
spill into the lock. It proved nothing—Jerry talked to a lot of people. But a
few words about what a fuss-budget Jim was, dropped at the right time, might
have overcome all the warning Jim had tried to give the man. It had always
seemed strange that some of that warning hadn't penetrated.
Besides,
who would have had a better chance to take a picture of the whole station?
Jerry had jockeyed the taxi since it had been sent up, and the picture must
have been taken from some distance. A miniature camera might have been hidden
inside some bale sent up, marked so he could locate it. It would have been easy
for him to slip it into the air lock of the rocket on another trip. If the
camera was small enough, nobody would have noticed it; some of them were no
bigger than the joint of a finger.
Jim
had nothing but circumstantial evidence, he knew, and he was fixing the worst
possible charge on a man because of that. But he couldn't get it out of his
mind. If Jerry was guilty, there would be more trouble. It might result in
death for hundreds of people. If the boy was innocent, he might be able to
establish some proof; at least he wouldn't be condemned without more proof
than Jim had.
Yet
he liked Jerry. The man was a genius with the taxi, and he had a quick, nervous
sense of humor that had brightened a lot of dull evenings. He'd put on
mock-aerial shows, when there was no gravity, for all of them. And he'd even
taken Jim along in the taxi several times and let him try his hand at it.
Jim
sweated it out, telling no one. He'd been brought up with the belief that a
"rat" was the lowest form of life—that no man ever ratted on another,
and that even thieves had their honor. He knew it wasn't entirely true, but
the emotional reaction to carrying tales still stuck. Twice he made up his mind
to see Thorn-dyke, and both times he couldn't do it. The ethics of the
situation were far too tangled in his head.
It
was Nora who finally settled the problem. She was frowning when Jim went into
her office. "It's Jerry," she said. "I let him have the
sedatives, like you said. But I already gave him one double dose, and then he
came back for another. He's going to pieces,
J |
. " im.
Jim quieted her, making up a false job that
Jerry had to do to calm her suspicions. But when he left, he headed for
Thorndyke's room. If there was any connection between the sedatives and
Jerry's work as a spy, it must mean something was about to happen.
The
engineer was still up. "Come in, Jim," he said quickly. "It's
the last night before we move to our new quarters, and somehow I can't sleep on
the floor very comfortably. It was all right when there was no gravity—but even
at one-third weight, that's too hard now. Want a game of chess?"
It was an honor the man sometimes offered to
Dan, and ordinarily Jim would have jumped at it. He was fairly good at chess,
and it had been years since he'd played much of it—since his father had died,
in fact. But he shook his head.
It
took him half an hour of hedging and false starts before he could overcome his
scruples. But it finally came out in a rush. Thorndyke listened without expression
until he had finished.
"Ethics
are hard to explain, Jim," he said. "I had a course in them at
college once. I didn't think I learned anything at the time. Now, I'm not so
sure. You can't betray a friend who isn't your friend! And in times like these,
you sometimes have to make sure that the good things will survive by sailing
pretty close to the wind. Nobody likes the security checks we go through —but
they're necessary, even when they hurt some people and can't keep out all the
spies.
"And
don't forget that the other guy isn't evil, in his own eyes. You can like an
enemy. He may even be a nice guy, with as many ethics as you have. Maybe
Jerry—if he's guilty—honestly believes that this station will ruin the whole
future of his people or the world. Maybe he's willing to kill himself for what
he thinks is right. You and I think he's wrong, of course. And sometimes,
because we think so, we have to do things we don't want to."
He
stood up, pacing about the little room, and the sight of a man walking was
still strange enough to Jim now for him to follow the engineer's steps with his
eyes. "Jim, if you're right, he's about to try something pretty big. Well,
he's going out to pick up some high-priority material from a rocket
tomorrow—stuff that has something to do with the handling and aiming of the
bombs when they're sent up here. I can't tell you any more. I probably should
turn him in—or lock him up at once. But it's important to find out what he
intends. How'd you like to ride along in the taxi with him?"
"I
wouldn't like it," Jim said. "But I'll go if you want. Only I'll
probably make a lousy spy."
"Don't
try to be one. Just do your job and keep your eyes open. If you find anything
suspicious, hit him first! Now . . . how about that game of chess? There's
time, before you need to turn in."
Thorndyke
beat him badly, but it was good medicine for his nerves. Jim slept better than
usual, in spite of the coming mission. In the morning, he managed to seem
surprised when Dan called him over and ordered him to help Jerry. If there was
any reaction on the taxi jockey's part, Jim couldn't see it.
The
rocket came up about noon, as they kept time on the station—which meant the
same time as that used on Johnston Island. Jim was surprised to see that Gantry
was listed as its pilot. Apparently the man had been able to bail out of his
exploding rocket and had been rescued in time. It was news that had probably
gone all over the station, but he had been too preoccupied to notice it.
The
rocket pilots had become clever about their approaches to the station now, and
were able to shade the correcting blast of the automatic pilot almost by
instinct, so that they seldom needed to jockey closer to the station after they
matched course. This was a particularly smooth job, but it brought the ship a
good mile from the station.
Jerry
shrugged. "Must mean something special on board," he guessed.
"They sometimes get coy when they don't want any of the regular men coming
over to exchange gossip. Want to take the taxi out for practice this time,
Jim?"
Jim's
fingers itched for the controls. It was the closest to the actual piloting of a
space ship that he could hope for. But he turned it down within himself, knowing
he'd be in a better position to watch if he took the seat behind and stayed in
the rear.
"I've
got a touch of a headache," he said. Then, because it never did any harm
to mix as much truth into a story as possible, on the chance that the listener
might know something about it, he tried to act as if he were boasting. "I
was up playing chess with Thorn-dyke. I guess I tried too hard."
"Oh!
Who won?" Jerry didn't seem very interested. He was frowning, and his thin
face was set into a tautness that left his lips nearly white.
"He
did. I'm out of practice." He let it go at that, and Jerry only nodded.
They were nearly at the ship. He suddenly stood up, indicating that Jim should
take the controls, and went forward toward the lock.
Most
of the piloting of the little ferry had been finished. Jim let it drift in,
correcting the slow motion of the nose to the side with the gyroscope. It was a
perfect contact, with a little momentum that was soaked up easily enough. Jerry
jerked open the seals and sprang forward.
Jim
frowned as he lost sight of the jockey. Then he caught a glimpse of the man in
the polished inner door of the air lock. It wasn't as clear as it might have
been, but he could make out enough. Jerry stood talking idly with Gantry for a
few seconds, and then nodded.
"Okay,
if it's so special, I'll give you a hand with it. Go ahead, I'll catch up. I
want to make sure everything's clear here." Jerry turned back, appearing
to study the interior of the taxi. There was a wrench on the floor, and he
moved it aside. Then he turned and headed back toward the rocket.
Jim
barely caught the flicker of white in time to see that it was a slim piece of
paper in Jerry's hand. In the door of the lock, his image hesitated for a split
second, while the hand with the paper shot out toward the big silicone-rubber
gasket.
It
was the perfect hiding place! Soft and resilient, it would give enough for
anything thin to slip under it, and nobody would think to search there. Yet any
man who went near the ship to service it could remove the paper without being
seen, simply by resting his hand on the gasket as he went through the lock.
Jim's
throat tightened. But it wasn't enough. There must be more than that—or he'd
have no evidence that he couldn't have planted himself. He waited, while the seconds
ticked by. Then he saw Jerry coming out with a large box balanced delicately in
his hands. Behind the jockey, Gantry's laugh sounded.
"Oh,
come on, Jerry. It may be special, but it won't explode. You might as well toss
it down and give me a hand with a few other crates."
Jerry
shook his head firmly, while his lips were even whiter, and he lowered the box
as if it were filled with dynamite. He seemed to forget that it had already
taken the smashing pressure of several gravities of acceleration. Nothing
shipped by rocket could be too subject to trouble from a little shock.
"Nope, can't. Thorndyke told me to pick this up and bring it to him
without delay."
He
began closing the lock, and Gantry shrugged easily. It was obviously none of
his business. He'd brought it, and that took care of his work.
"Cast off," Jerry
said carefully.
Jim
began swinging the ship about for the blast away from the rocket. "Where
to? Thorndyke's new quarters?"
"No,
that was just to cover for Gantry. This is special stuff. It's a control for
the trim tanks, to stop the station wobbling—or I guess it is. Thorndyke told
me to store it in the bomb-bay section."
It
was partly true, Jim knew, and none of it was completely a lie. It was supposed
to be stored there, and Jerry's guess as to its use wasn't too fantastic, if he
didn't know. But it would be easy to move it from there to the turbine
room—where a bomb might break
pipes that would send gaseous mercury through
most of the enclosed part of the ship—enough to kill everyone.
"Better
take the controls," Jim suggested. "My head's getting worse. I'll
take care of the box for you, if it's so delicate."
"Who
said it was delicate?" Jerry snapped tightly. "It's just a hunk of
machinery. And nobody needs to watch it."
Jim
slipped back to the rear seat, his eyes going to the box. He felt the blast
from the taxi rocket, and his eyes jerked back. It was one thing to know that
any explosive was safe enough to handle if it had passed the test of rocket
shipment; it was another matter to ride with what might be a live bomb.
He
jerked his eyes back—and looked squarely into a tiny, deadly pistol in Jerry's
hands.
"Yeah,"
Jerry said slowly. "Yeah, Jim. You're right. It's a bomb. But you won't have to keep worrying."
Chapter
J2^«de
J |
erry's finger squeezed
down on the trigger. Jim threw himself sideways in a desperate lunge, just as
there was a deafening explosion. The bullet spanged against the rocket motor,
ricocheted off to strike the air lock, rebounded, and spent itself in the seat
of the pilot's chair. Jim bounced back from a wall, and braced himself for
another shot.
But
Jerry had forgotten that guns have a recoil equal to the force of the bullet.
Shock ran over the man's face as he went spinning back to crash against the air
lock, with the gun sailing from his fingers. He rebounded.
Jim
grabbed the back of a seat and heaved himself forward. He caught the jockey
just as the man was groping for a handhold. In weightless fighting, Jerry would
have the advantage normally. But Jim gave him no chance. One of his hands went
around the other's neck, and his other fist lashed forward, back and for-
ward
again. He kept striking, never giving the other a chance to regain his balance.
Jerry buckled, his body
growing limp.
Jim
ripped the straps from the second seat and lashed the unconscious man firmly
against the back of the seat where he could do nothing if he revived. His own
face was bleeding from scratches he hadn't known he'd received, and he could
feel the blood pounding against his temples, while the big artery in his throat
throbbed rapidly.
He
buckled himself into the pilot seat and located the station. The taxi had
drifted nearer to it than to the rocket ship. Jim cranked the gyroscope, and
began the tricky job of trying to match speed with the outside of the spinning
station. He'd forgotten that the spin would be erratic until he drew up to it
and began trying to come alongside one of the ports. He made two passes at it,
with poor success.
The
third time, a man leaped for the taxi with a rope. A minute later, Jim felt the
little ship being drawn back toward the port, and he relaxed while they
anchored it. He lifted the semiconscious Jerry out of the straps and began
dragging him through the locks.
Thorndyke
was waiting inside, and Jim reported hastily, while other men took control of
Jerry. Nora came up, bawling out both the head engineer and Jim for trying to
play counterspy, but her hands were gentle as she began treating the scratches
on his head.
He shook her off and went out with Dan and
two others to move the box out into space and check on its contents. But there
was no surprise when they found that it held enough high explosive to wreck
half the station, together with a timing device. The gun alone had been
evidence enough.
Jim
got back to find Gantry arguing with Thorndyke. The rocket pilot was finishing
a flat denial of something, and the engineer shrugged and turned to Jim.
"Gantry won't carry prisoners—says he isn't equipped to play guard. You'll
have to go Earthside, Jim, unless you have strong objections."
Jim
shrugged. "No objections, I guess, sir," he said. He had no relish
for the job, but someone had to do it. And since he'd gotten mixed up in it
already, it might as well be he. It was an ugly business, totally lacking in
the romance that was supposed to surround spy affairs.
Jerry
was brought out to the taxi by two of the men, his wrists tied firmly. He
sneered at Thorndyke but went quietly back with Jim and Gantry while the
engineer piloted the taxi clumsily out to the rocket. There they strapped the
prisoner down to one of the contour chairs and Jim took the one alongside.
Gantry
checked his position carefully, and then the rockets went on for fifteen
seconds, cutting their speed to fourteen thousand, slowing them enough for
Earth to begin pulling them down. The station began to move away ahead of them
as they drifted downward. They would now have fifty minutes of descent in which
nothing could be done.
Gantry stared back at Jerry. "He doesn't
look like a lousy Combine man," he said. "I used to think he was a
good kid."
"Who says I'm a Combine man?" Jerry
asked sharply. He scowled at them. "I'm as good an American as the rest of
you—better, maybe."
"Sure,
Jerry," Jim agreed heavily. "At least more generous with pictures of
the station. The Combine must have liked that."
Jerry
stared at them, hot anger on his face. Then he shrugged, and his face returned
to its normal scowl. "Okay. I'm cooked anyway. Do you really want to know
why I did it, or don't you?"
He
accepted their nods, and his eyes went blank as he leaned back to stare at the
tiny image of the station on one of the screens.
"Okay.
I had a friend—you know about him already, so that's not spilling anything. And
I suppose there's no way I can keep him from tipping himself off, now. He used
to be with the circus, too, before my family's accident. That was on the level,
by the way. We traveled over most of the world. And every place we went, we
saw people going without food so their countries could buy more nice bombs for
the soldier boys to play with. We used to talk about it, and about that big,
bright, beautiful dream everybody had—an island up in the sky where they could
stock up more nice bombs. Only from that, they could kill almost everybody. We
made up our minds that if we had any chance, we'd blow it to bits before they
blew up the
world.
We were just kids, see? We thought it was something we'd never have a crack at.
"So
what do they do but draft my friend? And he gets sent to Johnston Island to be
a messenger for the brass. When he saw what was going on, he got in touch with
me—never mind how. And we decided we meant what we'd said. He worked himself in
solid on the field. I took me a good course in rockets—I was at Central Tech
when you came there, but you probably wouldn't remember me. And I made sure I
was good at it, but not quite good enough to be a pilot. So—well, when they
hinted there might be a job, I played it the way they wanted, and they sent me
up. It wasn't hard to get the job on the taxi—all like stealing candy from
kids. And if I hadn't had a string of bad luck, the station would be blooey by
now. That picture was turned over just to give somebody else a chance to knock
out the station, but the Combine didn't do what we expected, when we proved
what was going on. And that's all."
Jim stared at him
incredulously. "Why?"
"Why?"
Jerry grimaced and shook his head. "You can't see it at all, can you? I
told you, though. Because all your pretty station is ever going to be is a
launching platform for bombs. A place to plot out the murder of women and kids.
A million more guys will go hungry when they could live in palaces for what it
costs. And then the bombs will fall."
"We
wouldn't use the bombs unless we had to," Jim pointed out. But he knew it
was useless. No argument could ever convince a fanatic. "And there are a
lot of other uses for a station."
"Sure.
Sure there are. But the real use is murder. Do you think they're going to get
all that power up there and never use it? When did they ever not use it? Didn't
they use the atom bomb? Let anyone disagree with the country that has the
station, and watch the pressure go on. Maybe it all starts with fine ideals —we
got the station, and now there'd better be peace. Twenty years later, it
changes to another tune—we got the station, so don't argue with us. And fifty
years later, the whole world better play slave. Only it won't play slave, so it
gets blown up! How blind can you be?"
"Let
him rave, Jim," Gantry said. "It's the same line that wants to stop
all progress because all new scientific developments can be used for war. When
a man's afraid, it's easy to call the rest of the world names."
It
was more than that, Jim knew. There was just enough truth in it to give a
fanatic an absolute conviction that he was right. There was a danger to having
all that power up there—but there was more danger in letting things go as they
were or allowing the station to wait until some madman gained power to build
it.
There
was never any answer to a man who felt he had a mission to go around killing
others to save the world.
They
touched the upper atmosphere then, and went on gliding down to a height of
fifty miles, with their speed now over eighteen thousand miles an hour. Gantry
turned to his controls and began sweating it
out.
He had to hold them in a long, flat glide where the friction of the air could
slowly reduce their speed to a safe level. If he dropped too rapidly, the
thicker air would have resistance enough to burn them to a cinder, like a
meteor. If he held them in the very thin air too long, their speed would carry
them out again, and it would all have to be done over. Here he could count on
no help from the automatic pilot.
They
went downward slowly, in a course calculated to take them more than halfway
around the world. Some of the screens had a reddish glow now, and Jim knew that
it was from their own hull. During the rush down through the air, they would
reach a temperature of thirteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and would glow a
bright cherry-red.
But
the hull had been designed to stand that. The inside of the ship grew warmer,
but the insulation held. Then a sigh from Gantry told him that the worst was
over. Now they had slowed to a normal air speed, and were in denser air. The
atmosphere here would soon soak up the heat of the hull at any normal cruising
speed. It was a long, difficult maneuver, but it saved fuel. If they'd had to
take enough fuel to land by rocket, the whole trip would have been impossible;
this way, it was fairly practical.
The
ship cut through clouds, and one of the screens showed Johnston Island ahead.
They continued to slow, until they were landing on the water at a lower speed
than many of the regular liners.
A small tug ran out to haul them in to the
dock, where the rocket would be lifted out, put back into top condition, and
raised onto another first and second stage.
A
familiar figure was waiting on the dock when Jim stepped out with the prisoner.
Jim stuck out his hand, and John Mattern grabbed it. The tall, rough-featured
man studied the boy from top to bottom, and grinned.
"You look good,
Stanley. I guess it agrees with you."
"I
feel good," Jim agreed. "You should come up some time."
Mattern
shook his head. "Not me! This the man I'm supposed to pick up?"
Jim
turned Jerry over to him, and accepted an envelope which a waiting messenger
was holding out to him. He saw that it was a voucher for a room and food, a
list of things he could and could not do, and an order to report to the medical
examiner's office. He considered that for a while, and then shrugged. He'd been
examined enough.
At
the small bank, they were cordial enough, and caused no trouble. He drew out a
hundred dollars, and headed down the street that served as a shopping district
for the men who were posted on the Island. But his first step was at a
restaurant where he could order all the things he'd missed.
He
sat down, puffing. His legs ached already, and he felt as if he'd done a hard
day's work in walking the few blocks. Earth was heavy! The food was better than
they had at the station, but the first few bites sated his craving; he hadn't
been really hungry.
He bought a few light trinkets, trusting in
his friendship with the pilots to let him get by with them. There was a new
mechanical pencil for Dan, a box of expensive powder for Nora, and a watch for
Terrence. For himself, he could think of very little. He'd never been tied down
with many material possessions, and hadn't missed them on the station.
He
found the little hotel, and presented his papers. The clerk sent him to a room
on the second floor. He found the steps a torture. He supposed a man could get
used to living on Earth again, but he was wondering whether it was worth it.
And the bed was supposed to be soft, but it felt like solid concrete to him.
His back began to ache, and one of his legs fell asleep from the pressure of
the other.
Somehow,
though, he slept through the night, to get up in the morning hardly more
refreshed than when he'd lain down.
Again,
the food was the one virtue he could find. It was far better than they could
have on the station, where everything had to be taken up in condensed form. The
taste of real milk was something of a revelation to him. He checked his watch,
found he had time to kill, and wandered into a record store. He bought several
records, knowing that he could never take them with him, but because it seemed
wrong somehow to waste the store's facilities listening to them without buying
anything. That was another thing he'd missed at the station, where they had no
music.
When he came out, there were headlines
staring him right in the face that jerked his thoughts back to reality.
U.
S. ANNOUNCES IT HAS SPACE STATION!
There was a big picture of what the completed
station would look like spread over four columns. It was a somewhat idealized
view, with a cutaway section that had been filled in by some artist who seemed
to think scientific instruments had to be fifteen feet tall, and full of
oscilloscope traces and lightning bolts. But it was correct enough generally,
showing the big globe and the outer ring, or wheel.
There
was little news to the story. It simply gave the bare fact that the United
States had a space station under construction in a two-hour orbit, confirming
the news the Combine had released. The writer had puffed it up with everything
he could find from the books, but no reason for the announcement was given, nor
were any significant facts.
Jim
whistled. The leak to the Combine through Jerry's friend must have hurt plenty,
to make them break the story officially; either that, or the foreign situation
was getting too tense, and they were using the news of the station to give
themselves a cooling-off period while the other powers thought it over.
Jim
threw the paper away, after making sure that there was no other information. He
bought one of the little four-page local papers, but it had the same announcement,
except that it was colored to readers already aware of the station. On the
fourth page,
there
was a little story of a man shot while looting one of the rockets. He was
listed as a fuel truck driver, and had been caught inside the last rocket to
land; when he tried to escape, the guard had shot him.
So
Jerry's friend had not only tried to collect the piece of paper, but hadn't had
enough sense to surrender when caught!
He
was stopped at the field. He showed his badge, and the guard examined it, then
shook his head. "Where's your medical clearance?"
"I've
already been cleared," Jim told him. "I'm going back! Ask Mark
Emmett, or Gantry. Any of the pilots know me."
The
guard nodded. "Sure, I know you, too. I've been expecting you. But you
were supposed to report to medical for an examination. I can't let you in here
without a certificate."
Jim
tried arguing, but it didn't work. Finally he shrugged and gave up. "Okay,
if I have to I suppose I have to. Any chance of thumbing a ride with one of the
jeeps?"
"Sure.
Tansley!" The guard waved his arm, and one of the jeeps cruised over.
"Sam, take the boy down to medical!"
He'd
missed the rocket back, Jim realized. He should have followed orders in the
first place. But he didn't like all this insistence on a medical inspection. He
was remembering the fact that he'd nearly failed the first one; and he had a pretty
fair idea that this wouldn't be a casual, routine inspection.
Chapter 13Errand Boy
t was a
thorough examination. Three doctors worked Jim over from top to bottom, now and
then exchanging comments that he couldn't understand. He was forced to bend
over, open his mouth, stare at figures on a card, and do ten knee bends on one
leg. The last almost threw him, and he could hear his heart pounding wildly
afterward. He wondered why the doctor bothered to use the stethoscope.
"Tachycardia,"
the oldest one said calmly. "Jim, you're the first man we've had a chance
to test after any prolonged, continuous stay up there. There are a lot of
things we need to know about the effects of space, and you're giving us some of
the answers. Hmmm. Cough. Now, again!"
It
wasn't encouraging. They needed a guinea pig, and they'd been reluctant to pass
him the first time. Finally one of them nodded, though, indicating the
examination was over. Jim moved toward his clothes. One of the doctors went
into an inner office. The
second
doctor followed, leaving the oldest one alone with Jim.
The
man studied his notes for a minute more, and then looked up with a smile.
"You're not in good shape in a lot of ways, Jim. You weren't in the first
place, when we passed you against our better judgment. But . . . well, there
doesn't seem to be anything new wrong with you that couldn't be fixed by a few
weeks of exercise down here. I guess if you made out the first time, you'll do
it again." He signed something with a flourish. "Here's your
certificate."
Jim
heaved a long sigh of relief and began climbing into his clothes, while the
doctor went into his private office and came out in a simple business suit.
"They've been holding up the rocket for you, and we can't keep them
waiting forever. Come on with me, and I'll drive you over to the field."
He
talked casually as he drove. It was obvious that he'd been one of the men who'd
dreamed of space travel back in the days when even the V-2 was impossible. Now
he'd mellowed and was enjoying the idea that others were doing what he had
never had a chance to accomplish. And under it all was another strain of
thought, a bitterness that was somehow an acceptance of the trouble that was
brewing on Earth.
"It
comes and it goes," he said. "Sometimes it gets worse than others.
But I've found that when the human animal gets himself into the deepest pit,
he's apt to come charging up out of it the fastest. Well, here we are.
Jim got out and held a hand toward the old
doctor. "Thank you, sir," he said, knowing that he meant his thanks
for the second chance to go up above the atmosphere. The man chuckled,
accepting it, and drove off.
Mark
Emmett was waiting again, as he had been waiting so long ago when Jim had first
gone up. Now, though, it seemed like an old routine. The moving ladder rolled
forward, lifting them up. It had been improved since the last time; it made the
lift the whole way, with no need for rope ladders.
Inside
the rocket, there were two other passengers, new men who stared at Jim as if
trying to see what made him tick. But his thoughts were all on getting back. He
answered their questions as best he could until Mark signaled take-off. Then he
snapped back against the contour seat and tried to relax.
The
acceleration could never be pleasant, but it was a smooth trip, and Mark had
gained experience in the months that had passed. He no longer trusted wholly to
the automatic pilot; now he fiddled with it as they rose, feeding in new
figures that slightly modified its course. His muscles seemed to have hardened
tremendously, and the acceleration no longer hampered his movements.
Fifty-six
minutes from the take-off, they were matching the orbit and speed of the space
station, and only a few hundred feet away. Jim stood up with Mark, and they
began putting on their suits. "Better get into your space suits," Jim
said casually to the new men. "The taxi isn't too reliable now, from what
I saw last.
Grab
our shoulders in the air lock and we'll swim you over!"
Mark
chuckled, but nodded. Jim waited until one of the men had a good grip, put his
own hands behind the man's knees, and jumped. It was only four hundred feet,
and for that distance he had no need of the usual rocket tube. He had aimed
himself to arrive at the hub, where there was no spin. He caught one of the
cords, pulled himself up, and nodded. While he'd been gone, they had finished
the covering on one of the spokes and the big globe of the hub. There was only
one air lock now, at the hub.
Jim
guided the new man down the big tube of the spoke, making sure he used the
handholds. Gravity seemed to increase with each step from the weightlessness
at the center to the maximum weight at the outer edge of the doughnut. Once
they reached the living quarters, he turned the man over to another whose job
was breaking in newcomers and headed toward his own bunk.
Then
he cleared his lungs and sniffed. Home! The air was stale, with the smell of
oil from the generators mixed with the odor of human bodies. But it seemed good
to Jim.
Dan
came in as he was putting away his few purchases. "Hi, boy! I heard you
were back. What
do they think of the news
down there?"
"Who
knows?" Jim answered him. "All I got was what the medics thought of
me. It seems I'm a hopeless invalid, but good enough for space."
Dan chuckled. Then he saw the pencil Jim was
holding, and dropped onto the bunk, shaking his head as if it had been a deed
to a gold mine. "You shouldn't have done it," he kept repeating, but
his face was beaming.
Nora was ecstatic with her gift, and Terrence
refused to believe the watch was for him. Jim wished he'd thought to get
something for some of the others. The absence of luxuries here had made
everything triply valuable, and the rocket could have handled the few extra
pounds.
There
was a message for him to see Thorndyke, and he went down to the engineer's
office. The man was frowning down at the messages from the rocket, but he
looked up and held out a hand to Jim.
"How'd
you like to take over the taxi?" he asked. "You've had a little
experience, which is more than the rest of us can say. No, wait a minute."
He pulled one of the papers over to him and studied it, worry and disgust on
his face. "It's going to be a different job, Jim. The government is
picking up its option on the military parts of the station at once. They
haven't bothered to extend our deadline, but there's nothing we can do. You'll
probably be sort of a glorified errand boy to the brass, and the freighting is
going to be heavier than before. They want grapples added to the taxi, so you
can figure it out for yourself. Do you still want the job?"
"I
came up here to work, sir," Jim answered him. And then his answer startled
him. He'd been meaning to ask for Jerry's job; but now that he had it, he had
doubts. He'd heard stories of the treatment civilians sometimes got from
military officials.
Thorndyke
seemed relieved. "Good. I wish I had
a hundred men like you. Jim, what are you going to do when this gets finished,
if it ever does?"
"I don't know," he admitted. He'd tried to
think of an answer, since he'd first swallowed the fact that he could never
qualify as a pilot now. "Why, sir?"
Thorndyke
played with the papers again, sighing. "Just wondering. I'd hoped . . .
Well, there were rumors that we might get another station to build. Television
only reaches about a hundred miles now; but if they could get a station
twenty-two thousand miles up where it swings around the Earth just once a
day—making it stay over the same spot at all times —they'd have a perfect relay
station to cover the whole hemisphere. I wanted to recommend you for a job
there. But now, if we don't finish this job on schedule . . . Oh, go to bed,
Jim. We'll work something out."
The
engineer was more worried than Jim had thought. He looked at the production
chart on the way out, and scowled. He hadn't known they were that far behind
schedule. And with the military work forced on them before they were ready, it
would be worse. Something drastic had to be done. Sometimes when a job fell too
far behind, a whole crew was fired!
The
next day, Jim worked in the machine shop installing the grapples outside the
taxi, while the work crews were installing a special lock for the taxi on the
hub. It would make it possible for him to drive directly into a shock absorber
and open the taxi right into the freight-handling section of the hub. And with
the grapples, he could handle freight that would be too big to load inside the
little ship.
There
was trouble in getting the hub to work right, though. It was supposed to turn
on bearings so that motors could cancel its spin while the taxi docked in the
lock and unloaded. Then power could be applied to drive back into
synchronization with the rest of the station for moving the freight down the
tube. But the big bearings had to be put into place exactly, and Dan drove his
crew overtime completing the job.
They
were barely finished when the rockets began bringing up the military personnel
and supplies. They had built four new rockets, and the ships were making two
trips a day now. Jim found himself run ragged trying to keep up with it. And
his first experience wasn't a pleasant one. A major climbed into the taxi,
wheezing from that fat that spelled soft living, and sniffed disdainfully at
what he saw.
"Well,
I expected to rough it. Young man, I suppose you've been instructed to hold
yourself ready for my orders at all times?"
"No, sir," Jim
told him.
"Well,
you are instructed now. Umm. I think you can begin by taking me around the
whole station. I want a good view of my command, naturally."
Jim pointed toward his fuel gauge. "I
can't do that, sir. There isn't enough fuel now. Also, I've got a bunch of
freight to move. My instructions were to deliver you to the station. Sorry,
sir."
Thorndyke
fumed when the major went in to have Jim fired. "I have to get that kind
of officer, of course! Jim, if you have trouble, report it to me. Your salary
is being paid by Major Electric, not by Major Trequil!"
Somehow,
though, Jim managed to keep things from coming to a head. He swallowed most of
the major's orders, and avoided telling Thorndyke about the others. Most of the
personnel arriving to handle the military installations were good men, rigidly
tested before they were sent up. And the engineer was having enough trouble in
diverting his work forces to rush through completion of the sections occupied
by the observatory and guided missile divisions.
Then
the bombs came up. Jim had never seen an atomic-armed guided missile, but it
took no great genius to guess what they were as he juggled them with the
grapples. There seemed to be no end to them. He was getting the hang of
jockeying the taxi by then, but it meant long hours of overtime to handle the
freight.
It
was wonderful progress, he thought bitterly. The science sections waited, while
the means for destruction took precedence. He knew it was necessary, since the
relations between the United States and the Combine had deteriorated steadily.
But the picture of the station as just a vast superfort, while all the things
that could enrich the whole Earth waited, wasn't the ideal he'd dreamed of. He
knew that Jerry had been a fanatic—and yet this looked very much like what the
man had feared.
He
wondered about Jerry, briefly. It wouldn't be a death sentence, he was sure,
and he was glad of that.
Then
the reaction of the Earth to the news that the station was being built came in.
Mark brought up a load of the tissue editions of the papers, and Jim dived into
them as soon as he was free.
Some
of the commentators felt the renewed hope that Jim had once expected. But
almost as many were angrily denouncing the government for wasting money that
should have gone for more battleships and planes. One came out firmly with the
idea that the government had placed the nation in peril by frittering away
money on cosmic toys while other nations were building armies.
The
letters from the readers filled a whole page. He skipped over the fanatic notes
about tampering with What Wasn't Meant to Be. The rest showed confusion. Some
wanted to believe, but were unsure of what they could believe; others wanted to
disbelieve, and yet somehow clung to the feeling that there was more there than
had been announced. It was as if some strange pressure had been relieved while
a new one replaced it.
On
the international front, things were worse. The Combine had sounded off at once
to the World Congress, demanding that action be taken against the
United
States for building a frightful weapon against all humanity. A number of
nations supposedly friendly to the United States had supported the demand.
At
the same time, the official press of the Combine began boasting that they had a
station planned which could be sent up in sections and assembled before the
present one was finished. They claimed flatly that they had rockets driven by
atomic power which could haul up immense weights without delay!
It
sounded like a wild boast, and yet Jim shuddered. Someday, there would be
atomic rockets—at least for all use beyond the atmosphere. If the Combine had
developed them . . .
It
looked as if the station had only made things worse! Jim tried to stop the
doubts, but it was impossible. And he could see the same doubts on the faces of
the other men. They were working, but without the drive they would need to have
any hopes of finishing in time.
He
went out to the taxi for the next load, to find Major Trequil waiting in the
lock. "Inspection, Mr. Stanley!" the major announced stiffly.
"I'm within my rights! I intend to see how you handle those missiles. I've
had complaints!"
Jim
shrugged. He was sure there had been no complaints, but he knew there would be
after the major finished. But there was nothing to do about that. The man had
managed to waste the time of a whole crew while fussing about the exact
location of his desk. And the workers were already grumbling about the pampering
the military personnel were getting. They had a short-wave radio in their
recreation room. The workers didn't have a phonograph.
Jim
picked up three men who came out in space suits as the bombs were being shoved
out of the evacuated cargo section. He shook his head in annoyance as the major
began back-seat driving while he settled the grapples over one. But he managed
to catch the bomb snugly, and headed back toward the station.
He
was heading along on course when the major jumped up, bobbing against the
ceiling of the taxi to stare out of the little bubble top.
"You're
high! You're going to miss!" he cried excitedly. "Mr. Stanley, your
incompetence—"
"I'm
dropping the bomb into the freight lock first," Jim told him. "After
that I'll make another pass into the lock and let you out."
"You'll
keep me waiting—" the major began indignantly. He let go of the back of
the seat to emphasize his point, and began drifting. One of his hands hit the
control on the grapple.
The
bomb broke free and went headlong along on momentum toward the center of the
hub, where it could crash through the wall with its momentum. And the men
inside the hub would be working without space suits!
ChCiptCr 14 Decision
and Rumor
i i
en working around the hub began blasting fran-II tically out of the way as the bomb twisted free of jyl the grapples, but Jim had no time to worry about ■ ■ the few
when so many were involved. He shoved the yelling major out of the way and
began twisting his gyroscope control. The bomb had torn loose from one grapple
just as Jim had been making a slight corrective blast, and then had ripped from
the other at an angle, slewing sideways.
He
didn't dare to miss, or there would be no second chance. And once above it, he
had no way to see what the grapples were doing. At the rockets, men had coasted
the bomb out into the waiting jaws and signaled when he was to grab. This had
to be done by feel.
He
waited, holding his breath as the taxi came around over the twisting bomb. Then
he hit the grapple controls and felt something catch under him. He couldn't
check on how tightly it had been secured. The
globe
of the hub was already dangerously close. He pushed the wailing gyros to the
limit and blasted out with the rocket motor.
There was a wrenching as the force of the
rocket began to work against the momentum of the bomb, but the grapples held.
Slowly, he began to gain control. The station hub seemed to be touching the
taxi, and he tried to coax a gram more of thrust out of the motor.
They
shaved within inches of the wall of the hub, but the miss was complete.
He
hauled the bomb further out into space, lined it up, and released it. While it
was sailing into the lock, he cut around for another pass, and came heading in.
The shock basket in front of the lock caught him, and he came to a smooth stop
against the seal. Men in the hub snaffled the taxi tight, and threw open the
airseals. The major bounced out first, while Jim was turning to give his three
other passengers a hand.
"Young man," Major Trequil was
shouting, "after this incompetence, you can consider yourself fired. You
risked my life with your foolhardy stunting, and I will not tolerate .. T
Jim
swung slowly, pulling off the helmet. He had conquered his temper years
before—but he'd also learned that there were times when a man had to stand up
for himself. "Major Trequil, you don't hire me, nor do you fire me! And
now, if you'll take off your space suit, I've got something that every man in
this station wants you to have! Or would you rather admit you're a coward?"
Major Trequil screamed in rage, and began
reaching for his zipper, to Jim's surprise. But another voice cut in sharply.
"All
right, Jim. That won't solve anything, either." The men from the rocket
had pulled off their helmets, and Jim gasped. The speaker was the man who had
first interviewed him—Colonel Halpern. He turned to the shocked Major Trequil
now.
"I've
been hearing reports of your incompetence, Major," he said. "You've
confirmed them. You can consider yourself relieved of command here and you
will return on the next rocket. I'll have a brief ready to return with
you." He saluted and watched while Trequil staggered off. Then he turned
to Jim. "I'll expect your co-operation, Jim," he said.
"You'll
get it, sir," Jim promised him. The relief of seeing the command shift to
a man who knew his business was almost physical. He was sure that Halpern was
competent.
The
change in command helped the station morale somewhat. But it was deteriorating
too fast for anything to repair it. There was a fight in the kitchen, and the
hazing of the new men grew vicious. Most of the tension was coming from their
uncertainty, but it centered on Earth. Normally, Thorndyke was a good boss.
But he wasn't able to handle this situation. Work fell further behind. Jim kept
an eye on the production chart, and grew sicker as the schedule fell further
and further behind.
The presence of the military personnel alone
was a source of trouble. The men behaved well, but they were a constant
reminder to the station gang that other men would take over the work they did.
And there seemed to be no future for them below.
Jim
wished now that the news of the station had never been released. Nations began
to pull away from their solidarity with the Alliance in the debates at the
World Congress. They had studied the orbit of the station and found that during
its two-hour circle around the Earth, it passed over nearly every country, and
had a clear view far beyond its actual passage.
Rumors
of other stations grew wilder, with one South American nation even claiming
they had a station built on the ground which would be sent up in a single
piece. It was impossible, since no rocket that big could be built—it would have
covered half the globe; and no station light enough for even such a rocket
would be strong enough to stand the terrific acceleration. But some of the men
in the station believed it until Thorn-dyke finally managed to convince them.
Then the rumor that the Combine had guided missiles ready to send against the
station gained favor.
When
the men, with full information available, could believe such things, it was no
wonder that the people below were becoming panicky. The unemployment figures
were going up, adding to the trouble. Apparently the government was counting on
the station, and cutting back on its other projects.
That meant that the men here would have even
less future, once the station was done. If they had been up to schedule, and if
the television industry had decided to build the second station, there would
have been something to hope for. But now that seemed to have been abandoned.
Jim's
own worries about his future had increased. He would have money waiting for
him, but it wouldn't last forever. Aside from his space work, he had little experience
that would get him a decent job. He still wanted to finish his education, but
he had no idea of what to specialize in, now that rocketry was out.
Nora
caught him in the hall while he was brooding, and dragged him to the newly
finished recreation room. "You haven't dropped in to see me for a week,
Jim," she protested. "You can't bury yourself in your shell, at least
not all the time."
He
tried to laugh it off, but ended by spilling all his worries to her. It felt
good to get them off his chest, and Nora was a good listener.
She
sighed, when he finished. "It's too bad we don't have more men like
Bart," she decided. "He kept the men from thinking too much about
things they couldn't help. Mr. Bailey knows his business, but he keeps to
himself too much, too. And you're even worse. Jim, the men think a lot of you.
You could do a lot to help. But there's nobody here to lead them."
Bart's
words came into his mind. He finally left Nora and started toward his quarters,
trying to figure it out. He'd meant to follow Bart's advice, but instead he'd
turned into even more of a lone wolf. He knew it was wrong, but he had no idea
of what to do about it.
Abruptly, he swung around and headed for the
cabin Terrence shared with another man. He found the little man sitting over a
clipping from one of the papers, staring at it lugubriously. It was an account
of how the Cuban Government had protested the building of the space station
without consultation among friendly nations.
Jim
dropped into the opposite bunk. "Forget it, Terrence. Cuba isn't unique.
About half of our own government is condemning the other half for starting
this."
Terrence
shook his head. "Maybe." Then he stared at Jim, studying his face.
"Jim, you don't look good. You've been killing yourself. How about a game
of darts?"
They
went up to the recreation room. There was only a small group of men there,
though it should have been the gathering place for all of them when they were
off. Most of them just sat tdking listlessly. It seemed impossible that things
had gone so much awry.
A
short, fat little man came up as they started to play and stood watching. He
was obviously bored and disgusted, and Jim invited him to join them,
introducing himself and Terrence.
"Phil
Ross," the other acknowledged. "The most wasted biologist on
record."
It
turned out that he'd been sent up to install a new air system, just before the
military needs had taken up everyone's time on the station. Tanks and cans of
frozen algae had been sent up ahead, and were piled in a dump a mile away. He'd
been trying to get the use of a crew of men and the taxi to make the
installation, but so far all he'd got was Thorndyke's sympathy.
"It's
ridiculous, too," he added, aiming at the target and missing as he threw
too hard. "It takes three pounds of oxygen plus containers for every man
here each day. That's a lot of weight to ferry up from Earth. And it's pure
waste. Three square feet of algae in water an inch deep will supply enough air
for one man—and do it permanently, by breaking down the carbon dioxide to
release the oxygen. The plumbing is in, there's space for my project, and all
the supplies. So nothing happens."
Jim
considered it. Here was work that needed doing badly, while he'd been trying to
find some means of speeding things up. Bart would have got it done, he was
sure. And abruptly, Jim decided that this was his test.
Thorndyke
gave him permission to use the taxi without bothering to ask his purpose. He
let Terrence in on his plans, and they went around contacting the gang who had
worked under Bart. The idea of getting the old gang together offered enough
interest for them to accept, and they all appeared after work in a corner of
the recreation room. And for a while the conversation was animated. Then it
lagged, while Jim tried to think of a way to sell them his idea.
"Three
more girls came up the last trip," one of them announced during one of the
lulls. "We ought to get a radio or a phonograph. Throw a dance! The guys
over in military have a radio."
Abruptly, Jim saw the angle he'd been looking
for.
He
could almost hear Bart's words in his head. He nodded. "They've got
everything. And we can't even get fresh air because we're too busy on their
projects." He told them about Ross and the air system, making it sound as
simple and glamorous as he could.
One
of the men reacted as Jim had hoped. "Yeah, it's like them. The regular
men and noncoms ain't so bad. But the graft they pull. . ."
"For
two cents," Terrence cut in quickly, picking up the lead, "I'd show
them a thing or two. Man, I'm tired of smelling generator oil just to keep them
in style. Hey, I wonder if that fresh air would actually work?"
He
had raised his voice. Phil Ross had been sitting at the opposite end of the
hall, and now he came over. It took half an hour of tossing it around, but in
the end the men got up and began putting on their suits. Jim went for the taxi,
and came back to find Nora also dressed to help, daring him by her looks to
send her back. But he felt too good over his victory.
There
was plenty to do. That part of the station was still unfinished. Huge windows
of heavy plastic had to be installed to let in the sunlight, and equipped with
shutters to regulate the amount. The inner walls had to be put up, and the
whole made airtight. There were the tanks to be coupled to the plumbing, and
blowers to be connected to the air ducts. Jim lugged the supplies in the taxi,
saving time by dropping them through the open walls of the section. It made it
hard work to match speed with the rotating station and hold the taxi in a
circular orbit, but it took care of the handling easily.
They hardly made a dent in the job during the
f our hours they worked the first night, and Jim had visions of the men giving
up before any real progress could show.
Congress
took care of that for him. A bill was introduced by one of the representatives
to take over the station and build it with Army personnel. He made it sound
attractive as a way of saving time and money, and it took fast work on the part
of the opposing side to get the bill voted down by the narrow margin of two
votes.
Jim
was pretty sure that the Army didn't want the job, and he knew that Halpern had
fumed when he read of it. But the rumor had spread through the station that the
military branches were trying to get Congress to kick out the workers and let
the Army take over. The next evening there was a bigger turnout for work.
It
took the men only four days altogether to complete the job, and at the end over
half the working force of the station was busy on it, using their own time
without grumbling. It felt like the first days of the station. And Jim had
noticed that it hadn't hurt the rest of the work. The men who worked nights
kidded the others about being lazy, and then had to pitch in on their regular
jobs to keep up with the men they'd been ribbing— until it was a contest
between the overtime and the non-overtime workers.
Jim
had been doubtful of the algae's ability to function after being frozen solid
for the trip; but the green stuff in the tanks began to form little bubbles
after
Ross's
treatment of it. It wasn't the freshest air in the world, but it was better
than the canned stuff. And when they cut off the oxygen bottles, there was no
loss of breathability.
They
would still need oxygen bottles for a reserve, but the big shipment was no
longer necessary. As they broke up, Jim wondered whether he could get
Thorn-dyke to have some small luxuries sent up. They wouldn't weigh as much as
the oxygen, and they'd help keep the men happy.
Thorndyke
shook his head. "Not until the military stock pile is complete, Jim. Come
on back here, I want to talk to you."
He
lead the way past the desks of the other engineers into his small private
office.
"I
appreciate what you did on that air plant," he said. He smiled for a
second. "Sure, I knew all about it, and we needed the work, too. But don't
plan on any more like it. For one thing, it won't work. The men liked the
game—but the next time, it will be work, not fun. They catch on. For another,
we can't risk any serious bad relations with the military personnel here. Stop
and think a minute. Nora tells me you keep trying to do what Bart would have
done. But did Bart ever stir up any hatred?"
"No,
sir." There'd been the kidding of the college men, but that had been in
front of their faces, and they'd soon discovered it was just a running gag.
"I didn't want to start any hatred."
"And it didn't, this time. Or nothing
that's serious.
Colonel
Halpern's informed Earth his men need two radios, and he's going to lend one to
our recreation hall That should patch up any hard feeling. But if you drove the
point home harder—as you'd have to next time—it would wind up in enmity between
the two groups."
Jim
stood up to go. Thorndyke motioned him back to the seat. "One thing more.
Dan Bailey's quitting, and he has asked me to put you in as foreman in his
place. But-"
"Dan's
quitting?" It shocked Jim. He'd counted on Dan to the bitter end.
"Why?"
Thorndyke
sighed. "You ask him. I tried to find out why. But he's been here over six
months, so he has the right. Anyhow, Jim, what I wanted to say was that I don't
think you're ready to be a foreman yet. You're probably the best man I have—no,
I mean that—but even though the men have a lot of respect for you, I don't
think you're close enough to them. Besides, I need a good taxi jockey. So I'm
making Terrence Rodriguez foreman. Okay?"
"Okay—and
you've got a good man," Jim said. He shoved up from his chair and headed
back to his own cabin.
He'd
tried to do what Bart had asked, and he'd thought he was succeeding. Instead,
he'd only been kidding himself.
Chapter 15 Blowup in Space
an cxduldn't be shaken from his decision. Tm going to marry one of the girls who
first came up here— Marge Whitely," he explained to Jim. "And there's
no future in this. The work isn't getting done. When the time is up and the
penalty clause is put into effect, every foreman here will have a black mark
against him. Or maybe Major Electric will fire the whole crew tomorrow, the
way things are going. I'm going back and handle the coupling of the rocket
stages."
Jim
hadn't even known that Dan was interested in one of the girls, though they had
been roommates for weeks now. No wonder Thorndyke didn't think he was close
enough to the men. He told the foreman of the conversation.
Dan
shrugged. "Thorndyke doesn't know how to handle men liimself. He should
have followed through when you got them stirred up. But don't think Bart could
have done it, either. You've got to stop making
a
hero of Bart. He was a great guy. But when he was here, we had a small group
and everybody was happy being here. He gave you some good advice about getting
to know people, and you'll feel better if you follow it. But stop trying to be
someone else, boyl"
The
next day Jim took him and a rather plain, pleasant girl out to the rocket that
was to carry him back to Earth. He'd tried to think of some fancy speech for
farewell, but he finally stuck out his hand. "Going to miss you,
Dan!"
The
older man nodded, gulping. "See you, boy!" Then the rocket swallowed
him, and Jim had to head back for the station, wondering for the hundredth time
if he shouldn't have gone along while the going was good.
The
radio arrived from Colonel Halpern in time for them to hear the end of the
debate at the World Congress. Jim had wondered what would come of it. The
small nations wanted all stations outlawed; the Combine wanted the United
States condemned and forced to wait until another station could be built; and a
few idealists wanted the space station taken over by the World Congress to put
teeth into world government. Nobody had enough votes to pass a proposal, and
after a long huddle, they came up with what they called a compromise.
The
ruling was that space was not a national affair. There was no statement that it
was an international affair, however. The Combine claimed a victory and blasted
the United States for using the station for national purposes in space. The
United States claimed a similar victory, pointing to the fact that the sea was
not a national affair, but that ships on it served national ends. Boiled down,
the decision had said exactly nothing.
Jim
went away sick. The men doing the debating had never seen a space station.
They'd never looked down on the Earth from a height of a thousand miles and
seen what an easy target it would be. They didn't spend their time moving over
national boundaries until nations blurred together.
In
irresponsible hands, the station could be used to make slaves of the rest of
the world. In the right hands, it could make war impossible by flatly warning
the nations that the first act of war would lead to extermination of all
military centers. But even then, while the nations were learning that, the
results could be horrible.
So
long as some peoples could be made to believe in the same old ways and hates,
there was no safety, even from the station. It would do little good to bomb the
Combine, if the Combine first dropped fifty hydrogen bombs on the cities of the
United States. The station might end the war, but it would be a victory little
better than death.
Jim
had dreamed of a station which could help the whole world. Accurate weather
predictions for weeks ahead would save billions from damage to crops and
property. With the conditions of space in which to work, science might move
ahead by long leaps. Astronomy would enter a new era when there was no thick
blanket of air to make their pictures fuzzy and unclear. And men could go on to
other planets.
The
only use for the station being discussed now was its military value. Everything
had to wait for the bombs. And the men on the station had no inspiration beyond
fear to make them work.
The
next day the radio brought the news that the Combine had developed an atomic
rocket and atomic guided missiles. Details were to be announced to the world
within the next few days.
It
was Halpem's face, when he went to confer with Thorndyke, that gave the first
indication that this was more than a boast. The flat promise of details must
have taken it out of the usual propaganda class.
Nora
shook her head suddenly, and called Jim over to a group who were discussing it.
"Jim, isn't the station safe from all guided missiles?"
He
wanted to lie to them, to tell them they were in no danger. But he knew that
word would get out sooner or later.
"From
most guided missiles," he answered. "They'd have to be almost the
size of the rocket ships, and we could get our own missiles out to intercept
them. We're a small target and hard to hit, if the enemy has only a few bombs.
But with atomic-powered rockets—I don't know. They could accelerate a lot
longer, probably, so that they'd arrive at a terrific speed. And they'd be
smaller, harder to spot in time, and cheaper—which means more could be
used."
It was the first time there had been any
reason to think that they might be in personal danger up here. But once they
could be reached, they'd be the first target of any nation wanting to make war.
Eight
men quit their jobs that night, and nothing Thorndyke could do would make them
stay. Work slowed down even further.
The
Combine lived up to its word this time. Two days later Mark brought up the
papers, and the front pages carried the details on the new Combine developments.
There
were diagrams and scientific formulae. It was nothing like the usual propaganda
release. In fact, there were no absurd claims. They simply stated what they
had, listing the ability of the new ship. The figures were incredible to anyone
who was used to the three-stage chemical rockets. But with power from the atom,
those figures could very well be true.
There
were even plans for the rocket ship, and Jim pored over them. Usually an
artist's drawing of a future development has everything too orthodox and
similar to everything else, or too completely new. These drawings looked like
the real thing. The construction of the rocket nozzle was unlike any Jim had
ever seen—but it looked practical. Some of the framing of the actual rocket
showed that it had been designed by someone who had calculated the stresses and
strains carefully, and built to fit them.
The
scientists on Earth were being cautious. Of course, the material released
wasn't complete—it held back a number of facts which would be needed for the
building of such a ship, as was to be expected.
But
nothing that was stated or claimed was impossible, though it would seem to be
quite advanced.
There
was no one on the station who was an expert on atomic power, since none was
used in space, due to its need for heavy, massive shielding. Thorndyke was the
best man they could find to ask.
"How
about it, Mr. Thorndyke?" one of the men called out to him as he came out
of the military section. "How much of this is propaganda? What are they
doing—trying to scare us long enough for them to work up some dirty trick? I've
seen this big secret stuff of theirs before."
"It's
too early to be sure, but it looks as if they have something. Maybe they've
exaggerated the figures a little, though." Thorndyke grinned at the man,
and went on into his office, leaving some relief behind him. Everyone had a
clear idea of how much the Combine could exaggerate.
But
Jim found Thorndyke with his head on his hands, staring at the charts and
diagrams in the paper with eyes red from lack of sleep and from worry. There
was no smile now. He nodded to Jim. "This time, I guess they've got
it—maybe even that sectional station they were talking about. It could be built
up a lot faster on the ground, and with atomic power they might be able to haul
up such sections. They've been boasting they can have a station up before we
finish. Maybe they can."
"Then
we'd better get our station in working order first, and hope they don't have
quite all they claim,"
Jim
said. He'd tried to sound hopeful, but the doubt crept into his voice before he
could finish.
Thorndyke
sighed, and looked at the production chart. "I don't know. Sometimes I
think we're licked." "How about putting on more men to rush the
job?" "We've got all we can. And now those who can are quitting.
We'll probably lose them faster than we can find volunteers who will pass the
tests." The engineer sighed. "Jonas is in Washington now, trying to
get them to extend our time limit."
Even
Nora was beginning to lose faith. "My grandfather was a doctor," she
told Jim. "An old style one. He drove a horse and buggy when all the
others were using cars. And when they were building a fine new hospital in our
town, Granddad had to sell the horse to pay his taxes. Nobody wanted the buggy.
There's no use trying to keep on with old ideas if someone has something
better."
Jim
wavered then. But a stubborn streak in him held out. And now he was beginning
to know some of the men.
He had started to hang around their groups in the background,
trying to find
horn their talk why the work was so slow. It was soon obvious that none of them knew. As far
as they could tell, they were working harder than before, even though they were
accomplishing less. But since Jim had studied some rocketry, he was the nearest
thing to an authority they had, and he was drawn into their conversations. Somehow,
knowing them by name didn't seem to make him much closer, though.
All he could learn was that they were worried
about staying on the station where any day might bring an atomic guided missile
and even more worried about going back to Earth where things were happening
that they couldn't understand at all.
"If
the Combine planned this to keep us from finishing," he told Nora,
"they did a good job of it."
But
it wasn't all propaganda. Ten days later, the Combine announced that their new
rocket had taken off for an orbit around Earth. The report cut into a program
of light music, a translation of the official report.
"We
interrupt this program to bring you an important announcement," the
announcer began in routine words, but with a shocked voice. "At eleven p.m.,
New York time, a one-stage
atomic rocket lifted from the airfield outside the Combine capital, carrying
three men. It is reported to have a total weight of four hundred tons, of which
less than two tons are fuel. The ship took off in an easterly direction, after
rising to a height of nearly thirty miles. Some observers report that it
reached an acceleration of twice that of any other rocket, though this seems
unlikely, since acceleration is limited by the ability of the human body to
take such strain. Neutral observers who were present by invitation of the
Combine report that there can be no question but that it was an atomic-powered
ship, however . . ."
Thorndyke stepped into the room and stopped,
staring at the radio. From the military section, Colonel
Halpern
came running toward them. He stared at the blasting radio, and nodded. He was
stunned.
"So
you heard it," he said. "It's true. We had confirmation from one of
our own rockets that was coming in on a landing! One stage! They must have had
it when they first announced it!"
Men
were streaming into the recreation room as the word was spread throughout the
station. A group of men from the outside hadn't even removed their helmets.
Halpern
turned back to his own quarters. "If your place is too small, send any who
want to come over to us. There's no secrecy up here any more, anyhow."
A
few of the men filed after him, and more left as the last of the workers forced
their way into the crowded room.
Jim
still couldn't believe it. Neither of the two known atomic reactions was
suitable. The bomb let loose a terrific force, but so quickly that it could
shatter its container before giving thrust; the atomic pile gave out a steady
stream of energy which could be controlled, but, for its weight, any of the
chemical explosives was capable of more thrust.
Even
the ideal of all fuel combinations, the theoretically perfect mixture of
fluorine and beryllium, however, couldn't deliver the thrust that the ship
being described had developed. It had to be a true atomic rocket.
"Naval
radar stations have detected the flight of the Combine rocket over the Western
Coastal waters of the United States," the radio announced. "From a
hasty plotting of its path, it seems that it intends to take up an orbit 180
degrees behind our own station—in the same orbit, but on the other side of the
Earth."
A few of the listeners looked disappointed.
Most of them seemed relieved. Obviously there was much more fear of the Combine
rocket than there was curiosity about it.
Thorndyke
spotted the fear and shook his head. "There's no danger from this
rocket," he told them. "It's a demonstration, not a military attack
on us. You're all perfectly safe. And if there ever is any danger, you'll be
shipped to Earth at the first sign."
"If
I'm going to die, I'd rather die right here," one of the men shouted.
There was a sudden murmur of agreement and countermutter of disagreement.
A
few more reports came in to indicate that the path of the rocket was being
followed. Once its general path was known, and radar stations were alerted, a
few of the bigger installations could locate it. The first estimate of its path
seemed to be completely correct. It was rising on an ascent that would put it
at the same height as the station.
"We've
had an eyewitness account through neutral channels," the radio piped up.
"One added feature emerges. The Combine rocket had small steering vanes,
but no gliding wings. It must depend on the full use of its rocket power to
descend, without using a gliding approach."
It was like saying that they had so much
power they enjoyed wasting it. To come down on rocket power took the same
amount of power as going up.
Then
abruptly there was a sharp, shocked sound from the radio, followed by a second
of silence. When the voice sounded again, it was incredulous, loud, and as
slow-spoken as a man coming out of a deep sleep.
"Attention!
Attention! Word has just been received that the Combine rocket exploded forty
seconds after achieving a stable orbit. Repeat, the Combine rocket has
exploded. The Combine radio has gone off the air, but the explosion was clearly
seen by a telescope observer, whose position fix agrees with all predictions of
the path of the rocket. The Combine rocket has exploded."
Castaways from Earth
r |
ere was stunned
silence in the station. Jim gazed around, seeing some faces showing relief
while others held the shock normal to news of any catastrophe. He himself was
numbed from the strain and the final announcement. The words that still came
babbling out of the radio meant nothing to him. He dropped into a seat as
another man got up excitedly, staring at the lighted dial, but hardly hearing
the sounds from the speaker.
He
felt someone shaking his shoulder and looked around in annoyance. Mark Emmett
was standing behind him, his space suit helmet shoved back, staring at the
crowd.
"What's
going on here?" he asked. "Nobody brings me the taxi out when I orbit
in, there's nobody in the hub—and now you act as if the world just blew up!
Hey, don't tell me that war—"
"Not quite," Jim answered. He
filled in the facts as quickly as he could while Mark squeezed in beside him.
The radio began repeating the news, and Jim kept quiet for Mark to listen.
The
pilot shook his head to clear it. "I saw them rushing around on the field
just before I took off. But I didn't know a thing about it."
Thorndyke
leaned forward, turning the volume up suddenly. The announcer's voice had lost
its drone of repetition, and was calling, demanding attention.
"... a radio appeal to the United States, claiming the men on the exploded
rocket are still alive. This unprecedented action has caused a furor in the
World Congress, where the Combine delegate was caught in the middle of an
accusation of the United States as the party responsible for the blowup of the
ship. Here is the radio message:
"
'To the Government of the United States of America! The Combined People's
States of Europe and Asia have received a distress signal from the rocket which
so unfortunately exploded while setting new records for science. This indicates
that the men aboard are still alive. Among these men is the illustrious younger
nephew of our glorious leader, whose work with rocket-propelled planes and short-range
rockets has made his renown universal. In the name of the brotherhood of
humanity, the Combined People's States ask the assistance of the United States
of America in the rescue of these brave heroes!'
"The government is reported to be
readying a reply, indicating everything will be done to save the men. This will
be announced as soon as it is released. Meantime . .
Jim
frowned. The "illustrious younger nephew" must be Peter Chiam, the
number one choice to succeed the ruler, who really had established records with
his rocket work. The Combine must have been absolutely sure of success to let
him go on the ship.
He
heard the announcer say something about the Combine estimating that there were
oxygen supplies for only six more hours on the ship, and felt Mark suddenly
stiffen.
"The
other rockets on the field won't be ready by then! They don't have one
assembled yet. It'll take them eight hours to get ready. Jim, how much fuel do
you have stored here for the taxi?"
"Several
tons. Mark! Do you think you can do it from here?"
"Why
bother?" someone yelled. "Let 'em die! They-"
He was booed down at once. A lot of the men
could remember what it felt like to be castaways from Earth, with their oxygen
running out. Combine men or not, the crew of the wrecked ship were human
beings.
Mark
was figuring a rough orbit. He'd have to take off upward from the station
orbit, adding speed to carry him well out into space, until the pull of the
Earth could pull the ship back to the orbit he'd left. It would take the
Combine wreck two hours to swing around and back to the other side of the
Earth. He would have to swing out far enough to make up the difference between
that and the single hour it would take the station to reach the same spot. The
return would be the same, to bring them back where they had started.
He
threw the paper to Jim. "It may work. You get the men in the bombsighting
section to figure this out, Jim, while I get the rocket ready. And get ready to
come along, if this works. I'll need someone who's used to juggling a ship the
way you handle the taxi, in case anything goes wrong. Game?"
For
a chance at the rocket controls, Jim would have gone if the chance had been
only one in a million. But the uniformed men in the bombing division fed the
necessary information into their computers and began solving for the closest
approximation without much doubt of the possibility. The final orbit and fuel
figures indicated it was going to be close, but there was some margin for
error. Colonel Halpera ordered the news transmitted to Earth, and Jim rushed
out to begin taxiing the extra fuel to the men working on the rocket tanks.
Nora
came out in her suit at the last minute, bringing three space suits for the
stranded men and emergency equipment to take care of them until they could be
returned. Dr. Perez, it seemed, had decided that his place was in the station
dispensary, and that Nora was more suited to the trip.
Jim settled into the copilot's seat while
Mark fed the orbit figures to the automatic pilot and gave him a last-second
briefing. "You'll handle all the juggling around we may have to do where
we have to fly by feel, and I'll handle the piloting on the regular orbit. The
controls are the same as those on your taxi, if you forget the ones you won't
need. It's bigger, but the same amount of acceleration and turnover will get
the same results. Okay, up ship!"
The
automatic pilot cut on the rockets for long seconds at reasonable
acceleration, and then cut them off. On the screen, the station seemed to drop
below them and begin moving ahead. They were making greater speed now, but
moving out where the circle around Earth was much longer. The station continued
to forge slowly ahead.
After
that, it was a long period of waiting while they rose slowly, losing speed, and
then began to turn under the force of Earth's gravity, to fall back toward the
orbit of the station. They would touch it exactly two hours after their start,
making this the longest flight ever attempted. Jim spent the time getting the
feel of the larger controls. He'd at least be able to say that he'd served a
hitch as a rocket man!
The
clicking of the automatic pilot was the first sure sign that they were nearing
their objective. The ship had turned over automatically, and now the rockets
blasted out, to bring them back to the same speed and orbit as the station, but
an hour behind it.
They
stared into the screens, looking for a sign of the wreck. At first there was
nothing but empty space. Then something seemed to slide over a star. They
stared
at it, while the radar reached out and pinpointed it. There was only one pip
showing on the screen. Mark lifted his hands from the controls. "Take
over!
Jim's
hands were sweating. The wreckage was about twenty miles away, and at a
slightly different speed and direction. He had to match course with it while
using the minimum amount of fuel. And there was no way of figuring it out
accurately on the piloting computers here.
He
tried to get the feel of it in his head. He'd long since reached the point
where the taxi was under his automatic control. But convincing himself that the
big rocket would work the same way over such a distance was rough work. His
hands were sweating as he finally reached out to cut on a gentle blast, after
turning the ship slightly on its gyroscopes. It felt right to him, and he had
to assume that it was right. He began turning on the gyroscopes as they drifted
toward the wreck.
Finally,
when it felt right to him, he used a counterblast to cut their speed. His eyes
froze on the screen that showed the wreck, while his body collapsed in the
contour seat.
Mark
sighed, showing that his confidence hadn't been as great as he had pretended.
"Good work, Jim. You didn't freeze. We're three hundred feet off side, and
holding steady enough. Okay, let's get over there."
They
slipped into their suits. Nora gathered up her equipment, and the two men took
the extra suits. They let the pumps evacuate the cargo space. It would be
simpler to leave the lock completely open for their return, rather than trying
to carry men who might be wounded through the narrow space, one door at a time.
What
was left of the Combine ship was a dull, burnt cinder of metal, with one edge
indicating that it had been built to break free from the power section at the
first sign of explosion. The control cabin must have been freed before the
explosion, in fact, since it hadn't been completely wrecked in the atomic
flare-up. In the vacuum of space, any blast carried much less violence than it
did where air could transmit the shock. Still, they must have had warning and
been free sometime before the power section blew itself into invisible dust.
They jumped off with the sureness of
experience, to land on the strange air lock. There was a lever there, and Mark
pulled it. Immediately, a section like the breechblock of a gun spun part way
around and turned outward. Inside the lock, they watched it close automatically,
while air rushed in. Then the inner door swung open by itself.
There
was good design here—and the luxury of automatic controls that were possible
when there was no limit to the amount of weight their blast could lift.
Three
men were stretched out on seats that seemed to be made of thin plastic filled
with some yielding liquid, and at first glance they all seemed to be dead. Then
the youngest one stirred, opening his eyes and
staring
at them. Jim bent down, not expecting to understand.
But
the words were in English. "Thanks, Yanks. Knew you'd come. Been hanging
on, waiting. I'm Peter Chiam, and they—they . . ."
He fell back, panting, his
eyes closed.
"Shock,"
Nora said, and began working with a hypodermic, while Jim and Mark started to
pull the space suits over the other two. She turned to them, making a quick
examination while they put a suit on Chiam. She was frowning when they turned
back.
"This
one seems to be all right," she said. "But the big man—there's no
sign of breath or pulse."
Jim
felt for the wrist, and then put his ear to the man's chest. The skin was
slightly cooler than his face, and there was no sound. He stood up,
straightening out the arms.
Mark
scurried around the cabin for a few seconds, studying the strange machines that
had controlled the ship. Then he reached for the smaller man, while Jim lifted
Chiam into his arms. They said nothing about the other, and made no effort to
remove the space suit. Where every ounce might count against their tiny reserve
of fuel, they could not afford to be sentimental about returning a body to its
people.
The
lock let them through automatically again, the inner seal clanging shut
quickly, and the outer seal closing after them. They kicked off into space,
heading to their own lock. Inside their rocket, they placed the two injured and
drugged men onto the extra contour seats and strapped them down.
Nora
was still working on the men, and Mark settled into his seat, drawing a small
notebook from the pouch of his folded space suit. "A souvenir," he
said, and there was a faint reddening of his face. "One of the men was
doodling all during the flight, as well as making notes. It's full of formulae
and idle jottings, as well as of their unreadable script. Maybe our scientists
can make something of it."
He
sounded apologetic. Jim grimaced. The idea of looting the wreck wasn't one he
cared for. Yet he knew he'd have picked it up, too, if he'd spotted it. Ethics
were twisted things in a world where men's relations with each other were
getting steadily worse.
Nora
came back to her seat and began buckling in, keeping an eye on her charges.
Mark sighed, and reached for the button on the automatic pilot.
Then
Jim shouted. It had been only a trace of movement on one of the screens, seen
out of the corner of his eye. But it had come where no movement could be. He
swung his head, hunting for it again. Then he pointed. "Mark! The lock—the
lock on the Combine ship is open!"
It
might have been some fault with the automatic controls of the lock. But Jim and
Mark came to their feet at once. Jim reached his suit and was into it first,
from greater experience. Mark dropped back to the pilot seat, letting him go.
He forced his way through the air lock, cursing the slowness of the device.
Then he was sailing across to the open lock of the Combine wreck.
The
air had rushed from the control cabin, since both doors of the lock had been
opened at once. He twisted through them, and into the cabin.
The
man who had been left for dead was staring at him out of the vision plate of
the sealed helmet. He had pulled himself up until one arm rested on a control
panel, and his finger was still stretched out onto the button that must have
controlled the lock. His eyes were wide open, staring at Jim with horror in them.
Then they relaxed, and he
sank slowly into himself.
Jim
lifted him easily in the weightlessness and felt a sob go through the man's
body. It must have been a horrible experience to waken and find the others
gone, to find himself deserted here, and not even to know whether the rescue
ship was near enough to summon again. He'd kept his wits, however. He'd given
the only signal he could, without faltering, and then had somehow hung on, not
daring to hope until he saw Jim's figure come through the lock.
Jim
put him onto the final chair in the rocket, and Nora went to him, using the
hypo again. Out of the helmet, the man's face was strained and ghastly white.
But he smiled faintly at the prick of the needle. "We thought you were
dead!" Nora gasped.
He nodded weakly. "I,
too, gracious ladyl"
Nora
avoided their eyes, but Mark reached a hand out as she sank to her chair.
"Jim thought he was dead,
too, girl. Forget it. We've all heard of
shock producing a coma that even the best doctors have mistaken for death.
Anyhow, he's safe."
He
gave her no time for an answer as he hit the button and the rocket blasted off
again, lifting into its arcing orbit that would bring them back near the space
station.
The
rescued men slept on under the drug, and Nora began using plasma on them to
counteract the shock effects as the ship sped on.
Finally
the rocket went on again, while Jim and Mark searched for the space station.
When the blast cut off, it lay less than three miles away. The errors in the
hastily computed orbit must have been partly canceled out by the maneuvering to
reach the wreck.
Jim
touched the controls, wondering how much fuel was left. He blasted, turned over
and waited. But there was enough fuel to bring them to a stop.
He
sat with the controls in his hands while Dr. Perez and others came out to them,
knowing that when he let go, his career as a pilot would be over. Then,
sighing, he stood up to help carry the men into the station.
Chapter 17\*ndtY Clause
roR a few days, Jim and Mark had been heroes. But at the end of a week they had
been forgotten on the front pages of the papers. Jim was glad when the shouting
was over.
The
three rescued men had pulled through, and were already back in Combine
territory. The fancy medals that the three on the rescue party had received
from the Combine had been stored away on Earth, forgotten.
The notebook had never been mentioned
publicly. But Jim had been told enough to satisfy most of his curiosity when
the scientists had finished going over it. The Combine method of getting slow
hydrogen fission was one that had been suggested before, but never tried; and
decision to use it had been caused by a hidden error that had given misleading
results to their whole attack on it. It was a minor miracle that the explosion
had taken so long.
Yet in the notebook had been other formulae
and equations that opened up new possibilities, when coupled with the knowledge
the scientists already had. The Combine had developed side trails on atomics,
and the combination of those and what was already known might lead to true
atomic-powered space flight someday—twenty years or so in the future.
Alter
that, there were only unpleasant repercussions. A man on one of the
appropriations subcommittees in Congress began a series of systematic attacks
on the way the station was being built, suggesting slyly that it was behind
schedule because men were wasting their time and the taxpayers' money on
romantic publicity tricks. Papers that had cheered wildly a few days before
thought it over and decided that there was a lot of truth in the speech.
It
didn't help when an announcement came out that Peter Chiam's wife had given
birth to twins shortly after his return, and that they were named James and
Mark. There were strange attempts at humor then about the rarefied atmosphere
of our good relations with the Combine. The paper with the largest circulation
ran a lead cartoon with a thermometer marked "warm above 1000, freezing
below." It was reprinted widely.
Jim
came in from ferrying in the last of the military equipment. That one section
of the station was now completed. He went into Thorndyke's office to give him
the official mail that had come out on the rocket.
Thorndyke motioned him into a seat, and began
tearing the letters open, skimming them. He threw one across the desk, where
Jim could see it. "That kills that. Our appeal to have the date for
completion delayed was denied. It looks as if we're going to be held to our
penalty clause."
"What
is this penalty clause?" Jim asked. He'd heard about it for months, but it
had never been explained.
Thorndyke
leaned back wearily. "A result of my own bad estimate, I guess. I went
over the plans when the government secretly asked for bids on the station, and
I estimated we could do it in nine months. So our bid carried a time limit of
one year. And they insisted on a penalty clause if it couldn't be finished by
then. Under that, if it's not completed by the end of the year, the entire
station reverts to the government at that time, and the government can then
hire anyone it chooses to finish the project, at the expense of Major Electric,
plus a fine for each day for the inconvenience caused. It isn't such an unusual
arrangement. But whoever completes the station won't worry about expenses. It
won't drive Major Electric bankrupt—but it will hurt more than any company can
afford to take. Darn it, I told them I was an engineer, not a supervisor. But
they insisted on sending me out here!"
Thorndyke
went back to his brooding, while Jim turned to the production chart. At the
beginning, they had done better than had been expected, even though they had
been shorthanded. But now they had four months' work left to do, and less than
two in which to do it. He couldn't see any way of finishing on time.
"Jonas is coming out!" Thorndyke
said suddenly. He twisted his mouth bitterly, and shoved the papers away.
"He's the head of this whole project, and one of the four big shots in
Major Electric."
"I've
met him," Jim admitted, remembering the man who'd first interviewed him
for the job. "He didn't seem to be a dragon."
"He isn't—but he's the man who makes the
decisions when things go wrong. I knew they meant to send out someone to check
up on the work here—they've had engineers up here for the last three months
making suggestions. But Jonas! What it means, Jim, is that the company is
trying to make up its mind whether to dump the project now and try to get some
easement on the penalty, or whether it's cheaper to go ahead and try to force
it as near completion as possible."
"You
mean, they can fire us all," Jim said. He'd wondered at times why the
company hadn't started general firings in a last-ditch effort to get things humming
again. But it had never been close to reality.
"Not
without paying you for the full time," Thorn-dyke said.
Jim
remembered that the contract held certain guarantees. He had read it quickly at
the time, and he could only dimly recall something about payment for six months
during any period where a certain minimum time was spent on the station. So
there would be no loss of money. But it wasn't a very cheering thought.
Jonas came up two days later, still looking
like a gray-haired, ldndly businessman at his club.
He went over production charts and into the sections where the work was
incomplete. The men stared at him angrily, but he disregarded their glares. He
had interviewed most of them and remembered their names and the way they had
taken the interviews. And slowly, he began to meet with smiles wherever he
went.
The
station rumor was that everything was going to be all right, now that Jonas had
come. But Jim had seen the sharpness with which the man had studied the
slacking work, and the piles of figures that he was working over.
Thorndyke
was a sick man. He looked very haggard, and his eyes followed Jonas as if
expecting an ax to fall on his neck at any minute.
The
third day after Jonas came, Jim found the engineer going through his desk,
pulling out the few things there, and putting them into a small bag. He came to
an abrupt halt, and Thorndyke looked up, smiling for the first time in days.
"I've
been canned, Jim," he said simply. "I'm being shipped back to Earth,
where Jonas tells me my talents will be of greater service to the company. He's
taking over until he can make up his mind."
"We'll strike!"
Jim began hotly. "He can't do that!"
Thorndyke
shrugged. "He certainly can, Jim. If he hadn't had such a tough wrestle in
Washington to keep things from being worse, he'd have done it a long time ago,
I guess. And darn it, he's right. I'm no good at this job."
Jim knew there was some truth to it.
Thorndyke had been all right at first—and if the outside pressures hadn't
ruined morale, or if he'd had a subordinate who could take off some of the
strain, he might have pulled off the contract safely. He wasn't a good man for
the job now. But he'd treated them well, and they couldn't just let him take
the rap for them.
"We'll strike!"
he repeated.
Thorndyke
laughed bitterly. "Who'll strike, Jim? Haven't you heard from the men what
a great guy Jonas is? He has them eating out of his hand. That's why he's an
executive. Besides, I don't want anyone striking. This was my baby, and I still
want to see it finished. If Thorndyke can't do it, let's hope that Jonas
can."
Then
he stood looking around the halls and the work that had been finished. Finally
he picked up his bag. 'Til be back here sometime, Jim. But now, the sooner you
can get me to the rocket, the better."
The
men took Jonas' statement that Thorndyke had been suffering from overwork and
had been sent back to rest up without a question. They had liked Thorndyke,
but had never given him the loyalty that they seemed to give the new man.
Jonas
sensed Jim's reaction at once, and smiled as he was passing in the hallway.
"I like to see a young man who is loyal to his boss, Jim," he said.
"Go ahead and hate me. But I warn you, if you keep it up, I'm just mean
enough to use that hate for my own purposes."
The rockets now brought other men up for
interviews with Jonas, men who came up in business suits and who looked sick
when they got off the ships. But space had been tamed. They were almost at home
in the station, where the air was good and where there was a comfortable
gravity, while the walls shut out space. There were conferences and
inspections. And finally, Jonas called a meeting of all personnel for the next
evening.
His
face was serious as he stood up on a table to face the men. He looked from one
to another, and finally he started in a voice they had to strain slightly to
hear.
"I've
got bad news, men! We've decided to abandon the project, effective at
once."
There
was a gasp, and a milling below him. Jim felt his stomach knot tightly, and
tried to raise his voice over the others, but without success. Then they
quieted as Jonas held up his hand.
"You
won't lose anything. You'll be paid to the end of your contract—not at overtime
rates, of course, but in the full normal amount. And you'll be returned to
Earth as quickly as possible, free to return to your former life with a nice
sum of money to start you out. We don't want to punish anyone. We gambled on
being able to finish this station in a year, and we lost. There were a lot of
reasons for that, but they can't be helped. We're taking a smaller loss this
way, and we can't afford to do anything else. After all, we can't raise taxes
to pay for it, as the government can!"
It drew a small laugh, though there were more
sick faces than Jim had expected, after the announcement that there would be no
loss. Then he remembered that most of the men and women here had come up
because they'd had no ties on Earth. They had little to go back to, and they'd
built a new way of life here. It was going to be hard for a lot of them to give
that up.
"I'm
going to propose we draw lots now to see who goes back first," Jonas was
saying. "That seems like a fair way. Nora, will you come up here? I've got
all the names in a basket . . ."
Jim
stood up quietly and moved toward the table where Jonas stood. The man saw him
coming and waited quietly, smiling faintly. Jim stared back. He had no idea of
how he was going to say what he had to say. He simply moved to the table and
climbed up on it.
"If
my name's in that box of yours, you can forget it," he said. "I'm not
going back!"
There
was a gasp from below, but Jonas stood waiting, saying nothing. Nora was
shaking her head at Jim, but he disregarded it.
Finally
Jonas shrugged. "And just how are you planning to stay?"
He
hadn't thought of that. He hadn't thought anything through. But he knew that
he had to stay. He swung around to face the others. "We've got contracts
for the rest of the time we were supposed to work," he said. "And as
long as we're working, they're going to have a hard time kicking us out. Let
them try. We're the men who've been robbing shoulders with the rocket pilots.
Do you think any of the rockets would leave the ground if they were told they
had to evict us?"
He
got no reaction, as he had expected. But he let the words come out that had to
come. "Go ahead. Go back to Earth. Go back to stagger around on your hands
and knees because you aren't used to the gravity. And go back to watching them
laugh at you as the boys who couldn't do a job! I don't care. You'll have money
down there. That's all Jonas thinks you came up here for. You'll have a lot of
money, for a while. And you can think of some military man busy up here tearing
out the laboratories and putting in more bombs. You can have fun, knowing you
let something that belonged to all the people turn into nothing but a big
battleship in the sky. You let the man who did the most to keep this station
going get sacked from his job by Jonas here. Now you might as well go back with
him.
"But
I'm not going to do it. Until they carry me away from here in chains, I'm
sticking. And I'm going to work. I'm going to get up and work for sixteen
straight hours. Then I'm going to sleep for eight and do it all over again. And
when they do take me down, I'll know I did all I could. I'll be able to think
of Bart Smith dying without feeling I let him down completely. It won't do any
good. But I'm going to do it. And the rest of you can go back and figure what I
think of Jonas' little pets!"
He was crying, and he felt like a fool. It
was anger and hate for all the disappointment coming out in him —and it was
something more. It was all the frontiers of the future that man would be giving
up when he let the division of the station into military and civilian authority
lapse.
He
stopped, turning to the men once more. Tm going to be thinking of something
else, too. When we picked up Peter Chiam in what some men consider a waste of
time and money, his words were, 'Thanks, Yanks. I knew you'd come.' He was a
Combine man, but he thought that we could be depended on. I wonder what he'll
think when he finds we've decided to quit. Oh, go back to Earth. I'm sick of
the lot of you!"
Jonas
waited, and the men were quiet. And then suddenly little Terrence Rodriguez let
out a yell. "Make it two, Jim!"
Phil
Ross had been grinning, as if he'd been watching a stage performance. But he
stuck up his own hand. "Three."
"Four,"
Nora said. She looked unhappy, but she wasn't letting Jim down.
He'd
never seen a crowd react before. But now there was suddenly a confusion of hands
and yells. Men began jostling forward. And Jonas stepped forward.
"All
right," he shouted, his voice suddenly ringing like that of an orator.
"All right. Hotheads on the right, the men who are going back on the left.
Let's see what's happening."
At first Jim had thought they would all stay.
He found that less than half were with him. But it was over two hundred.
Jonas
nodded, as they separated. "All right. Jim is right in guessing that I
can't force you to go back, but he's forgotten that there are military men who
can handle such a situation. But we'll skip that. It will be some time until
the new crew could be shipped up. If you want to work, go ahead. But I'll make
a proposition. You have to eat, you know. And there isn't enough food here for
two months for all of you. So I'm going to charge you three months' salary for
the cost of shipping up more—and it's less than the rocket fuel costs, at that.
No, wait a minute." He somehow quieted the uproar, and went on. "I
know you can't do anything about it, and you know it. But I've got a bargain.
If you can prove yourselves the conquering heroes Jim wants to be, you'll get
it all back, and twice as much as a bonus. All you have to do is to finish the
station within the contract date. That should be safe enough a proposition for
my company!"
He
laughed at them, dropped from the table, and began issuing numbers to the men
who were going back.
Jim
stared at him, realizing suddenly that he'd been used! Jonas had never meant to
abandon the station without a last desperate attempt. He'd warned Jim he was
going to use his hate, and then he'd done it.
Now
Jim couldn't tell the men the facts, either— because they had to be working
against a dare if they
were to avoid being penalized for sticking
with him to finish the job.
He
looked at the men on his side, though, and couldn't regret it. He'd been
himself, however foolish —and he had two hundred friends to prove both Bart and
Dan had been right.
"All right," he said quietly.
"Let's get to work!"
Chapter 18
Deadline
bout twenty of the men changed sides before the |J rockets could take them back, but Jim and the men he had picked as
foremen sent them back. They wanted no doubtful men in the group. They had had
time to sober up from the emotions of the meeting, and had looked around to see
how impossible the job ahead was going to be.
Two
hundred men couldn't do it—and yet they had to do it, not only for the money
but for their own respect. They had only one major advantage. Before, the men
who had grown listless had cut the pace down for all the others. Now they were
all working at full speed. And they had a handicap which made the whole thing
impossible. There was no engineer with them.
Then
the last rocket up to take off the men who were leaving brought three
passengers with it. Dan
Bailey
and his wife got off, followed by Thorndyke. As Jim shouted and ran toward
them, Dan grinned. "Hi, Jim. We heard you needed men. We quit our jobs.
Don't blame Gantry, either. After we took care of the guard at the gate, we
forced him to bring us up."
His
eye closed in a wink, and Jim knew that it had been a general conspiracy.
Probably the men at Major Electric were having a good laugh at this further
"defiance" of them. But he didn't care.
"Then
get to your jobs," he said, while pumping their hands. "And Dan,
you're to run the whole works. Mr. Thorndyke, you're not a boss. You told me
once why I couldn't be, and you were right. The same shoe fits you now. Dig
into those darned blueprints and find out what we're to do, and then let Dan
get it done. I've got a taxi to run."
Jim
had found another woman who could help Dr. Perez—one of the men who had
stayed—and had put Nora to work on the taxi during the hours when he had to
sleep. She was doing as well as he could by now, but it was still somediing he
felt responsible for.
Jonas
stayed in his own section, except when he felt it wise to come out and sneer
good-naturedly at them. But it was impossible to keep hating him. Little by
little, he was accepted. They had to have someone to show how much they meant
business, and he fitted into the role of a man being shown as easily as if he'd
been born for it.
The
amount of work was staggering, and some required the knowledge of skilled men
they didn't have.
At
first Jim gave up in despair at the need to install the big radar antenna on
the hub. But it turned out conveniently that a man who had come up in uniform
during the week was a radar expert, and he managed to get interested in their
work and to show them what had to be done in his free time.
Jim
ground his teeth at the hypocrisy—and then blessed the fact that it was all a
sham. They could never have done anything against real resistance.
The
laboratories were being installed as quickly as they could. In the open spaces,
where the sheathing of the doughnut wheel had been incomplete, Jim was moving
the heavy stuff in directly. It was a rough, nerve-breaking job to match the
rotation of the station with the taxi and clamp on while the big equipment was
lowered. But it saved time over using the normal entrance through the hub and
down the freight elevator.
As
fast as a section was finished, scientists came up from Earth and occupied it.
At first the men grumbled at this, but in time they took it for granted. And
the new men kept carefully out of the way of the workers. Jim found an
explanation for it that satisfied everyone —until they finished the station, it
looked as if there might be no chance again to use it for civilian work.
Naturally, the scientists were taking the brief chance they had—in fact, they
were actually cheering the men on.
There
was a certain amount of truth in that. A group of the scientists and their
helpers were laboriously going out each day and working on the construction of
the observatory, which was to float behind the station, and to be connected by
loose power and television cables. It was a rough job, and most of them could
take only a little of it. But it cut down the impossibility of finishing a
trifle.
Jim
went to see Halpern himself. The colonel led him back to the private office and
closed the door. "What's on your mind, you young rebel? Aside from
mutiny!"
"I've
been thinking a lot of your personnel look seedy," Jim told him, keeping
his face straight. "They don't get any exercise here. I was wondering if
we couldn't lend you the services of Dr. Perez to check them over."
Halpern
grinned slowly. "And take him out of the kitchen? No. Besides, I can guess
what his recommendation would be. He'd decide they needed some fresh space and
a lot of exercise. And you know, it's a funny thing, but I've been thinking the
same. They should learn to handle themselves out there. I can't tell them what
to do with their free time, Jim, and I can't put them on civilian work. But if
any should feel like following your suggestion, I'll let them
know-unofficially, of course—that you will be happy to see them."
It
had been easier than Jim had supposed, though he already felt sure that the military
man didn't want to see the station go out of civilian hands and to have to
assume sole responsibility.
A few of the military men came out from then
on, and joined in the work. They did the rough jobs—and the very skilled ones,
since many of them were highly trained technicians.
There
were endless details to the station. The trim-system alone was enough to drive
men crazy. The station had to be balanced, eventually. To a rough degree, that
could be done by storing all heavy material evenly. But when a man walked from
one side to the other, it would upset the balance slightly. The station had to
rotate evenly and avoid all wobble, if it were to do all the things required of
it.
To
make balance possible, there were a series of tanks, pipes and pumps, with
automatic controls. If one section had too much mass, the water could be pumped
quickly into the opposing side to balance it. It was a maze of parts, however.
The
wiring was the worst of all. They had too few trained electricians. Thorndyke
put that off for one of the last jobs, using an extra hour each day snatched
from their sleep to teach the basic skill to a group of the men.
Jim
wasn't getting his eight hours of sleep. He couldn't. He had to drive himself
to the edge of collapse before he could relax. And he kept his eye on the production
charts. They were doing twice the work that the whole crew had done before, and
morale was high. He showed the charts each evening at the one big meal, and the
men felt they were making it.
But Jim wasn't so sure. One major accident
could set them back enough to overcome all their efforts. And each job was a
new challenge. Perez was worried, too. The doctor warned Jim that there was no
way of knowing what the effects of fatigue would be under these conditions. The
light gravity made it easier to work, but it might also make it easier to go
past the stage where exhaustion was dangerous without realizing it.
They
were installing one of the big pumps at the end of the first month when the
accident happened. Jim saw it coming, and tried to yell a warning, but there
was no time. The station wobbled at just the wrong second, and the cable that
was already frayed snapped. The pump hit the deck and broke the supports that
were still complete. It went through the deck, and then the outer hull. It
struck out on its own, keeping the straight line motion that the station's
rotation had become the moment it was free.
Jim
finally chased it down in the taxi and managed to bring it back. He looked down
at the shocked faces of the men, and grinned. His own shock had worn off while
he was in the taxi.
"Okay," he called over the phones.
"So we've had the accident. Now maybe you butterfingers will stop worrying
about preventing it and get down to work. Bill, how's the bracing coming
along?"
The
big man straightened up from the rush job on the deck braces, and the dark
cloud suddenly passed from his face. "It's ready, Jim. But a fine trick it
was to be making that accident happen on our shift, just because you couldn't stand the strain of
waiting. Eh, boys?"
It
was weak repartee, but they didn't care. In the daily strain of living,
anything that varied the pace was welcome. Jim managed to laugh, and then
leaped out of the taxi and down to help realign the footing for the pump.
There
were only two weeks left when Jonas came into the dining room one evening,
carrying a group of papers. He threw them down, looking chagrined.
"It
looks as if you men may win your bet, after all," he admitted. "At
least the company on Earth seems to think so. Well, I won't hold it against
you. They've sent up word that the television industries are considering
building that station twenty-two thousand miles out again, now that this one is
about done. And they've decided to let you have a crack at it, if it comes
through. Here, I'm supposed to leave these application blanks for anyone who
wants to apply for work on the next station."
There
was a concerted dive for the papers, but Jim gathered them up and began passing
them out. "They probably figure we'll let down and start mooning about a
new job," he said. "But okay, let's all fill the things out. Then
we've got work to do."
Jonas
grinned at him over the back of the men and went out again.
Jim
found Jonas waiting in his cabin when he went to sign his own application. The
man took it and tore it up, drawing out another. "I didn't want you to
look surprised out
there, so I made out a fake for you. You'd better read
this," he advised.
Jim
frowned and ran through it. Then he saw that it was a contract for a year as
foreman—as project foreman. He blinked. "Why?"
"Why?
Because you're already that on the books here. Don't you know it when you take
over control of a job?"
Jim
hadn't had time to think. He'd been faced with the job of making good on his
bluff, and he'd dug into it. Aside from that, he couldn't see that it was any
different from the other jobs he'd had to do. Dan, Terrence and Thorndyke had
done the actual directing, and he'd been happy to have them doing it. Of
course, there had been the conferences at night with them . . .
Jim
signed it and handed it back. "So you think we've got a chance?"
"I
always thought you had a chance, Jim," Jonas told him. "Not too good
a one—but one that had to be taken. Major Electric has had some bad breaks, now
that things are in turmoil down there. And paying that penalty clause would
just about throw us—while finishing on time would set everything right again.
Yes, I think you've got a chance. But I have nightmares every night, because I
think it's a mighty slim one. If we do—well, there are all kinds of things,
then. But don't count too much on that application, though."
He
left, and Jim rolled over, falling asleep at once before he could take off his
clothes.
Things were still touch and go when there was
only one week left. The men stared at the progress chart grimly. But there was
no slackening of work.
They
were supposed to finish one year from the beginning of the station—which was
the date of the formal signing of the contract. It had been signed on the tenth
of October, at noon, Washington time. Jim had the clocks set to Washington
time, so that the men could keep accurate track of the work.
The
final day came, and with it a group of three men to act as inspectors. They
passed through the station slowly, until they came to the unfinished section.
All that had to be done was to finish the fabric inner layer, two decks, a
wall, and the outer sheathing, or meteor bumper. It had been left till the last,
to leave an opening to the outside for the taxi loads. And there was room for
no more than thirty men to work.
Jim
had let Terrence's men go back, and was standing at the air lock of the taxi,
handing out the plates while another man fastened them in place.
"All
done in here," Terrence announced. Jim slapped the last plate on, and
watched it welded into place.
"What
time is it?" he asked. There had been no time to watch the central clock,
and he'd deliberately kept the men from knowing what time it was. If they
missed, he still wanted the station finished. If they won, the victory would be
all the sweeter.
Then
he realized there was no radio contact now, with the outer shell completely
covered. It shielded
the tiny power of his transmitter from
reaching the men inside.
He
whipped the taxi around and over to its lock, jumped from it, and ran toward
the big recreation room.
Jonas
was arguing hotly with the three inspectors, while Colonel Halpern stood by,
scowling.
The
clock stood at twelve twenty-nine. They had missed the deadline by almost
thirty minutes!
Chapter 19 Step to the Stars
J |
im dropped his shoulders slowly and turned to go, but Jonas called after him.
"Wait a minute, Jim! We haven't lost yet. In fact, by common practice, if
we finish on the same day, we win." "You 11 have to get a
ruling," the head inspector said. "A year is what's called for, not
the day on which the year ends. We're ready to okay the station, if you can get
an okay on the time."
"A
year," Jonas said flatly, "is a lot of things. Look it up in a
dictionary. You'll find that an astronomical year is a period of 365 days, 5
hours and 48 minutes plus a few seconds. It's the period required for the Earth
to circle the Sun—and the difference is why we have to have leap years to balance
things. This is an astronomical object—and I want the benefit of the full
astronomical year!"
Halpern
reached out for a sheet of paper as a noncom came in. "Maybe this will
settle things," he said. "I
radioed
a report the minute the inspection was finished. Let's see."
He
spread it out and they stared down at it, holding their breaths. It was short
and direct.
"contract fulfilled, congratulations!"
Jonas went through with his act to the final
end, publicly standing before the men in the recreation hall and telling them
that he'd been wrong. Jim watched him, admiring the man for the sincerity he
managed to put into his apology. It left the men feeling that they had really
done something beyond their work, and it did Jonas no harm. They might have
laughed if he'd confessed that there had been no intention of abandoning the
project and that it had all been a glorious swindle; but it wouldn't have been
as satisfying to them as watching him apologize.
Then
he dug out a bundle of papers, and an announcement. "I have something
better than my words," he told them. "I've been in contact with Earth
for the last three hours, and I've got a list here. It's a list of the men who
are going to work on the television relay station! We got the contractu
They
shoved forward, shouting, while Jonas tacked the list to a bulletin board and
managed to slip out of the way. Jim pushed forward with the others. He was sure
that he'd be accepted. The words of Jonas when he'd been given the special
contract had made that seem certain. But he couldn't rest until he found his
name printed there.
He stood, staring at the listing. There was a
column on each of five sheets of paper—and the numbers indicated that two
hundred and eleven men and women had been accepted. Nearly all the men were
going to be taken on. There was an entry for Henry Standish and another for
Alvin Steadman. But the name of James Stanley wasn't on the list.
He
let it sink in slowly. It took time. And the sudden buzz around him showed that
the others had noticed it. One of the men let out a yell, and swung him around.
"Jim,
we ain't going up there without you! You're coming. Just let them try to stop
you."
He
shook his head. "Who said I applied for the Job, Buck? I've got a college
course to finish down on Earth."
They
grumbled, and it felt good to him. It wasn't like leaving his job with
Griswold. But he couldn't keep up the act in front of them. He swung out, pulling
his space suit off a hook in the hub, and moved down toward the taxi. It was
one place where he would have a chance to think it out in peace.
"Jim!"
It was Nora, and he stopped for her. She came up to him, her face hurt and
puzzled. "Jim, I wasn't on the list, either. Neither was Terrence
Rodriguez."
"Terry
didn't apply," he told her woodenly. "He's staying on at the station,
by his own request. He's found a girl, and they'll head the civilian work force
here after they're married."
But
there was no such reason for not listing Nora and him. He couldn't believe that
Jonas would be spiteful, though the man had warned him not to count on his
application, now that he thought of it. Probably the order had come from down
on Earth. After all, he had been inciting mutiny when he'd sounded off. And
Nora had seconded him.
"Well
make out," he told her. "Men are in space now, and we put them there.
Isn't that enough? We'll be able to look up here, and know that the Earth is
bigger than it used to be because we had a chance to help with this. Let's take
a look at it."
The
station looked good from half a mile away in the little taxi. It glistened in
completeness, and there was no wobble to its spin. Its top faced the Sun, drawing
power from the sun mirror trough around it. The hub ran out through the two
spokes to the wheel in which men lived and worked. The radar antenna faced
Earth, and the observatory trailed along behind.
Jim
stared at it, wondering whether everything was actually as wonderful as it
looked and as he'd described it. Men were still uncertain, down on Earth.
Yet
the tension had let up a little. Perhaps that was because the rescue of the
Combine pilots had awakened some sense of common feeling and peril, or perhaps
it was because of something entirely different. The first papers that carried
the story of the completion had seemed to feel that most of the danger from the
station was over, now that it was under the divided command of military and
civilian groups, according to the radio messages that had been received.
At
least there would never again be a race to build another station. The trip to
rescue the Combine men had proved that an operating station could protect
itself from any other attempt with no difficulty. From the station, any place
on its orbit was comparatively easy to reach, either for rescue or attack.
If
the science Jim hoped to see developed here, along with the riches it could
bring, never were paid for by arrogance and abuse of the military power, all
would be fine. But he couldn't be sure. Having a weapon of such overwhelming
force in the hands of any one nation was a terrible temptation—and could lead
to an endless hatred from other nations that would make it necessary to use its
power.
Somehow,
in spite of all their dreams, the station wasn't enough. Men couldn't solve all
their problems by leaving them to a few men up there.
He
saw Mark's rocket coming up from Earth and headed the taxi in. The pilot
brought the big ship up beside the station with a smoothness that could never
have been achieved at the beginning, and Jim ran the taxi into the air lock.
Mark
came out with a grin over his thin face, and a tissue edition of a newspaper in
his hand. "Jim, you did it! You got it done, and it's a honey of a job.
Here!"
Jim
opened the paper, wondering what could be so important, while Nora took the
taxi controls. Then he whistled. The World Congress had met in a body and had
voted unanimously to congratulate the United States on the completion of the
station. And it had been the Combine delegate who had proposed the motion. The
same delegate had offered to make available all
Combine
knowledge on atomic rockets in return for the right to send a few of their
scientists to the station for some experiments that could be made nowhere else.
The
United States had made no mention of having the secrets already, or clues
enough to find them. It had accepted.
"Sweetness and
light!" Jim said.
He
still couldn't be sure, though he felt better. It was probably a deliberate
move by the Combine, now afraid to let all the scientific progress possible
through the station go to an opposing power. It almost surely was inspired more
by worry than by good will. Yet out of such moves, good will could grow.
Jim
had resigned himself to his failure to win a position on the second station
when he came back into the recreation hall. He turned to find a seat and listen
to the radio broadcasts, drawing Nora with him.
But
before he could sit down, Jonas and Halpern pounced on him and Nora, dragging
the two of them aside into Jonas' office.
"Where've
you been?" the man cried. "Jim, I've been hunting the station high
and low for you. Mark Emmett! Hey, Mark!"
Jim
had dashed to the door, and now came back, dragging the grinning pilot after
him.
"Did you bring it up,
Mark?"
Mark
nodded, and dragged a thin case from his suit, handing it over. Jonas beamed,
and pulled a sheet of parchment out of it, staring at it fondly. Then he handed
it to Jim.
It was a beautifully engraved thing, but the
words blurred as Jim began to read. "This will certify that James Stanley,
having passed all courses and tests, and having qualified by ability and
experience, is hereby licensed to operate and to assume command of any vessel
powered by chemical rockets for use in or beyond the atmosphere of Earth, and
that . . ."
Nora
took it from him and stood staring at it, her face slowly breaking into an
inner glow that seemed to radiate around the room. "Jiml This means . .
."
"It
means more than that," Colonel Halpern broke in, before she could finish.
"It means that in less than a year, we re going to be taking off on the
first trip to the Moon. We've already signed more contracts with Major Electric
for that, and we've got the plans ready. You two are going along. And Jim,
you've been picked as chief pilot."
Jim
sat down slowly, trying to believe the words he was hearing. "But I
thought, when I was turned down for the second station—"
"Turned
down?" Jonas grunted as if hit by a fist. "Jim, I meant to pull a big
surprise party, and I guess I muffed it by waiting too long, if you thought
that. You were moved over to a bigger job, man. Don't you realize you've had
more experience in fancy maneuvering in space than all the other pilots
combined? We had to have you. And because we don't want to break up a good
team, we're shipping Nora along as your copilot. There's room on the Moon for
women as well as men, I guess."
Jim's mind seized on the last sentence. Room
for women as well as men—and for every race and country. He'd overlooked that
in his worrying. He'd forgotten that the space station had always been just a
step to space—the real space that could never be fully conquered. Men would
have a frontier to take their energies, and to broaden their horizons. There
would be no sense in fighting over a space station when there were all the
planets beyond it. And there would be no use in trying to conquer the world
with the station, when those planets were stronger than any single man-made
structure could ever be. The station was only a step—and what lay beyond was
the real future.
"Space has its own rules," Colonel
Halpern said slowly. "Jim, on Earth you were just a kid—a lonely kid who
was growing bitter and drawing into himself. Out here, you've turned into a
man! It isn't just skill we need for the Moon trip. It's men who have the right
stuff in them. That's why we picked you—because you're that kind of man. Mark,
Jonas, come on. Let's let them get used to the idea."
The
men filed out of the office. At the door Mark turned and grinned at the two.
And his words were almost the same as those with which he had first greeted Jim
on the original trip into space.
"Welcome,
spacemen!"
Spacemen!
Jim smiled slowly, turning to see Nora smiling back at him.
Someday
the whole race of men would be spacemen.
This was only the beginning.