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FLY by NIGHT
By Arthur Dekker Savage
Illustrated by Ed Emsh
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of ScienceFiction May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _A young man and a young woman alone on the firstover-the-moon ship. The world cheered them as the most romanticadventurers in all history. Do-gooders decried them as immoral stunters.Gaunt, serious militarists pronounced them part of the most crucialexperiment ever undertaken...._]
The general introduced them in the ship's shadow, a trim lieutenant, aclean-cut major. "You probably already think of each other as Carol andKen. At any rate, there are no two people in the world who have heard asmuch about each other without previously meeting."
She offered her hand and he took it, held it for a long moment whiletheir eyes locked. "Hello, Carol," he said warmly. "I'd have known youfrom your pictures." And he realized as never before what a poorsubstitute were the hoarded scraps of paper.
"Hello--Ken." A smile made her face radiant. "I've sort of studied yourpictures too."
Ken turned his eyes to the crowd--a roaring, cheering multitudesurrounding the poised rocket ship here on the California desert in thiszero hour. To certain harried physicists and engineers, it was a momentpromising paramount achievement. To romanticists of 1966, watching theirvideo screens avidly, it was fulfillment of their most sensual dreams: abeautiful girl being given wholly and unreservedly to a handsome youngman; the flight around the moon was merely an added fillip. To a fewgaunt military psychologists it was the end of a long nightmare ofprotests by women's clubs, demonstrations by national female societiesand actual attempts at murder by fanatical blue-noses; and a merebeginning of the most crucial experiment ever undertaken--which _had_ tobe a success.
Suddenly Ken was angry at the knowing looks from the throng's nearestranks. While the general continued his prepared speech into the mike,focus of the hollow, hungry eyes of the video cameras, Ken pulled Carolto his side and held her with an arm about her waist, glaring when thecrowd murmured and the cameras swung their way again. He had notquestioned the actions of the military, of the world, before. But now--apublic spectacle--
During the years of rigorous, specialized training almost from childhoodthey had kept him away from Carol, teasing him--it was the only wordthat now occurred to his mind--with the dangled promise of her presenceon the flight. They had let him see her pictures--intimate, almost-nudephotos harvested by the gossip columnists, snaps of her glory in bathingattire as she lounged by a swimming pool.
Swimming. Since he had been selected as a boy, every free afternoon hehad been made to swim, swim, swim--developing the long, smooth musclesthey wanted him to have. It had been, he knew, the same with Carol.
Had they taunted her with his pictures too? Had she responded by wantinghim, loving him, longing for him? How did she feel about their firstmoment together being shared by the greedy eyes of continents?
The President was speaking now, rolling sonorous sentences into themike, words which would officially sanction this unorthodox act of themilitary, which would justify the morally unprecedented dispensing ofmaid to man without benefit of--anything. Because the psychologists hadwanted it that way. Ken leaned down to whisper in her ear, "I wish Icould get you inside the ship."
She looked at him with sudden coolness. "Impatient, Major?" She turnedaway quickly and he could feel her body stiffen.
Had he said something wrong? Or--the new thought was jarring disharmony:did he represent the end of this girl's--_his_ girl's--hopes for aconventional, happy marriage? Did she think him the altar of sacrifice,whereupon she would accrue the moralist's scorn and, tomorrow, attractonly the lecherous? Or was it just an act? What, besides ship andinstrument operation, had they taught her?
Grimly he listened to the President, who was then extolling their meritsas though--well, as though they were some sort of laboratory specimens."... acute hearing, 20/10 vision ... perfect health ... highestcombination of intelligence and fast physical reactions ... exceptionalbravery and loyalty." Cheers. "... intensive training ... youngest toreceive their military ranks ... expert pilots ... _fittest humans forthis attempt_."
Stubbornly, Ken continued to hold her waist. He watched the sun sneakaround one stubby wing of the _Latecomer_. He'd need those glintingwings to land. Land? What were the actual odds against circling the moonand landing again on earth? That phase--and a lot of others--had neverbeen discussed. The speeches were over and he put the thought from hismind. They were extending the mike to him, waiting for his farewell--orhis last words?
Abruptly, ignoring the mike, he swung Carol up the ramp and crawled inthrough the port behind her.
* * * * *
In the narrow confines she slipped out of her uniform. She glanced athim once, quickly, then cast down her eyes. "You don't have to look, youknow."
There was a hurt in his throat. "I want to look, Carol. I don't everwant to stop looking at you. I--" He choked off, tore his eyes from herand hurriedly began to get out of his uniform.
Hidden from the spectators outside, they divested themselves of all butfilmy, clinging, chemically inert garb. Carol's body was sheathed in akind of sarong. Ken wore a short, kilt-like affair. They pulled on soft,tough-soled sandals. The medics had insisted on this specific attire,but the psychologists had planned it that way. Their discarded clothingwas dropped into a basket. Ken shoved it out the port, down the ramp,slammed and bolted the hatch. Then he stared at it. Clamped to the innerside were two knives: one was about the length of a bayonet, shaped likea saber; the other was half that length, and straight. Both weresheathed, with belts wrapped around checkered handles.
All his official instructions flashed through his head in an instant.All the technical data, instrument operation, procedures, emergencymeasures. There had never been mention of knives. Except--of course.Survival training. If he were unable to bring the ship to its properdestination, was forced down in uninhabited territory, a knife would beessential equipment. But so would a gun, fishing tackle, matches,clothing....
The ship's radio said, "Fourteen minutes to take-off."
Ken flung himself on the couch. Carol moved in quietly beside him.
"You understand, Carol," he said, "you're to touch no controls unlessI'm unable to."
"Yes."
"You'll handle the cameras only, but you'll keep reminding me of everystep to be taken, as though I'd forgotten, and make sure I answersensibly each time."
"Yes, Ken."
Yes, _Ken_. A pulse throbbed in his temple.
They watched the crowd on the screen--scattered now, far from that areabelow and behind the ship which would be washed in radiation. Theylistened to the radio calling off the minutes before departure. Kenkept his thoughts on the structure of the space vessel, similar inmany ways to vastly cheaper atmosphere models he and Carol hadflown--separately--for hundreds of training hours. Behind them, andlining the inner hull, was a light, spongy wall protecting them from theatomic converters aft. The surrounding couch could be regulated to forma resilient cocoon during high-G acceleration and deceleration, orduring periods of weightlessness. Forward were the controls, instrumentsand hooded viewport.
Escape velocity was not needed to pull away from gravity. With atomicengines and the new, low-mass shielding, fuel quantity was a problem ofdollars only--and none had been spared for this voyage. Thepsychologists had seen to that.
"Eight minutes to take-off."
He starte
d the atomic reactors, a mighty purring here in the sealedcabin. Gently, watching the instruments, he tested bow and sternrockets, matching fore and aft forces delicately, tentatively increasingstern thrust until the craft barely stirred in its silicone-greased,magnetized launching rack.
"Two minutes to take-off."
They placed their faces against soft masks in the couch, down throughwhich they could watch the instruments, in a mirror, the video screenand bow viewport. The couch encompassed them, their arms in padded slotsreaching to the controls.
"... thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one...."
Thunder hammered at their ears. The couch squeezed them as the_Latecomer_ shot beyond its ramp, increased its velocity. Ken gripped alever which cut in the autopilot to take them beyond atmosphere, beyondgravity.
* * * *
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