“See what I mean?" said Barnes.
“Jim, you’re a fool," Bowles answered.
“No, I’m a bachelor. Why? Because I can’t stand the favorite sport of all women."
“Which is?"
“Trying to geld stallions. Let’s get on with the job."
“Right," agreed Corley and flipped a key on his Teletalk. “Helen, call the electronics shop and tell Mr. Ward that I want to see him."
“Haven’t you broken the news to him?" demanded Barnes.
“Ward? Of course."
“How did he take it?"
“Well enough. Ward is high strung. At first he insisted there wasn’t time to get all the electronic gear ready."
“But he’s in?"
“He’s in." Corley stood up. “I’ve got to get back into the ship."
“Me, too," Bowles agreed.
Barnes followed them out. As they passed the desk of Corley’s secretary she was saying, “One moment, puhlease — I’m ringing him." She looked up and pointed to Corley.
Corley hesitated. “Uh, uh," said Barnes, “if you let 'em tie you up on the phone, we’ll never take off. I’m elected. Go on, you two. Get the buggy ready to go."
“Okay." Corley added to his secretary, “Got Mr. Ward yet?"
“Not in the electronics shop. I’m chasing him."
“I want him right away."
Barnes went back inside and spent an hour handling a logjam on the telephone. Personal calls he simply stalled on the excuse that the lines were needed for priority long distance calls. If a call was concerned with getting the ship ready to go, he handled it himself or monitored it. As best he could he kept the construction site an island, cut off from the world.
He straightened out a matter with the chief metallurgist, gave the accounting office an okay on some overtime of the week before, assured Associated Press that the “dress rehearsal" was worth full coverage, and gleefully extended an invitation to the Los Angeles Associated Civic Clubs to go through the ship — next week.
That done, he took Corley’s dictaphone and began a memorandum to his business manager on how to close the project in case (a) the trip was successful, (b) the ship crashed. He planned to mark it to be transcribed the following day.
A call from Dr. Corley interrupted him. “Jim? I can’t find Ward."
“Tried the men’s washrooms?"
“No — but I will."
“He can’t be far away. Anything wrong in his department?"
“No, but I need him."
“Well, maybe he’s finished his tests and gone to his quarters to catch some sleep."
“There’s no answer from his quarters."
“Phone could be off the hook. I’ll send someone to dig him out."
“Do that."
While he was arranging this, Herbert Styles, public relations chief for the project, came in. The press agent slumped down in a chair and looked mournful.
“Howdy, Herb."
“Howdy. Say, Mr. Barnes, let’s you and me go back to Barnes Aircraft and quit this crazy dump."
“What’s biting you, Herb?"
“Well, maybe you can make some sense out of what’s going on. They tell me to get everybody in here by three A.M. — A.P., U.P., INS, radio chains, television trucks, and stuff. Then you lock the joint up like a schoolhouse on Sunday. And all this for a practice drill, a dry run. Who’s crazy? Me or you?"
Barnes had known Styles a long time. “It’s not a drill, Herb."
“Of course not." Styles ground out a cigarette. “Now how do we play it?"
“Herb, I’m in a squeeze. We’re going to take off — at three fifty-three tomorrow morning. If word gets out before then, they’ll find some way to stop us."
“Who’s 'they’? And why?"
“The Atomic Energy Commission for one — for jumping off with an untested power-pile ship."
Styles whistled. “Bucking the Commission, eh? Oh, brother! But why not test it?"
Barnes explained, concluding with, “— so we can’t test it. I’m busted, Herb."
“Isn’t everybody?"
“That isn’t all… Call it a hunch, or anything you like. If we don’t take off now, we never will — even if I had the dinero to test in the South Pacific. We’ve had more than our share of bad luck on this project — and I don’t believe in luck."
“Meaning?"
“There are people who want this enterprise to fail. Some are crackpots; some are jealous. Others —"
“Others," Styles finished for him, “don’t like the United States getting space travel first any better than they liked us getting the atom bomb first."
“Check."
“So what do you want to guard against? A time bomb in the ship? Sabotage of the controls? Or the Federal marshal with a squad of soldiers to back him up?"
“I don’t know!" Styles stared at nothing.
“Boss —"
“Yeh?"
“Item: pretty soon you’ve got to admit publicly that it’s a real takeoff, for you’ve got to evacuate this valley. The sheriff and state police won’t play games just for a drill."
“But —"
“Item: by now it is after office hours on the east coast. You’re fairly safe from the Commission until morning. Item: any sabotage will be done on the spur of the moment, provided it isn’t already built into the ship."
“Too late to worry about anything built into the ship."
“Just the same, if I were you, I would go over her with a toothpick. Any last minute stuff will be done with a wrench, behind a control panel or such — what they used to call 'target of opportunity."
“Hard to stop."
“Not too hard. There isn’t anything that can be done to that ship down at its base, right? Well, if my neck depended on that heap, I wouldn’t let anybody up inside it from now on, except those going along. Not anybody, not even if he carried a certificate of Simon-pure one-hundred-percentism from the D.A.R. I’d watch what went in and I’d stow things with my own little pattypaws."
Barnes chewed his lip. “You’re right. Herb — you just bought yourself a job."
“Such as?"
“Take over here." He explained what he bad been doing. “As for the press, don’t tip them off until you have to make arrangements for the road blocks and evacuation — maybe you can keep things wrapped up until around midnight. I’m going up into that ship and —"
The telephone jangled; he picked it up. “Yes?" It was Bowles.
“Jim — come to the electronics shop."
“Trouble?"
“Plenty. Ward has run out on us."
“Oh, oh! I’ll be right over." He slammed the phone and said, “Take over, Herb!"
“Wilco!"
Outside, he jumped in his car and swung around the circle to the electronics shops. He found Bowles and Corley in Ward’s office. With them was Emmanuel Traub, Ward’s first assistant. “What happened?"
Corley answered, “Ward is in the hospital — acute appendicitis."
Bowles snorted. “Acute funk!"
“That’s not fair! Ward wouldn’t run out on me."
Barnes cut in. “It doesn’t matter either way. The question is: what do we do now?"
Corley looked sick. “We can’t take off."
“Stow that!" Barnes turned to Bowles. “Red, can you handle the electronics?"
“Hardly! I can turn the knobs on an ordinary two-way — but that ship is all electronics."
“I’m in the same fix — Doc, you could. Or couldn’t you?"
“Uh, maybe — but I can’t handle radar and power plant both."
“You could teach me to handle power plant and Red could pilot."
“Huh? I can’t make a nucleonics technician out of you in something like a matter of hours."
Barnes seemed to feel the world pressing in on him. He shook off the feeling and turned to Traub. “Mannie, you installed a lot of the electronic gear, didn’t you?"
“Me? I installed all
of it; Mr. Ward didn’t like to go up the Gantry crane. He is a nervous type guy."
Barnes looked at Corley. “Well?"
Corley fidgeted. “I don’t know."
Bowles said suddenly, “Traub, where did you go to college?"
Traub looked hurt. “I got no fancy degree but I carry a civil service classification of senior electronics engineer — a P-5. I did three years in the Raytheon labs. I had my ham license since I was fifteen, and I was a master sergeant in the Signal Corps. If it makes with electrons, I savvy it."
Barnes said mildly, “The Admiral didn’t mean any harm, Mannie. What do you weigh?"
Traub shifted his eyes from one to the other. “Mr. Barnes — this is no rehearsal? This is it?"
“This is it, Mannie. We take off —" He glanced at his watch. “— in thirteen hours."
Traub was breathing hard. “You gentlemen are asking me to go to the Moon with you? Tonight?"
Before Barnes could answer, Bowles put in: “That’s it, Mannie."
Traub swallowed hard. “Yes," he said.
“Yes?" Barnes echoed.
“I’ll go."
Corley said hastily, “Traub, we don’t want to rush you."
“Director, take a look at my job application. I put down 'Willing to travel’."
Chapter Three
The great ship was ringed with floodlights spaced inside the bull pen. It was still framed by the skeleton arch of the Gantry crane, but the temporary antiradiation shield which had surrounded its lower part down to the jets was gone; instead there were posted the trefoil signs used to warn of radioactivity — although the level of radiation had not yet become dangerously high.
But the power pile was unsealed and the ship was ready to go. Thirteen-fifteenths of its mass was water, ready to be flashed into incandescent steam by the atomic pile, to be thrown away at thirty thousand feet per second.
High up in the ship was the control room and adjacent airlock. Below the air lock the permanent antiradiation shield ran across the ship, separating the pressurized crew space from the tanks, the pumps, the pile itself, and auxiliary machinery. Above the control room, the nose of the craft was unpressurized cargo space.
At its base triangular airfoils spread out like oversize fins — fins they would be as the ship blasted away; glider wings they would become when the ship returned to Earth with her tanks empty.
Jim Barnes was at the foot of the Gantry crane, giving last-minute orders. A telephone had been strung out to the crane; it rang and he turned to answer it.
“Mr. Barnes?"
“Yes, Herb."
“Sheriff’s office reports road blocks in place and everybody out of the valley — it cost plenty cumshaw to clear the Idle Hour Guest Rancho, by the way."
“No matter."
“Everybody out, that is, but Pete the Hermit. He won’t git."
“The old boy with the whiskers in that shack north of the gate?"
“The same. We finally told him the score, but it didn’t faze him. He says he ain’t never seen no ship take off for the Moon and he ain’t planning to miss it, not at his age."
Barnes chuckled. “Can’t blame him. Well, let him sign the release our own people sign. Tell him if he won’t sign, the show won’t take place."
“And if he doesn’t sign?"
“Herb, I take off even if some damn fool is standing under the jets. But don’t tell him."
“I got you. Now how about the press?"
“Tell them now — but keep them off my neck. And even with releases they stay in the blockhouse."
“I’ll have trouble with the newsreel and television people."
“Remote control or nothing. Herd 'em in, you go in last and lock the door behind you. They can string all the wires into the blockhouse they need, but nobody stays inside the area unsheltered."
“Mr. Barnes — do you really think the blast will be that dangerous?"
Barnes’ reply was drowned out by the bull horn from the blockhouse: “Attention! The last bus is now loading at the north entrance to the shop circle!"
Presently Styles resumed: “Another call — you better take it, boss. Trouble."
“Who is it?"
“Commanding general at Muroc."
“Put him on." In a moment he was saying, “Jim Barnes, General. How are you?"
“Oh — hello, Mr. Barnes. I hate to buck you, but your man seems unreasonable. Is it necessary to ask us to keep radar crews up all night for your practice drill?"
“Mmm … General, isn’t your tracking radar always manned anyhow? I thought this country had a 'radar umbrella’ over it."
The general answered stiffly, “That’s not a proper question, Mr. Barnes."
“I suppose not. Big difference between passing a law and getting appropriations to carry it out, isn’t there?" He thought a minute. “General, suppose I guarantee blips on your tracking screens?"
“What do you mean?"
Barnes said, “General, I’ve known you since open cockpits. You’ve used a lot of my planes."
“You make good planes, Mr. Barnes."
“Tonight I want some cooperation. This is it, Whitey."
“Huh?"
“We blast off tonight. As long as you know, you can call White Sands and make sure they track us, too. And Whitey —"
“Yes, Jim?"
“What with getting your crew organized and calling White Sands it will be another hour before you can call Washington, wouldn’t you think?"
Silence persisted so long that Barnes thought he had been cut off, then the general answered, “It might take that long. Anything more you had better tell me?"
“No… that’s enough. Except one thing; I’m going, Whitey. I’m piloting it."
“Oh. Good luck, Jim."
“Thanks, Whitey."
As Barnes turned away, he saw a plane circling the area, its lights blinking. The elevator creaked behind him; he looked up to see Corley, Bowles, and Traub descending. Corley shouted, “Is that Dr. Hastings?"
“I hope so."
The plane landed and a jeep drove up to it. A few minutes later the jeep swung into the bull pen and up to the crane; Doctor Hastings got out. Corley ran to meet him.
“Doctor Hastings! You have it?"
“Greetings, gentlemen. Yes, indeed." Hastings tapped a bulging pocket.
“Give it to me!"
“Suppose we go into the ship? I’d like to discuss it with you."
“Jump aboard." The two savants mounted the elevator and started up.
Admiral Bowles touched Barnes’ sleeve. “Jim — a word with you."
“Shoot."
Bowles indicated Traub with his eyes; Barnes caught the meaning and they moved inside. “Jim," Bowles asked in a whisper, “what do you know about this man Traub?"
“Nothing that you don’t. Why?"
“He’s foreign born, isn’t he? Germany? Poland?"
“Russia, for all I know. Does it matter?"
Bowles frowned. “There’s been sabotage, Jim."
“The hell you say! What sort?"
“The earth-departure radar wouldn’t function. Traub opened up the front, then called me over."
“What was it?"
“A pencil mark drawn between two leads. It —"
“I get you, a carbon short. Sabotage, all right. Well?"
“My point is, he found it too easily. How would he know right where to find it if he didn’t do it himself?"
Barnes thought about it. “If Traub is trying to stop us, all he has to do is to refuse to go. We can’t go without him — and he knows it."
“Suppose his object was not just to stop us, but to wreck the ship?"
“And kill himself in the bargain? Be logical, Red."
“Some of those people are fanatics, Jim. Beyond logic."
Barnes considered it. “Forget it, Red."
“But —"
“I said, 'Forget it!’ Get on back in that ship and prowl around. Imagine that you
are a saboteur, try to think where you would hide a bomb — or what you would wreck."
“Aye, aye, sir!"
“Good. Mannie!"
“Yes, Mr. Barnes." Traub trotted up; Barnes told him to go up and continue checking. The phone at the foot of the crane rang; it was Styles again.
“Boss? Just got a call from the pass gate. The deputy there is hooked by car radio with the deputies at the road blocks —"
“Good. Nice organizing, Herb."
“Not good! The north road black reports a car with a bailiff; he has a federal court order to stop the takeoff. They let him through."
Barnes swore softly. “Call, the pass gate. Tell the deputy there to stop him."
“I did. He won’t. He says he can’t interfere with federal business."
“That tears it!" Barnes stopped to think. “Tell him to make almighty sure that the man is what he says he is. Tell him that the court order is almost certainly phony-which it is. Tell him to hold the man while he gets in touch with the sheriff’s office and has the sheriff phone the judge who is supposed to have issued the described order."
“I’ll try," Styles answered, “but suppose the order is kosher, boss? Hadn’t I better just put the slug on him and dump him in a closet until the fireworks are over?"
Barnes weighed this. “No — you’d spend your life breaking rocks. Gain me all the minutes you can — then hightail it for the blockhouse. Is everybody clear?"
“Everybody but the car and driver for Mrs. Corley."
“How about Admiral Bowles’ wife?"
“He sent her off earlier — the Admiral doesn’t like ships watched out of sight."
“Bless his superstitious heart! Send Mrs. Corley’s car into the pen. I’m going to button up around here."
“Roger!"
Barnes turned around to find Corley and Hastings descending. He waited, bursting with impatience. Corley spoke as they reached bottom. “Oh, Jim, I —"
“Never mind! Is everything okay up there?"
“Yes, but —"
Off The Main Sequence Page 74
