The first reports, plus a further series continued as long as White Sands and Muroc were able to track them, confirmed Barnes’ suspicion. They were tracking “high," ahead of their predicted positions and at speeds greater than those called for by Hastings’ finicky calculations. The difference was small; on the autopilot displays it was hardly the thickness of a line between the calculated path and the true path.
But the difference would increase.
“Escape speeds" for rockets are very critical Hastings had calculated the classical hundred-hour orbit and the Luna had been aimed to reach the place where the Moon would be four days later. But initial speed is critical. A difference of less than one percent in ship speed at cutoff can halve — or double — the transit time from Earth to Moon. The Luna was running very slightly ahead of schedule — but when it reached the orbit of the Moon, the Moon would not be there.
Doctor Corley tugged at his thinning hair. “Sure, the cutoff was mushy, but I was expecting it and I noted the mass readings. It’s not enough to account for the boost. Here — take a look."
Corley was hunched at the log desk, a little shelf built into the space between the acceleration bunks. He was strapped to a stool fixed to the deck in front of it. Barnes floated at his shoulder; he took the calculation and scanned it. “I don’t follow you," Barnes said presently; “your expended mass is considerably higher than Hastings calculated."
“You’re looking at the wrong figure," Corley pointed out. “You forgot the mass of water you used up in that test. Subtract that from the total mass expended to get the effective figure for blast off — this figure here. Then you apply that —" Corley hesitated, his expression changed from annoyance to dismay. “Oh, my God!"
“Huh? What is it, Doc? Found the mistake?"
“Oh, how could I be so stupid!" Corley started frenzied figuring.
“What have you found?" Corley did not answer; Barnes grabbed his arm. “What’s up?"
“Huh? Don’t bother me."
“I’ll bother you with a baseball bat. What have you found?"
“Eh? Look, Jim, what’s the final speed of a rocket, ideal case?"
“What is this? A quiz show? Jet speed times the logarithm of the mass ratio. Pay me."
“And you changed the mass ratio! No wonder we’re running 'high."
“Me?"
“We both did — my fault as much as yours. Listen; you spilled a mass of water in scaring off that truckload of thugs — but Hastings’ figures were based on us lifting that particular mass 0. The ship should have grossed almost exactly two hundred fifty tons at takeoff; she was shy what you had used — so we’re going too fast."
“Huh? I wasted reaction mass, so we’re going too fast? That doesn’t make sense." Barnes hooked a foot into the legs of the stool to anchor himself, and did a rough run-through of the problem with slide rule and logarithm table. “Well, boil me in a bucket!" He added humbly, “Doc, I shouldn’t have asked to be skipper. I don’t know enough."
Corley’s worried features softened. “Don’t feel that way, Jim. Nobody knows enough — yet. God knows I’ve put in enough time on theory, but I went ahead and urged you to make the blunder."
“Doe, how important is this? The error is less than one percent. I’d guess that we would reach the Moon about an hour early."
“And roughly you’d be wrong. Initial speed is critical, Jim; you know that!"
“How critical? When do we reach the Moon?"
Corley looked glumly at the pitiful tools he had with him — a twenty-inch log-log slide rule, seven place tables, a Nautical Almanac, and an office-type calculator which bore the relation to a “giant brain" that a firecracker does to an A-bomb. “I don’t know. I’ll have to put it up to Hastings." He threw his pencil at the desk top; it bounced off and floated away. “The question is: do we get there at all?"
“Oh, it can’t be that bad!"
“It is that bad."
From across the compartment Bowles called out, “Come and get it — or I throw it to the pigs!"
But food had to wait while Corley composed a message to Hastings. It was starkly simple: OFF TRAJECTORY. USE DATA WHITE SANDS MUROC AND COMPUTE CORRECTION VECTOR. PLEASE USE UTMOST HASTE — CORLEY.
After sending it Traub announced that he wasn’t hungry and didn’t guess he would eat.
Bowles left the “galley" (one lonely hot plate) and moved to Traub’s couch. Traub had strapped himself into it to have stability while he handled his radio controls. “Snap out of it, man," Bowles advised. “Must eat, you know."
Traub looked gray. “Thanks, Admiral, but I couldn’t."
“So you don’t like my cooking? By the way, my friends call me 'Red.’"
“Thanks, uh — Red. No, I’m just not hungry."
Bowles brought his head closer and spoke in low tones. “Don’t let it get you, Mannie. I’ve been in worse jams and come out alive. Quit worrying."
“I’m not worrying."
Bowles chuckled. “Don’t be ashamed of it, son. We all get upset, first time under fire. Come eat."
“I can’t eat. And I’ve been under fire."
“Really?"
“Yes, really! I’ve got two Purple Hearts to prove it. Admiral, leave me alone, please. My stomach is awful uneasy."
Bowles said, “I beg your pardon, Mannie." He added, “Maybe you need another seasick pill."
“Could be."
“I’ll fetch one." Bowles did so, then returned again shortly with a transparent sack filled with milk — to be exact, a flexible plastic nursing cell, complete with nipple. “Sweet milk, Mannie. Maybe it’ll comfort your stomach."
Traub looked at it curiously. “With this should go a diaper and a rattle," he announced. “Thanks, uh — Red."
“Not at all, Mannie. If that stays down, I’ll fix you a sandwich." He turned in the air and rejoined the others.
Chapter Six
The Luna plunged on; Earth dropped away; radio signals grew weaker — and still no word from Hastings. Corley spent the time trying endlessly and tediously to anticipate the answer he expected from Hastings, using the tools be had. Traub stood guard at the radio. Barnes and Bowles spent a lengthy time staring out the ports — back at the shrinking, cloud-striped Earth, forward at the growing gibbous Moon and brilliant steady stars — until Bowles fell asleep in mid-sentence, a softly snoring free balloon.
Barnes nudged him gently toward his couch and there strapped him loosely, to keep him from cluttering up the cramped cabin. He eyed his own couch longingly, then turned to Traub instead.
“Out of there, Mannie," he ordered. “I’ll relieve you while you catch some shut-eye."
“Me? Oh, that’s all right, Skipper. You get some sleep yourself and I’ll take a rain check."
Barnes hesitated. “Sure you don’t want to be relieved?"
“Not a bit. I feel —" He broke off and added, “Just a minute," and turned to his controls. He was on earphones now, rather than speaker. He settled them in place and said sharply, “Go ahead, Earth."
Presently Traub turned to Barnes: “Chicago Tribune — they want an exclusive story from you."
“No, I’m going to sleep."
Traub reported Barnes’ answer, then turned back. “How about the Admiral or Doctor Corley?"
“The copilot is asleep and Doctor Corley is not to be disturbed."
“Mr. Barnes?" Traub’s manner was diffident. “Do you mind if they get one from me?"
Barnes chuckled. “Not at all. But stick them plenty." As Barnes closed his eyes he could hear Traub dickering with some faceless negotiator. He wondered if Traub would ever get to spend the fee? What was a man like Traub doing up here anyhow, in a ship headed nowhere in a hell of a hurry?
For that matter, why was Jim Barnes here?
After his interview, Traub continued guarding the radio. Signals grew fainter and presently reduced to garble. The room was quiet, save for the soft murmur of the air replenisher.
After a long ti
me the radio came suddenly to life — NAA, Washington, Traub soon learned, had rigged a reflector to beam directly at them. “Can you take code groups?" he was asked.
He assured them that he could. “Despatch for Rear Admiral Bowles," NAA rapped back at him. “Zero zero zero one: code groups follow — love, uncle, king, easy, roger — boy, able, dog, item, peter —" The groups continued for a longtime.
“Doctor Corley!"
Corley looked around vaguely, as if awakening in a strange place. “Eh? Yes, Mannie? I’m busy."
“Doctor Hastings calling."
“Oh, fine," Corley acknowledged. “Slide out of there and let me take it."
They changed places with effort, bothered by weightlessness. Traub felt a touch on his arm. “What is it, Mannie?"
He turned; Barnes and Bowles had waked up and loosed themselves. “Howdy, Skipper. It’s Doctor Hastings."
“Good!"
“Uh, Admiral — got something for you." Traub hauled out the code dispatch.
Bowles stared at it. Barnes remarked, “Race results?"
Bowles did not answer. He shoved himself toward the forward bulkhead, as far away as possible. He then took a thin book from an inner pocket, and started studying the message with the aid of the book. Barnes looked surprised but said nothing.
Hastings’ report was short but not sweet. They would reach the Moon’s orbit where planned, but more than fifty hours too soon — and would miss the Moon by more than 90,000 miles!
Barnes whistled. “Hot pilot Barnes, they call me."
Corley said, “It’s no joke."
“I wasn’t laughing, Doc," Barnes answered, “but there is no use crying. It will be tragic soon enough."
Traub broke in. “Hey — what do you mean?"
“He means," Bowles said bluntly, “that we are headed out and aren’t coming back."
“On out? And out — out into outer space? Where the stars are?"
“That’s about it."
“Not that," Corley interrupted, “I’d estimate that we would reach our farthest point somewhere around the orbit of Mars."
Traub sighed. “So it’s Mars, now? That’s not so bad, is it? I mean — they say people live on Mars, don’t they? All those canals and things? We can get another load of water and come back."
“Don’t kid yourself, Mannie," Bowles said. “Just be glad you’re a bachelor."
“A bachelor? Who said I was?"
“Aren’t you?"
“Me? I’m a very domestic type guy. Four kids — and married—
fourteen years."
Corley looked stricken. “Mannie, I didn’t know."
“What’s that got to do with it? Insurance I’ve got, with a rocket experimentation rider. I knew this was no picnic."
Barnes said, “Mannie, if I had known, I wouldn’t have asked you to go. I’m sorry." He turned to Corley, “When do we run out of water — and air?"
Corley raised his voice. “Please! Everybody! I -didn’t say we weren’t going to get back. I said —"
“But you —"
“Shut up, Red! I said this orbit is no good. We’ve got to vector west, toward the Moon. And we’ve got to do it at —" He glanced at a clock. “Good grief! Seven minutes from now."
Barnes jerked his head around. “Acceleration stations, everybody! Stand by to maneuver!"
Chapter Seven
The most treacherous maneuver known to space flight is a jet landing on an airless planet. Even today, it commands the highest pay, the most skilled pilots —
Farquharson, Ibid., III: 418
For forty hours they fell toward the Moon. The maneuver had worked; one could see, even with naked eye, that they were closing with the Moon. The four took turns at the radio, ate and slept and talked and stared out at the glittering sky. Bowles and Traub discovered a common passion for chess and played off the “First Annual Interplanetary Championship" — so dubbed by the Admiral
— using pencil marks on paper. Traub won, four out of seven.
Some two hundred thousand miles out the Luna slid past the null point between Earth and Moon, and began to shape her final orbit. It became evident that the correction vector had somewhat overcompensated and that they were swinging toward the Moon’s western limb — “western" as seen from Earth: the Luna’s orbit would intersect her namesake somewhere on the never-yet-seen far side — or it was possible that the ship would skim the far side at high speed, come around sharply and head back toward Earth.
Two principal styles of landing were possible — Type A, in which a ship heads in vertically, braking on her jets to a landing in one maneuver, and Type B, in which a ship is first slowed to a circular orbit, then stopped dead, then backed to a landing when she drops from the point of rest.
“Type A, Jim — it’s simplest."
Barnes shook his head. “No, Doc. Simple on paper only. Too risky." If they corrected course to head straight in (Type A), their speed at instant of braking would be a mile and a half a second and an error of one second would land them 8000 feet above — or below! — the surface.
Barnes went on, “How about a modified 'A’?" Modified Type A called for intentionally blasting too soon, then cutting the jets when the radar track showed that the ship hovered, allowing it to fall from rest, then blasting again as necessary, perhaps two or three times.
“Confound it, Jim, a modified 'A’ is so damned wasteful."
“I’d like to get us down without wrecking us."
“And I would like us to get home, too. This ship was figured for a total change of twelve and a half miles per second. Our margin is paper thin."
“Just the same, I’d like to set the autopilot to kick her a couple of seconds early."
“We can’t afford it and that’s that."
“Land her yourself, then. I’m not Superman."
“Now, Jim —"
“Sorry." Barnes looked at the calculations. “But why Type A? Why not Type B?"
“But Jim, Type B is probably ruled out. It calls for decelerating at point of closest approach and, as things stand now, 'closest approach’ may be contact."
“Crash, you mean. But don’t be so damned conventional; you can vector into a circular orbit from any position."
“But that wastes reaction mass, too."
“Crashing from a sloppy Type A wastes more than reaction mass," Barnes retorted. “Get to work on a 'B’; I won’t risk an 'A."
Corley looked stubborn. Barnes went on, “There’s a bonus with Type B, Doc — two bonuses."
“Don’t be silly. Done perfectly, it takes as much reaction mass as Type A; done sloppily, it takes more."
“I won’t be sloppy. Here’s your bonus: Type A lands us on this face, but Type B lets us swing around the Moon and photograph the back side before we land. How does that appeal to your scientific soul?"
Corley looked tempted. “I thought about that, but we’ve got too little margin. It takes a mile and a half of motion to get down to the Moon, the same to get up — three miles. For the trip back I have to save enough mass to slow from seven miles a second to five before we dip into the atmosphere. We used up seven to blast off — it all adds up to twelve. Look at the figures; what’s left?"
Barnes did so and shrugged. “Looks like a slightly fat zero."
“A few seconds of margin at most. You could waste it on the transitions in a Type B landing."
“Now the second bonus, Doe," Barnes said slowly. “The Type B gives you a chance to change your mind after you get into a circular orbit; the straight-in job commits you beyond any help."
Corley looked shocked. “Jim, you mean go back to Earth without landing?"
Barnes lowered his voice. “Wait, Doc. I’d land on the Moon if I had enough in tanks to get down — and not worry about getting up again. I’m a bachelor. But there’s Mannie Traub. No getting around it; we stampeded him. Now it turns out he has a slew of kids, waiting for poppa to come home. It makes a difference."
Corley pulled at
his scalp lock. “He should have told us."
“If he had, we wouldn’t have taken off."
“Confound it, things would have been all right if I hadn’t suggested that you test the engine."
“Nonsense! If I hadn’t scared those babies off with a blast, they probably would have wrecked the ship."
“You can’t be sure."
“A man can’t be sure of anything. How about Traub?"
“You’re right — I, suppose. Okay, we leave it up to Traub."
From the other end of the compartment Traub looked around from his chess game with Bowles.
“Somebody call me?"
“Yes," Barnes agreed. “Both of you. We’ve got things to decide."
Barnes outlined the situation. “Now," he said, “Doc and I agree that, after we get into a circular orbit and have had time to add up what’s left, Mannie should decide whether we land, or just swing around and blast for home."
Bowles looked amazed, but said nothing.
Traub looked flustered. “Me? It ain’t my business to decide. I’m the electronics department."
“Because," Barnes stated, “you’re the only one with kids."
“Yes, but — Look here — is there really a chance that, if we landed, we wouldn’t be able to get back?"
“Possible," Barnes answered and Corley nodded.
“But don’t you know?"
“Look, Mannie," Barnes countered, “we’ve got water in the tanks to land, take off, and return to Earth — but none for mistakes."
“Yes, but you won’t make any mistakes, will you?"
“I can’t promise. I’ve already made one and it’s brought us to this situation."
Traub’s features worked in agonized indecision. “But it’s not my business to decide!"
Bowles spoke up suddenly. “You’re right; it’s not!" He went on, “Gentlemen, I didn’t intend to speak, because it never crossed my mind that we might not land. But now the situation demands it. As you know, I received a coded message.
“The gist was this; our trip has caused grave international repercussions. The Security Council has been in constant session, with the U.S.S.R. demanding that the Moon be declared joint property of the United Nations —"
Off The Main Sequence Page 76
