A bell rang endlessly; he became aware that it was the general alarm, but he felt no interest other than a need to stop it. It was hard to find the switch, his fingers were numb. But he managed it and was about to rest from the effort, when he heard Kleuger call him. “Joe!"
“Huh?"
“Joe — don’t go back to sleep or I’ll turn the alarm on again. You hear me?"
“Yeah —" So Kleuger had done that — why, damn him!
“Joe, I’ve got to talk to you. I can’t stand any more."
" 'Any more’ what?"
“High boost. I can’t take any more — it’s killing me."
“Oh, rats!" Turn on that loud bell, would he?
“I’m dying, Joe. I can’t see — my eyes are shot. Joe, I’ve got to shut down the boost. I’ve got to."
“Well, what’s stopping you?" Joe answered irritably.
“Don’t you see, Joe? You’ve got to back me up. We tried — and we couldn’t. We’ll both log it. Then it’ll be all right."
“Log what?"
“Eh? Dammit, Joe, pay attention. I can’t talk much. You’ve got to say — to say that the strain became unendurable and you advised me to shut down. I’ll confirm it and it will be all right." His labored whisper was barely audible.
Joe couldn’t figure out what Kleuger meant. He couldn’t remember why Kleuger had put them in high boost anyhow. “Hurry, Joe."
There he went, nagging him! Wake him up and then nag him — to hell with him. “Oh, go back to sleep!" He dozed off and was again jerked awake by the alarm. This time he knew where the switch was and flipped it quickly. Kleuger switched it on again, Joe turned it off. Kleuger quit trying and Joe passed out.
He came awake in free fall. He was still realizing the ecstasy of being weightless when he managed to reorient; he was in the Salamander, headed for Pluto. Had they reached the end of the run? No, the dial said four days and some hours. Had the tape broken? The autopilot gone haywire? He then recalled the last time he had been awake.
Kleuger had shut off the torch!
The stretched grin was gone from Kleuger’s face, the features seemed slack and old. Joe called out, “Captain! Captain Kleuger!" Kleuger’s eyes fluttered and lips moved but Joe heard nothing. He slithered out of the tank, moved in front of Kleuger, floated there. “Captain, can you hear me?" The lips whispered, “I had to, boy. I saved us. Can you get us back, Joe?" His eyes opened but did not track.
“Captain, listen to me. I’ve got to light off again."
“Huh? No, Joe, no!"
“I’ve got to."
“No! That’s an order, Mister."
Appleby stared, then with a judo chop caught the sick man on the jaw. Kleuger’s head bobbed loosely. Joe pulled himself between the tanks, located a three-position switch, turned it from “Pilot CoPilot" to “CoPilot Only"; Kleuger’s controls were now dead. He glanced at Kleuger, saw that his head was not square in his collar, so he taped him properly into place, then got back in his tank. He settled his head and fumbled for the switch that would put the autopilot back on tape. There was some reason why they must finish this run — but for, the life of him he could not remember why. He squeezed the switch and, weight pinned him down.
He was awakened by a dizzy feeling added to the pressure. It went on for seconds, he retched futilely. When the motion stopped he peered at the dials. The Salamander had just completed the somersault from acceleration to deceleration. They had come half way, about, eighteen hundred million miles; their speed was over three million miles per hour and beginning to drop. Joe felt that he should report it to the skipper — he had no recollection of any trouble with him. “Skipper! Hey!" Kleuger did not move. Joe called again, then resorted to the alarm.
The clangor woke, not Kleuger, but Joe’s memory. He shut it off, feeling soul sick. Topping his physical misery was shame and loss and panic as he recalled the shabby facts. He felt that he ought to log it but could not decide what to say. Beaten and ever lower in mind he gave up and tried to rest. He woke later with something gnawing at his mind…something he should do for the Captain…something about a cargo robot —
That was it! If the robot-torch had reached Pluto, they could quit! Let’s see — elapsed-time from light-off was over five days. Yes, if it ever got there, then — He ran the wire back, listened for a recorded message. It was there: “Earth Station to Salamander — Extremely sorry to report that robot failed rendezvous. We are depending on you. — Berrio."
Tears of weakness and disappointment sped down his cheeks, pulled along by three and one-half gravities.
It was on the eighth day that Joe realized that Kleuger was dead. It was not the stench — he was unable to tell that from his own ripe body odors. Nor was it that the Captain had not roused since flip-over; Joe’s time sense was so fogged that he did not realize this. But he had dreamt that Kleuger was shouting for him to get up, to stand up — “Hurry up, Joe!" But the weight pressed him down. So sharp was the dream that Joe tried to answer after he woke up. Then he looked for Kleuger in the mirror. Kleuger’s face was much the same, but he knew with sick horror that the captain was dead. Nevertheless he tried to arouse him with the alarm. Presently he gave up; his fingers were purple and he could feel nothing below his waist; he wondered if be were dying and hoped that he was. He slipped into that lethargy which had become his normal state.
He did not become conscious when, after more than nine days, the autopilot quenched the torch. Awareness found him floating in midroom, having somehow squirmed out of his station. He felt deliciously lazy and quite hungry; the latter eventually brought him awake.
His surroundings put past events somewhat into place. He pulled himself to hii tank and examined the dials. Good grief! — it had been two hours since the ship had gone into free fall. The plan called for approach to be computed before the tape ran out, corrected on entering free fall, a new tape cut and fed in without delay, then let the autopilot make the approach. He had done nothing and wasted two hours.
He slid between tank and controls, discovering then that his legs were paralyzed. No matter — legs weren’t needed in free fall, nor in the tank. His hands did not behave well, but he could use them. He was stunned when he found Kleuger’s body, but steadied down and got to work. He had no idea where he was; Pluto might be millions of miles away, or almost in his lap — perhaps they had spotted him and were already sending approach data. He decided to check the wire.
He found their messages at once:
“Proserpina to Salamander — Thank God you are coming. Here are your elements at quench out —": followed by time reference, range-and-bearing figures, and doppler data.
And again: “Here are later and better figures, Salamander — hurry!"
And finally, only a few minutes before: “Salamander, why the delay in light-off? Is your computer broken down? Shall we compute a ballistic for you?"
The idea that anyone but a torcher could work a torch ballistic did not sink in. He tried to work fast, but his hands bothered him — he punched wrong numbers and had to correct them. It took him a half hour to realize that the trouble was not just his fingers. Ballistics, a subject as easy for him as checkers, was confused in his mind.
He could not work the ballistic.
“Salamander to Proserpino — Request ballistic for approach into parking orbit around Pluto."
The answer came so quickly that he knew that they had not waited for his okay. With ponderous care he cut the tape and fed it into the autopilot. It was then that he noticed the boost … four point oh three.
Four gravities for the approach — He had assumed that the approach would be a normal one — and so it might have been if he had not wasted three hours. But it wasn’t fair! It was too much to expect. He cursed childishly as he settled himself, fitted the collar, and squeezed the button that turned control to the autopilot. He had a few minutes of waiting time; he spent it muttering peevishly. They could have figured him a better ballistic — hell, he should have
figured it. They were always pushing him around. Good old Joe, anybody’s punching bag! That sound — so Kleuger over there, grinning like a fool and leaving the work for him — if Kleuger hadn’t been so confounded eager — Acceleration hit him and he blacked out.
When the shuttle came up to meet him, they found one man dead, one nearly dead, and the cargo of whole blood.
The supply ship brought pilots for the Salamander and fetched Appleby home. He stayed in sick bay until ordered to Luna for treatment; on being detached he reported to Berrio, escorted by the flight surgeon. The Commodore let him know brusquely that he had done a fine job, a damn’ fine job! The interview ended and the surgeon helped Joe to stand; instead of leaving Joe said, “Uh, Commodore?"
“Yes, son?"
“Oh, there’s one thing I don’t understand, uh, what I don’t understand is, uh, this: why do I have to go, uh, to the geriatrics clinic at Luna City? That’s for old people, uh? That’s what I’ve always understood — the way I understand it. Sir?"
The surgeon cut in, “I told you, Joe. They have the very best physiotherapy. We got special permission for you."
Joe looked perplexed. “Is that right, sir? I feel funny, going to an old folks’, uh, hospital?"
“That’s right, son."
Joe grinned sheepishly. “Okay, sir, uh, if you say so."
They started to leave. “Doctor — stay a moment. Messenger, help Mr. Appleby."
“Joe, can you make it?"
“Uh, sure! My legs are lots better — see?" He went out, leaning on the messenger.
Berrio said, “Doctor, tell me straight: will Joe get well?"
“No, sir."
“Will he get better?’
“Some, perhaps. Lunar gravity makes it easy to get the most out of what a man has left."
“But will his mind clear up?"
The doctor hesitated. “It’s this way, sir. Heavy acceleration is a speeded-up aging process. Tissues break down, capillaries rupture, the heart does many times its proper work. And there is hypoxia, from failure to deliver enough oxygen to the brain."
The Commodore struck his desk an angry blow. The surgeon said gently, “Don’t take it so hard, sir."
“Damn it, man — think of the way he was. Just a kid, all bounce and vinegar — now look at him! He’s an old man — senile."
“Look at it this way," urged the surgeon, “you expended one man, but you saved two hundred and seventy."
" 'Expended one man’? If you mean Kleuger, he gets a medal and his wife gets a pension. That’s the best, any of us can expect. I wasn’t thinking of Kleuger."
“Neither was I," answered the surgeon.
A Tenderfoot In Space
Boys’ Life, May - July 1958
Chapter One
“Heel, Nixie," the boy said softly, “and keep quiet."
The little mongrel took position left and rear of his boy, waited. He could feel that Charlie was upset and he wanted to know why — but an order from Charlie could not be questioned.
The boy tried to see whether or not the policeman was. noticing them. He felt lightheaded — neither he nor his dog had eaten that day. They had stopped in front of this supermarket, not to buy for the boy had no money left, but because of a “BOY WANTED" sign in the window.
It was then that he had noticed the reflection of the policeman in the glass.
The boy hesitated, trying to collect his cloudy thoughts. Should he go inside and ask for the job? Or should he saunter past the policeman? Pretend to be just out for a walk?
The boy decided to go on, get out of sight. He signaled the dog to stay close and turned away from the window. Nixie came along, tail high. He did not care where they went as long as he was with Charlie. Charlie had belonged to him as far back as he could remember; he could imagine no other condition. In fact Nixie would not have lived past his tenth day had not Charlie fallen in love with him; Nixie had been the least attractive of an unfortunate litter; his mother was Champion Lady Diana of Ojai — his father was unknown.
But Nixie was not aware that a neighbor boy had begged his life from his first owners. His philosophy was simple: enough to eat, enough sleep, and the rest of his time spent playing with Charlie. This present outing had been Charlie’s idea, but any outing was welcome. The shortage of food was a nuisance but Nixie automatically forgave Charlie such errors — after all, boys will be boys and a wise dog accepted the fact. The only thing that troubled him was that Charlie did not have the happy heart which was a proper part of all hikes.
As they moved past the man in the blue uniform, Nixie felt the man’s interest in them, sniffed his odor, but could find no real unfriendliness in it. But Charlie was nervous, alert, so Nixie kept his own attention high.
The man in uniform said, “Just a moment, son —"
Charlie stopped, Nixie stopped. “You speaking to me, officer?"
“Yes. What’s your dog’s name?"
Nixie felt Charlie’s sudden terror, got ready to attack. He had never yet had to bite anyone for his boy — but he was instantly ready. The hair between his shoulder blades stood up.
Charlie answered, “Uh … his name is 'Spot."
“So?" The stranger said sharply, “Nixie!"
Nixie had been keeping his eyes elsewhere, in order not to distract his ears, his nose, and the inner sense with which he touched people’s feelings. But he was so startled at hearing this stranger call him by name that he turned his head and looked at him.
“His name is 'Spot,’ is it?" the policeman said quietly. “And mine is Santa Claus. But you’re Charlie Vaughn and you’re going home." He spoke into his helmet phone: “Nelson, reporting a pickup on that Vaughn missing-persons flier. Send a car. I’m in front of the new supermarket."
Nixie had trouble sorting out Charlie’s feelings; they were both sad and glad. The stranger’s feelings were slightly happy but mostly nothing; Nixie decided to wait and see. He enjoyed the ride in the police car, as he always enjoyed rides, but Charlie did not, which spoiled it a little.
They were taken to the local Justice of the Peace. “You’re Charles Vaughn?"
Nixie’s boy felt unhappy and said nothing.
“Speak up, son," insisted the old man. “If you aren’t, then you must have stolen that dog." He read from a paper" — accompanied by a small brown mongrel, male, well trained, responds to the name 'Nixie.’ Well?"
Nixie’s boy answered faintly, “I’m Charlie Vaughn."
“That’s better. You’ll stay here until your parents pick you up." The judge frowned. “I can’t understand your running away. Your folks are emigrating to Venus, aren’t they?"
“Yes, sir."
“You’re the first boy I ever met who didn’t want to make the Big Jump." He pointed to a pin on the boy’s lapel. “And I thought Scouts were trustworthy. Not to mention obedient. What got into you, son? Are you scared of the Big Jump? 'A Scout is Brave.’ That doesn’t mean you don’t have to be scared — everybody is at times. 'Brave’ simply means you don’t run even if you are scared."
“I’m not scared," Charlie said stubbornly. “I want to go to Venus."
“Then why run away when your family is about to leave?"
Nixie felt such a burst of warm happy-sadness from Charlie that he licked his hand. “Because Nixie can’t go!"
“Oh." The judge looked at boy and dog. “I’m sorry, son. That problem is beyond my jurisdiction." He drummed his desk top. “Charlie … will you promise, Scout’s honor, not to run away again until your parents show up?"
“Uh … yes, sir."
“Okay. Joe, take them to my place. Tell my wife she had better see how recently they’ve had anything to eat."
The trip home was long. Nixie enjoyed it, even though Charlie’s father was happy-angry and his mother was happy-sad and Charlie himself was happy-sad-worried. When Nixie was home he checked quickly through each room, making sure that all was in order and that there were no new smells. Then he returned to Charlie.
Mr. Vaughn said, “Go to bed, young man, and sleep on it. I’ll speak with you again tomorrow."
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir."
“Kiss your mother goodnight. One thing more — Do I need to lock doors to be sure you will be here in the morning?"
“No, sir."
Nixie got on the foot of the bed as usual, tromped out a space, laid his tail over his nose, and started to go to sleep. But his boy was not sleeping; his sadness was taking the distressing form of heaves and sobs. So Nixie got up, went to the other end of the bed and licked away tears — then let himself be pulled into Charlie’s arms and tears applied directly to his neck. It was not comfortable and too hot, besides being taboo. But it was worth enduring as Charlie started to quiet down, presently went to sleep.
Nixie waited, gave him a lick on the face to check his sleeping, then moved to his end of the bed.
Mrs. Vaughn said to Mr. Vaughn, “Charles, isn’t there anything we can do for the boy?"
“Confound it, Nora. We’re getting to Venus with too little money as it is. If anything goes wrong, we’ll be dependent on charity."
“But we do have a little spare cash."
“Too little. Do you think I haven’t considered it? Why, the fare for that worthless dog would be almost as much as it is for Charlie himself! Out of the question! So why nag me? Do you think I enjoy this decision?"
“No, dear." Mrs. Vaughn pondered. “How much does Nixie weigh? I … well, I think I could reduce ten more pounds if I really tried."
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