Space Tug

by Murray Leinster

  7

  Time passed. Hours, then days. Things began to happen. Trucks appeared,loaded down with sacks of white powder. The powder was very messilymixed with water and smeared lavishly over the now waterproofed woodenmockup of a space ship. It came off again in sections of white plaster,which were numbered and set to dry in warm chambers that wereconstructed with almost magical speed. More trucks arrived, bearing suchdiverse objects as loads of steel turnings, a regenerativehelium-cooling plant from a gaswell--it could cool metal down to thepoint where it crumbled to impalpable powder at a blow--and assortedfuel tanks, dynamos, and electronic machinery.

  Ten days after Mike's first proposal of concreted steel as a materialfor space ship construction, the parts of the first casting of themockup were assembled. They were a mold for the hull of a space ship.There were more plaster sections for a second mold ready to be dried outnow, but meanwhile vehicles like concrete mixers mixed turnings andfilings and powder in vast quantities and poured the dry mass here andthere in the first completed mold. Then men began to wrap the giganticobject with iron wire. Presently that iron wire glowed slightly, and thewhole huge mold grew hotter and hotter and hotter. And after a time itwas allowed to cool.

  But that did not mean a ceasing of activity. The plaster casts had beenmade while the concreting process was worked out. The concretingprocess--including the heating--was in action while fittings were beingflown to the Shed. But other hulls were being formed by metal-concreteformation even before the first mold was taken down.

  When the plaster sections came off, there was a long, gleaming,frosty-sheened metal hull waiting for the fittings. It was a replacementof one of the two shot-down space craft, ready for fitting out some sixweeks ahead of schedule. Next day there was a second metal hull, stilltoo hot to touch. The day after that there was another.

  Then they began to be turned out at the rate of two a day, and all thevast expanse of the Shed resounded with the work on them. Drills drilledand torches burned and hammers hammered. Small diesels rumbled. Disksaws cut metal like butter by the seemingly impractical method ofspinning at 20,000 revolutions per minute. Convoys of motor bussesrolled out from Bootstrap at change-shift time, and there were againSecurity men at every doorway, moving continually about.

  But it still didn't look too good. There is apparently no way to beatarithmetic, and a definitely grim problem still remained. Ten days afterthe beginning of the new construction program, Joe and Sally looked downfrom a gallery high up in the outward-curving wall of the Shed. Acres ofdark flooring lay beneath them. There was a spiral ramp that wound roundand round between the twin skins of the fifty-story-high dome. It ledfinally to the Communications Room at the very top of the Shed itself.

  Where Joe and Sally looked down, the floor was 300 feet below. Weldingarcs glittered. Rivet guns chattered. Trucks came in the doorways withmaterials, and there was already a gleaming row of eighty-foot hulls.There were eleven of them already uncovered, and small trucks ran up totheir sides to feed the fitting-out crews such items as air tanks andgyro assemblies and steering rocket piping and motors, and short wavecommunicators and control boards. Exit doors were being fitted. The lasttwo hulls to be uncovered were being inspected with portable x-rayoutfits, in search of flaws. And there were still other ungainly whitemolds, which were other hulls in process of formation--the metal stillpouring into the molds in powder form, or being tamped down, or beingsintered to solidity.

  Joe leaned on the gallery-railing and said unhappily, "I can't helpworrying, even though the Platform hasn't been shot at since we landed."

  That wasn't an expression of what he was thinking. He was thinking aboutmatters the enemies of the Platform would have liked to know about.Sally knew these matters too. But top secret information isn't talkedabout by the people who know it, unless they are actively at work on it.At all other times one pretends even to himself that he doesn't know it.That is the only possible way to avoid leaks.

  The top secret information was simply that it was still impossible tosupply the Platform. Ships could be made faster than had ever beendreamed of before, but so long as any ship that went up could bedestroyed on the way down, the supply of the Platform was impractical.But the ships were being built regardless, against the time when a wayto get them down again was thought of. As of the moment it hadn't beenthought of yet.

  But building the ships anyhow was unconscious genius, because nobody butAmericans could imagine anything so foolish. The enemies of the Platformand of the United States knew that full-scale production of ships bysome fantastic new method was in progress. The fact couldn't be hidden.But nobody in a country where material shortages were chronic couldimagine building ships before a way to use them was known. So thePlatform's enemies were convinced that the United States had somethingwholly new and very remarkable, and threatened their spies withunspeakable fates if they didn't find out what it was.

  They didn't find out. The rulers of the enemy nations knew, of course,that if a new--say--space-drive had been invented, they would very soonhave to change their tune. So there were no more attacks on thePlatform. It floated serenely overhead, sending down astronomicalobservations and solar-constant measurements and weather maps, whileabout it floated a screen of garbage and discarded tin cans.

  But Joe and Sally looked down where the ships were being built while theproblem of how to use them was debated.

  "It's a tough nut to crack," said Joe dourly.

  It haunted him. Ships going up had to have crews. Crews had to come downagain because they had to leave supplies at the Platform, not consumethem there. Getting a ship up to orbit was easier than getting it downagain.

  "The Navy's been working on light guided missiles," said Sally.

  "No good," snapped Joe.

  It wasn't. He'd been asked for advice. Could a space ship crew controlguided missiles and fight its way back to ground with them? The answerwas that it could. But guided missiles used to fight one's way downwould have to be carried up first. And they would weigh as much as allthe cargo a ship could carry. A ship that carried fighting rocketscouldn't carry cargo. Cargo at the Platform was the thing desired.

  "All that's needed," said Sally, watching Joe's face, "is a slight touchof genius. There's been genius before now. Burning your cabin free withlanding-rocket flames----"

  "Haney's idea," growled Joe dispiritedly.

  "And making more ships in a hurry with metal-concrete----"

  "Mike did that," said Joe ruefully.

  "But you made the garbage-screen for the Platform," insisted Sally.

  "Sanford had made a wisecrack," said Joe. "And it just happened that itmade sense that he hadn't noticed." He grimaced. "You say something likethat, now...."

  Sally looked at him with soft eyes. It wasn't really his job, thisworrying. The top-level brains of the armed forces were struggling withit. They were trying everything from redesigned rocket motors to reallyradical notions. But there wasn't anything promising yet.

  "What's really needed," said Sally regretfully, "is a way for ships togo up to the Platform and not have to come back."

  "Sure!" said Joe ironically. Then he said, "Let's go down!"

  They started down the long, winding ramp which led between the two skinsof the Shed's wall. It was quite empty, this long, curving, descendingcorridor. It was remarkably private. In a place like the Shed, withfrantic activity going on all around, and even at Major Holt's quarterswhere Sally lived and Joe was a guest, there wasn't often a chance forthem to talk in any sort of actual privacy.

  But Joe went on, scowling. Sally went with him. If she seemed to hangback a little at first, he didn't notice. Presently she shrugged hershoulders and ceased to try to make him notice that nobody else happenedto be around. They made a complete circuit of the Shed within its wall,Joe staring ahead without words.

  Then he stopped abruptly. His expression was unbelieving. Sally almostbumped into him.

  "What's the matter?"

  "You had it, Sally!" he said
amazedly. "You did it! You said it!"

  "What?"

  "The touch of genius!" He almost babbled. "Ships that can go up to thePlatform and not have to come back! Sally, you did it! You did it!"

  She regarded him helplessly. He took her by the shoulders as if to shakeher into comprehension. But he kissed her exuberantly instead.

  "Come on!" he said urgently. "I've got to tell the gang!"

  He grabbed her hand and set off at a run for the bottom of the ramp. AndSally, with remarkably mingled emotions showing on her face, was draggedin his wake.

  He was still pulling her after him when he found the Chief and Haney andMike in the room at Security where they were practically self-confined,lest their return to Earth become too publicly known. Mike was stalkingup and down with his hands clasped behind his back, glum as a miniatureNapoleon and talking bitterly. The Chief was sprawled in a chair. Haneysat upright regarding his knuckles with a thoughtful air.

  Joe stepped inside the door. Mike continued without a pause: "I tellyou, if they'll only use little guys like me, the cabin and supplies andcrew can be cut down by tons! Even the instruments can be smaller andweigh less! Four of us in a smaller cabin, less grub and air andwater--we'll save tons in cabin-weight alone! Why can't you big lummoxessee it?"

  "We see it, Mike," Haney said mildly. "You're right. But people won't doit. It's not fair, but they won't."

  Joe said, beaming, "Besides, Mike, it'd bust up our gang! And Sally'sjust gotten the real answer! The answer is for ships to go up to thePlatform and not come back!"

  He grinned at them. The Chief raised his eyebrows. Haney turned his headto stare. Joe said exuberantly: "They've been talking about arming shipswith guided missiles to fight with. Too heavy, of course. But--if wecould handle guided missiles, why couldn't we handle drones?"

  The three of them gaped at him. Sally said, startled, "But--but, Joe, Ididn't----"

  "We've got plenty of hulls!" said Joe. Somehow he still lookedastonished at what he'd made of Sally's perfectly obvious comment."Mike's arranged for that! Make--say--six of 'em into drones--spacebarges. Remote-controlled ships. Control them from one manned ship--thetug! We'll ride that! Take 'em up to the Platform exactly like a tugtows barges. The tow-line will be radio beams. We'll have a space-towup, and not bother to bring the barges back! There won't be any landingrockets! They'll carry double cargo! That's the answer! A space tughauling a tow to the Platform!"

  "But, Joe," insisted Sally, "I didn't think of----"

  The Chief heaved himself up. Haney's voice cut through what the Chiefwas about to say. Haney said drily: "Sally, if Joe hadn't kissed you forthinking that up, I would. Makes me feel mighty dumb."

  Mike swallowed. Then he said loyally, "Yeah. Me too. I'd've made atwo-ton cargo possible--maybe. But this adds up. What does the majorsay?"

  "I--haven't talked to him. I'd better, right away." Joe grinned. "Iwanted to tell you first."

  The Chief grunted. "Good idea. But hold everything!" He fumbled in hispocket. "The arithmetic is easy enough, Joe. Cut out the crew and airand you save something." He felt in another pocket. "Leave off thelanding rockets, and you save plenty more. Count in the cargo you couldtake anyhow"---- he searched another pocket still----"and you getforty-two tons of cargo per space barge, delivered at the Platform. Sixdrones--that's 252 tons in one tow! Here!" He'd found what he wanted. Itwas a handkerchief. He thrust it upon Joe. "Wipe that lipstick off, Joe,before you go talk to the major. He's Sally's father and he might notlike it."

  Joe wiped at his face. Sally, her eyes shining, took the handkerchieffrom him and finished the job. She displayed that remarkableinsensitivity of females in situations productive of both pride andembarrassment. When a girl or a woman is proud, she is neverembarrassed.

  She and Joe went away, and Sally rushed right into her father's office.In fifteen minutes technical men began to arrive for conferences,summoned by telephone. Within forty-five minutes, messengers carriedorders out to the Shed floor and stopped the installation of certaintypes of fittings in all but one of the hulls. In an hour and a half,top technical designers were doing the work of foremen and gettingthings done without benefit of blueprints. The proposal was beautifullysimple to put into practice. Guided-missile control systems were alreadyin mass production. They could simply be adjusted to take care ofdrones.

  Within twelve hours there were truck-loads of new sorts of suppliesarriving at the Shed. Some were Air Force supplies and some wereOrdnance, and some were strictly Quartermaster. These were not componentparts of space ships. They were freight for the Platform.

  And, just forty-eight hours after Joe and Sally looked dispiritedly downupon the floor of the Shed, there were seven gleaming hulls in launchingcages and the unholy din of landing pushpots outside the Shed. They camewith hysterical cries from their airfield to the south, and they floppedflat with extravagant crashings on the desert outside the eastern door.

  By the time the pushpots had been hauled in, one by one, and hadattached themselves to the launching cages, Joe and Haney and the Chiefand Mike had climbed into the cabin of the one ship which was not adrone. There were now seven cages in all to be hoisted toward the sky. Agreat double triangular gore had been jacked out and rolled aside tomake an exit in the side of the Shed. Nearly as many pushpots, itseemed, were involved in this launching as in the take-off of thePlatform itself.

  The routine test before take-off set the pushpot motors to roaringinside the Shed. The noise was the most sustained and ghastly tumultthat had been heard on Earth since the departure of the Platform.

  But this launching was not so impressive. It was definitely untidy,imprecise, and unmilitary. There were seven eighty-foot hulls in cagessurrounded by clustering, bellowing, preposterous groups of howlingobjects that looked like over-sized black beetles. One of the sevenhulls had eyes. The others were blind--but they were equipped with radioantennae. The ship with eyes had several small basket-type radar bowlsprojecting from its cabin plating.

  The seven objects rose one by one and went bellowing and blundering outto the open air. At 40 and 50 feet above the ground, they jockeyed intosome sort of formation, with much wallowing and pitching and clumsymaneuvering.

  Then, without preliminary, they started up. They rose swiftly. The noiseof their going diminished from a bellow to a howl, and from a howl to amoaning noise, and then to a faint, faint, ever-dwindling hum.

  Presently that faded out, too.