The Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  The Chief grunted amiably, “Look, Joe! We checked everything last night. We checked it again this morning. I even caught Mike polishing the ejection seats, because there wasn’t anything else to make sure of!”

  Joe managed a smile. The ejection seats were assuredly the most unlikely of all devices to be useful today. They were supposedly life-saving devices. If the ship came a cropper on take-off, the four of them were supposed to use ejection-seats like those supplied to jet pilots. They would be thrown clear of the ship and ribbon-parachutes might open and might let them land alive. But it wasn’t likely. Joe had objected to their presence. If a feather dropped to Earth from a height of 600 miles, it would be falling so fast when it hit the atmosphere that it would heat up and burn to ashes from pure air-friction. It wasn’t likely that they could get out of the ship if anything went wrong.

  Somebody marched stiffly toward the four of them. Joe’s expression grew rueful. The Space Project was neither Army nor Navy nor Air Corps, but something that so far was its own individual self. But the man marching toward Joe was Lieutenant Commander Brown, strictly Navy, assigned to the Shed as an observer. And there were some times when he baffled Joe. Like now.

  He halted, and looked as if he expected Joe to salute. Joe didn’t.

  Lieutenant Commander Brown said, formally: “I would like to offer my best wishes for your trip, Mr. Kenmore.”

  “Thanks,” said Joe.

  Brown smiled distantly. “You understand, of course, that I consider navigation essentially a naval function, and it does seem to me that any ship, including a spaceship, should be manned by naval personnel. But I assuredly wish you good fortune.”

  “Thanks,” said Joe again.

  Brown shook hands, then stalked off.

  Haney rumbled in his throat. “How come, Joe, he doesn’t wish all of us good luck?”

  “He does,” said Joe. “But his mind’s in uniform too. He’s been trained that way. I’d like to make a bet that we have him as a passenger out to the Platform some day.”

  “Heaven forbid!” growled Haney.

  There was an outrageous tumult outside the wide-open gap in the Shed’s wall. Something went shrieking by the doorway. It looked like the magnified top half of a loaf of baker’s bread, painted gray and equipped with an air-scoop in front and a plastic bubble for a pilot. It howled like a lost baby dragon, its flat underside tilted up and up until it was almost vertical. It had no wings, but a blue-white flame spurted out of its rear, wobbling from side to side for reasons best known to itself. It was a pushpot, which could not possibly be called a jet plane because it could not possibly fly. Only it did. It settled down on its flame-spouting tail, and the sparse vegetation burst into smoky flame and shriveled, and the thing—still shrieking like a fog-horn in a tunnel—flopped flat forward with a resounding clank! It was abruptly silent.

  But the total noise was not lessened. Another pushpot came soaring wildly into view, making hysterical outcries. It touched and banged violently to earth. Others appeared in the air beyond the construction Shed. One flopped so hard on landing that its tail rose in the air and it attempted a somersault. It made ten times more noise than before—the flame from its tail making wild gyrations—and flopped back again with a crash. Two others rolled over on their sides after touching ground. One ended up on its back like a tumble-bug, wriggling.

  They seemed to land by hundreds, but their number was actually in dozens. It was not until the last one was down that Joe could make himself heard. The pushpots were jet motors in frames and metal skin, with built-in jato rocket tubes besides their engines. On the ground they were quite helpless. In the air they were unbelievably clumsy. They were actually balanced and steered by vanes in the blasts of their jets, and they combined the absolute maximum of sheer thrust with the irreducible minimum of flyability.

  Crane-trucks went out to pick them up. Joe said anxiously, “We’d better check our flight plan again. We have to know it absolutely!”

  He headed across the floor to the flight data board. He passed the hull of another ship like his own, which was near completion, and the bare skeletons of two others which needed a lot of work yet. They’d been begun at distant plants and then hauled here on monstrous trailers for completion. The wooden mockup of the design for all the ships—in which every possible arrangement of instruments and machinery had been tested out—lay neglected by the Shed wall.

  The four stood before the flight data board. It listed the readings every instrument should show during every instant of the flight. The readings had been calculated with infinite care, and Joe and the others needed to know them rather better than they knew their multiplication tables. Once they started out, they wouldn’t have time to wonder if everything was right for the time and place. They needed to know.

  They stood there, soaking up the information the board contained, forming mental pictures of it, making as sure as possible that any one of them would spot anything wrong the instant it showed up, and would instantly know what had to be done about it.

  A gigantic crane-truck came in through the wide doorway. It dangled a pushpot. It rolled over to the launching cage in which the spaceship lay and set the unwieldy metal object against that cage. There was a clank as the pushpot caught hold of the magnetic grapples. The crane went out again, passing a second crane carrying a second pushpot. The second beetle-like thing was presented to the cage. It stuck fast. The crane went out for more.

  Major Holt came across the floor of the Shed. It took him a long time to walk the distance from the Security offices to the launching cage. When he got there, he looked impatiently around. His daughter Sally came out of nowhere and blew her nose as if she’d been crying, and pointed to the data board. The major shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasily at her. She regarded him with some defiance. The major spoke to her sternly. They waited.

  The cranes brought in more pushpots and set them up against the steel launching cage. The ship had been nearly hidden before by the rocket tubes fastened outside its hull. It went completely out of sight behind the metal monsters banked about it.

  The major looked at his watch and the group about the data board. They moved away from it and back toward the ship. Joe saw the major and swerved over to him.

  “I have brought you,” said the major in an official voice, “the invoice of your cargo. You will deliver the invoice with the cargo and bring back proper receipts.”

  “I hope,” said Joe.

  “We hope!” said Sally in a strained tone. “Good luck, Joe!”

  “Thanks.”

  “There is not much to say to you,” said the major without visible emotion. “Of course the next crew will start its training immediately, but it may be a month before another ship can take off. It is extremely desirable that you reach the Platform today.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Joe wrily. “I have even a personal motive to get there. If I don’t, I break my neck.”

  The major ignored the comment. He shook hands formally and marched away. Sally smiled up at Joe, but her eyes were suddenly full of tears.

  “I—do hope everything goes all right, Joe,” she said unsteadily. “I—I’ll be praying for you.”

  “I can use some of that, too,” admitted Joe.

  She looked at her hand. Joe’s ring was on her finger—wrapped with string on the inside of the band to make it fit. Then she looked up again and was crying unashamedly.

  “I—will,” she repeated. Then she said fiercely, “I don’t care if somebody’s looking, Joe. It’s time for you to go in the ship.”

  He kissed her, and turned and went quickly to the peculiar mass of clustered pushpots, touching and almost overlapping each other.

  He ducked under and looked back. Sally waved. He waved back. Then he climbed up the ladder into Pelican One’s cabin. Somebody pulled the ladder away and scuttled out of the cage.

  The others were in their places. Joe slowly closed the door from the cabin to the outer world. There was suddenly a cu
shioned silence about him. Out the quartz-glass ports he could see ahead, out the end of the cage through the monstrous doorway to the desert beyond. Overhead he could see the dark, girder-lined roof of the Shed. On either side, though, he could see only the scratched, dented, flat undersides of the pushpots ready to lift the ship upward.

  “You can start on the pushpot motors, Haney,” he said curtly.

  Joe moved to his own, the pilot’s seat. Haney pushed a button. Through the fabric of the ship came the muted uproar of a pushpot engine starting. Haney pushed another button. Another. Another. More jet engines bellowed. The tumult in the Shed would be past endurance, now.

  Joe strapped himself into his seat. He made sure that the Chief at the steering-rocket manual controls was fastened properly, and Mike at the radio panel was firmly belted past the chance of injury.

  Haney said with enormous calm, “All pushpot motors running, Joe.”

  “Steering rockets ready,” the Chief reported.

  “Radio operating,” came from Mike. “Communications room all set.”

  Joe reached to the maneuver controls. He should have been sweating. His hands, perhaps, should have quivered with tension. But he was too much worried about too many things. Nobody can strike an attitude or go into a blue funk while they are worrying about things to be done. Joe heard the small gyro motors as their speed went up. A hum and a whine and then a shrill whistle which went up in pitch until it wasn’t anything at all. He frowned anxiously and said to Haney, “I’m taking over the pushpots.”

  Haney nodded. Joe took the over-all control. The roar of engines outside grew loud on the right-hand side, and died down. It grew thunderous to the left, and dwindled. The ones ahead pushed. Then the ones behind. Joe nodded and wet his lips. He said: “Here we go.”

  There was no more ceremony than that. The noise of the jet motors outside rose to a thunderous volume which came even through the little ship’s insulated hull. Then it grew louder, and louder still, and Joe stirred the controls by ever so tiny a movement.

  Suddenly the ship did not feel solid. It stirred a little. Joe held his breath and cracked the over-all control of the pushpots’ speed a tiny trace further. The ship wobbled a little. Out the quartz-glass windows, the great door seemed to descend. In reality the clustered pushpots and the launching cage rose some thirty feet from the Shed floor and hovered there uncertainly. Joe shifted the lever that governed the vanes in the jet motor blasts. Ship and cage and pushpots, all together, wavered toward the doorway. They passed out of it, rocking a little and pitching a little and wallowing a little. As a flying device, the combination was a howling tumult and a horror. It was an aviation designer’s nightmare. It was a bad dream by any standard.

  But it wasn’t meant as a way to fly from one place to another on Earth. It was the first booster stage of a three-stage rocket aimed at outer space. It looked rather like—well—if a swarm of bumblebees clung fiercely to a wire-gauze cage in which lay a silver minnow wrapped in match-sticks; and if the bees buzzed furiously and lifted it in a straining, clumsy, and altogether unreasonable manner; and if the appearance and the noise together were multiplied a good many thousands of times—why—it would present a great similarity to the take-off of the spaceship under Joe’s command. Nothing like it could be graceful or neatly controllable or even very speedy in the thick atmosphere near the ground. But higher, it would be another matter.

  It was another matter. Once clear of the Shed, and with flat, sere desert ahead to the very horizon, Joe threw on full power to the pushpot motors. The clumsy-seeming aggregation of grotesque objects began to climb. Ungainly it was, and clumsy it was, but it went upward at a rate a jet-fighter might have trouble matching. It wobbled, and it swung around and around, and it tipped crazily, the whole aggregation of jet motors and cage and burden of spaceship as a unit. But it rose!

  The ground dropped so swiftly that even the Shed seemed to shrivel like a pricked balloon. The horizon retreated as if a carpet were hastily unrolled by magic. The barometric pressure needles turned.

  “Communications says our rate-of-climb is 4,000 feet a minute and going up fast,” Mike announced. “It’s five.… We’re at 17,000 feet…18,000. We should get some eastward velocity at 32,000 feet. Our height is now 21,000 feet.…”

  There was no change in the feel of things inside the ship, of course. Sealed against the vacuum of space, barometric pressure outside made no difference. Height had no effect on the air inside the ship.

  At 25,000 feet the Chief said suddenly: “We’re pointed due east, Joe. Freeze it?”

  “Right,” said Joe. “Freeze it.”

  The Chief threw a lever. The gyros were running at full operating speed. By engaging them, the Chief had all their stored-up kinetic energy available to resist any change of direction the pushpots might produce by minor variations in their thrusts. Haney brooded over the reports from the individual engines outside. He made minute adjustments to keep them balanced. Mike uttered curt comments into the communicator from time to time.

  At 33,000 feet there was a momentary sensation as if the ship were tilted sharply. It wasn’t. The instruments denied any change from level rise. The upward-soaring complex of flying things had simply risen into a jet-stream, one of those wildly rushing wind-floods of the upper atmosphere.

  “Eastern velocity four hundred,” said Mike from the communicator. “Now four-twenty-five.… Four-forty.”

  There was a 300-mile-an-hour wind behind them. A tail-wind, west to east. The pushpots struggled now to get the maximum possible forward thrust before they rose out of that east-bound hurricane. They added a fierce push to eastward to their upward thrust. Mike’s cracked voice reported 500 miles an hour. Presently it was 600.

  At 40,000 feet they were moving eastward at 680 miles an hour. A jet-motor cannot be rated except indirectly, but there was over 200,000 horsepower at work to raise the spacecraft and build up the highest possible forward speed. It couldn’t be kept up, of course. The pushpots couldn’t carry enough fuel.

  But they reached 55,000 feet, which is where space begins for humankind. A man exposed to emptiness at that height will die just as quickly as anywhere between the stars. But it wasn’t quite empty space for the pushpots. There was still a very, very little air. The pushpots could still thrust upward. Feebly, now, but they still thrust.

  Mike said: “Communications says get set to fire jatos, Joe.”

  “Right!” he replied. “Set yourselves.”

  Mike flung a switch, and a voice began to chatter behind Joe’s head. It was the voice from the communications-room atop the Shed, now far below and far behind. Mike settled himself in the tiny acceleration-chair built for him. The Chief squirmed to comfort in his seat. Haney took his hands from the equalizing adjustments he had to make so that Joe’s use of the controls would be exact, regardless of moment-to-moment differences in the thrust of the various jets.

  “We’ve got a yaw right,” said the Chief sharply. “Hold it, Joe!”

  Joe waited for small quivering needles to return to their proper registrations.

  “Back and steady,” said the Chief a moment later. “Okay!”

  The tinny voice behind Joe now spoke precisely. Mike had listened to it while the work of take-off could be divided, so that Joe would not be distracted. Now Joe had to control everything at once.

  The roar of the pushpots outside the ship had long since lost the volume and timbre of normal atmosphere. Not much sound could be transmitted by the near-vacuum outside. But the jet motors did roar, and the sound which was not sound at such a height was transmitted by the metal cage as so much pure vibration. The walls and hull of the spaceship picked up a crawling, quivering pulsation and turned it into sound. Standing waves set up and dissolved and moved erratically in the air of the cabin. Joe’s eardrums were strangely affected. Now one ear seemed muted by a temporary difference of air pressure where a standing wave lingered for a second or two. Then the other eardrum itched. There were creeping
sensations as of things touching one and quickly moving away.

  Joe swung a microphone into place before his mouth.

  “All set,” he said evenly. “Brief me.”

  The tinny voice said:

  “You are at 65,000 feet. Your curve of rate-of-climb is flattening out. You are now rising at near-maximum speed, and not much more forward velocity can be anticipated. You have an air-speed relative to surface of six-nine-two miles per hour. The rotational speed of Earth at this latitude is seven-seven-eight. You have, then, a total orbital speed of one-four-seven-oh miles per hour, or nearly twelve per cent of your needed final velocity. Since you will take off laterally and practically without air resistance, a margin of safety remains. You are authorized to blast.”

  Joe said:

  “Ten seconds. Nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one.…”

  He stabbed the master jato switch. And a monstrous jato rocket, built into each and every one of the pushpots outside, flared chemical fumes in a simultaneous, gigantic thrust. A small wire-wound jato for jet-assisted-take-off will weigh a hundred and forty pounds and deliver a thousand pounds of thrust for fourteen seconds. And that is for rockets using nonpoisonous compounds. The jatos of the pushpots used the beryllium-fluorine fuel that had lifted the Platform and that filled the take-off rockets of Joe’s ship. These jatos gave the pushpots themselves an acceleration of ten gravities, but it had to be shared with the cage and the ship. Still.…

  Joe felt himself slammed back into his seat with irresistible, overwhelming force. The vibration from the jets had been bad. Now he didn’t notice it. He didn’t notice much of anything but the horrible sensations of six-gravity acceleration.

  It was not exactly pain. It was a feeling as if a completely intolerable and unbearable pressure pushed at him. Not only on the outside, like a blow, but inside too, like nothing else imaginable. Not only his chest pressed upon his lungs, but his lungs strained toward his backbone. Not only the flesh of his thighs tugged to flatten itself against his acceleration-chair, but the blood in his legs tried to flow into and burst the blood-vessels in the back of his legs.