The Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

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

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

  Where Joe and Sally looked down, the floor was 300 feet below. Welding arcs glittered. Rivet guns chattered. Trucks came in the doorways with materials, and there was already a gleaming row of eighty-foot hulls. There were eleven of them already uncovered, and small trucks ran up to their sides to feed the fitting-out crews such items as air tanks and gyro assemblies and steering rocket piping and motors, and short wave communicators and control boards. Exit doors were being fitted. The last two hulls to be uncovered were being inspected with portable x-ray outfits, in search of flaws. And there were still other ungainly white molds, which were other hulls in process of formation—the metal still pouring into the molds in powder form, or being tamped down, or being sintered to solidity.

  Joe leaned on the gallery-railing and said unhappily, “I can’t help worrying, 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 about matters the enemies of the Platform would have liked to know about. Sally knew these matters too. But top secret information isn’t talked about 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 to supply the Platform. Ships could be made faster than had ever been dreamed of before, but so long as any ship that went up could be destroyed on the way down, the supply of the Platform was impractical. But the ships were being built regardless, against the time when a way to get them down again was thought of. As of the moment it hadn’t been thought of yet.

  But building the ships anyhow was unconscious genius, because nobody but Americans could imagine anything so foolish. The enemies of the Platform and of the United States knew that full-scale production of ships by some fantastic new method was in progress. The fact couldn’t be hidden. But nobody in a country where material shortages were chronic could imagine building ships before a way to use them was known. So the Platform’s enemies were convinced that the United States had something wholly new and very remarkable, and threatened their spies with unspeakable 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 soon have to change their tune. So there were no more attacks on the Platform. It floated serenely overhead, sending down astronomical observations and solar-constant measurements and weather maps, while about it floated a screen of garbage and discarded tin cans.

  But Joe and Sally looked down where the ships were being built while the problem 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 down again because they had to leave supplies at the Platform, not consume them there. Getting a ship up to orbit was easier than getting it down again.

  “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 control guided missiles and fight its way back to ground with them? The answer was that it could. But guided missiles used to fight one’s way down would have to be carried up first. And they would weigh as much as all the cargo a ship could carry. A ship that carried fighting rockets couldn’t carry cargo. Cargo at the Platform was the thing desired.

  “All that’s needed,” said Sally, watching Joe’s face, “is a slight touch of genius. There’s been genius before now. Burning your cabin free with landing-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 it made sense that he hadn’t noticed.” He grimaced. “You say something like that, now.…”

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

  “What’s really needed,” said Sally regretfully, “is a way for ships to go 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 skins of the Shed’s wall. It was quite empty, this long, curving, descending corridor. It was remarkably private. In a place like the Shed, with frantic activity going on all around, and even at Major Holt’s quarters where Sally lived and Joe was a guest, there wasn’t often a chance for them to talk in any sort of actual privacy.

  But Joe went on, scowling. Sally went with him. If she seemed to hang back a little at first, he didn’t notice. Presently she shrugged her shoulders and ceased to try to make him notice that nobody else happened to 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 almost bumped 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 the Platform 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 shake her 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. And Sally, with remarkably mingled emotions showing on her face, was dragged in his wake.

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

  Joe stepped inside the door. Mike continued without a pause: “I tell you, if they’ll only use little guys like me, the cabin and supplies and crew can be cut down by tons! Even the instruments can be smaller and weigh less! Four of us in a smaller cabin, less grub and air and water—we’ll save tons in cabin-weight alone! Why can’t you big lummoxes see it?”

  “We see it, Mike,” Haney said mildly. “You’re right. But people won’t do it. It’s not fair, but they won’t.”

  Joe said, beaming, “Besides, Mike, it’d bust up our gang! And Sally’s just gotten the real answer! The answer is for ships to go up to the Platform and not come back!”

 
He grinned at them. The Chief raised his eyebrows. Haney turned his head to stare. Joe said exuberantly: “They’ve been talking about arming ships with guided missiles to fight with. Too heavy, of course. But—if we could handle guided missiles, why couldn’t we handle drones?”

  The three of them gaped at him. Sally said, startled, “But—but, Joe, I didn’t—”

  “We’ve got plenty of hulls!” said Joe. Somehow he still looked astonished at what he’d made of Sally’s perfectly obvious comment. “Mike’s arranged for that! Make—say—six of ’em into drones—space barges. Remote-controlled ships. Control them from one manned ship—the tug! We’ll ride that! Take ’em up to the Platform exactly like a tug tows barges. The tow-line will be radio beams. We’ll have a space-tow up, and not bother to bring the barges back! There won’t be any landing rockets! They’ll carry double cargo! That’s the answer! A space tug hauling 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 Chief was about to say. Haney said drily: “Sally, if Joe hadn’t kissed you for thinking that up, I would. Makes me feel mighty dumb.”

  Mike swallowed. Then he said loyally, “Yeah. Me too. I’d’ve made a two-ton cargo possible—maybe. But this adds up. What does the major say?”

  “I—haven’t talked to him. I’d better, right away.” Joe grinned. “I wanted to tell you first.”

  The Chief grunted. “Good idea. But hold everything!” He fumbled in his pocket. “The arithmetic is easy enough, Joe. Cut out the crew and air and you save something.” He felt in another pocket. “Leave off the landing rockets, and you save plenty more. Count in the cargo you could take anyhow”—he searched another pocket still—”and you get forty-two tons of cargo per space barge, delivered at the Platform. Six drones—that’s 252 tons in one tow! Here!” He’d found what he wanted. It was 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 not like it.”

  Joe wiped at his face. Sally, her eyes shining, took the handkerchief from him and finished the job. She displayed that remarkable insensitivity of females in situations productive of both pride and embarrassment. When a girl or a woman is proud, she is never embarrassed.

  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 carried orders out to the Shed floor and stopped the installation of certain types 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 getting things done without benefit of blueprints. The proposal was beautifully simple to put into practice. Guided-missile control systems were already in mass production. They could simply be adjusted to take care of drones.

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

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

  By the time the pushpots had been hauled in, one by one, and had attached themselves to the launching cages, Joe and Haney and the Chief and Mike had climbed into the cabin of the one ship which was not a drone. There were now seven cages in all to be hoisted toward the sky. A great double triangular gore had been jacked out and rolled aside to make an exit in the side of the Shed. Nearly as many pushpots, it seemed, were involved in this launching as in the take-off of the Platform itself.

  The routine test before take-off set the pushpot motors to roaring inside the Shed. The noise was the most sustained and ghastly tumult that 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 cages surrounded by clustering, bellowing, preposterous groups of howling objects that looked like over-sized black beetles. One of the seven hulls had eyes. The others were blind—but they were equipped with radio antennae. The ship with eyes had several small basket-type radar bowls projecting from its cabin plating.

  The seven objects rose one by one and went bellowing and blundering out to the open air. At 40 and 50 feet above the ground, they jockeyed into some sort of formation, with much wallowing and pitching and clumsy maneuvering.

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

  Presently that faded out, too.

  8

  All the sensations were familiar, the small fleet of improbable objects rose and rose. Of all flying objects ever imagined by man, the launching cages supported by pushpots were most irrational.

  The squadron, though, went bumbling upward. In the manned ship, Joe was more tense than on his other take-off—if such a thing was possible. His work was harder this trip. Before, he’d had Mike at communications and the Chief at the steering rockets while Haney kept the pushpots balanced for thrust. Now Joe flew the manned ship alone. Headphones and a mike gave him communications with the Shed direct, and the pushpots were balanced in groups, which cost efficiency but helped on control. He would have, moreover, to handle his own steering rockets during acceleration and when he could—and dared—he should supervise the others. Because each of the other three had two drone-ships to guide. True, they had only to keep their drones in formation, but Joe had to navigate for all. The four of them had been assigned this flight because of its importance. They happened to be the only crew alive who had ever flown a space ship designed for maneuvering, and their experience consisted of a single trip.

  The jet stream was higher this time than on that other journey now two months past. They blundered into it at 36,000 feet. Joe’s headphones buzzed tinnily. Radar from the ground told him his rate-of-rise, his ground speed, his orbital speed, and added comments on the handling of the drones.

  The last was not a precision job. On the way up Joe protested, “Somebody’s ship—Number Four—is lagging! Snap it up!”

  Mike said crisply, “Got it, Joe. Coming up!”

  “The Shed says three separate ships are getting out of formation. And we need due east pointing. Check it.”

  The Chief muttered, “Something whacky here…come round, you! Okay, Joe.”

  Joe had no time for reflection. He was in charge of the clumsiest operation ever designed for an exact result. The squadron went wallowing toward the sky. The noise was horrible. A tinny voice in his headphones:

  “You are at 65,000 feet. Your rate-of-climb curve is flattening. You should fire your jatos when practical. You have some leeway in rocket power.”

  Joe spoke into the extraordinary maze of noise waves and pressure systems in the air of the cabin.

  “We should blast. I’m throwing in the series circuit for jatos. Try to line up. We want the drones above us and with a spread, remember! Go to it!”

  He watched his direction indicator and the small graphic indicators telling of the drones. The sky outside the ports was dark purple. The launching cage responded sluggishly. Its open end came around toward the east. It wobbled and wavered. It touched the due-east point. Joe stabbed the firing-button.

  Nothing happened. He hadn’t expected it. The seven ships had to keep in formation. They had to start off on one course—with a slight spread as a safety measure—and at one time. So the firing-circuits were keyed to relays in series. Only when all seven firing-keys were down at th
e same time would any of the jatos fire. Then all would blast together.

  The pilots in the cockpit-bubbles of the pushpots had an extraordinary view of the scene. At something over twelve miles height, seven aggregations of clumsy black things clung to frameworks of steel, pushing valorously. Far below there were clouds and there was Earth. There was a horizon, which wavered and tilted. The pushpots struggled with seeming lack of purpose. One of the seven seemed to drop below the others. They pointed vaguely this way and that—all of them. But gradually they seemed to arrive at an uncertain unanimity.

  Joe pushed the firing-button again as his own ship touched the due-east mark. Again nothing happened. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Haney pressing down both buttons. The Chief’s finger lifted. Mike pushed down one button and held off the other.

  Roarings and howlings of pushpots. Wobblings and heart-breaking clumsinesses of the drone-ships. They hung in the sky while the pushpots used up their fuel.

  “We’ve got to make it soon,” said Joe grimly. “We’ve got forty seconds. Or we’ll have to go down and try again.”

  There was a clock dial with a red sweep-hand which moved steadily and ominously toward a deadline time for firing. Up to that deadline, the pushpots could let the ships back down to Earth without crashing them. After it, they’d run out of fuel before a landing could be made.

  The deadline came closer and closer. Joe snapped:

  “Take a degree leeway. We’ve got ten seconds.”

  He had the manned ship nearly steady. He held down the firing-button, holding aim by infinitesimal movements of the controls. Haney pushed both hands down, raised one, pushed again. The Chief had one finger down. Mike had both firing buttons depressed.… The Chief pushed down his second button, quietly.

  There was a monstrous impact. Every jato in every pushpot about every launching cage fired at once. Joe felt himself flung back into his acceleration chair. Six gravities. He began the horrible fight to stay alive, while the blood tried to drain from the conscious forepart of his brain, and while every button of his garments pressed noticeably against him, and objects in his pockets pushed. The sides of his mouth dragged back, and his cheeks sagged, and his tongue strove to sink back into his throat and strangle him.