They burned out somewhere. It would be a long time before they fell back to Earth. Hours, probably. Then they would be meteors. They’d vaporize before they touched solidity. They wouldn’t even explode.
But Joe and the Chief rode back to the Platform. It was surprising how hard it was to match speed with it again, to make a good entrance into the giant lock. They barely made it before the Platform made its plunge into that horrible blackness which was the Earth’s shadow. And Joe was very glad they did make it before then. He wouldn’t have liked to be merely astride a skinny framework in that ghastly darkness, with the monstrous blackness of the Abyss seeming to be trying to devour him.
Haney met them in the airlock. He grinned.
“Nice job, Joe! Nice job, Chief!” he said warmly. “Uh—the Lieutenant Commander wants you to report to him, Joe. Right away.”
Joe cocked an eyebrow at him.
“What for?”
Haney spread out his hands. The Chief grunted. “That guy bothers me. I’ll bet, Joe, he’s going to explain you shouldn’t’ve gone out when he didn’t want you to. Me, I’m keeping away from him!”
The Chief shed his space suit and swaggered away, as well as anyone could swagger while walking on what happened to be the ceiling, from Joe’s point of view. Joe put his space gear in its proper place. He went to the small cubbyhole that Brown had appropriated for the office of the Platform Commander. Joe went in, naturally without saluting.
Brown sat in a fastened-down chair with thigh grips holding him in place. He was writing. On Joe’s entry, he carefully put the pen down on a magnetized plate that would hold it until he wanted it again. Otherwise it could have floated anywhere about the room.
“Mr. Kenmore,” said Brown awkwardly, “you did a very nice piece of work. It’s too bad you aren’t in the Navy.”
Joe said: “It did work out pretty fortunately. It’s lucky the Chief and I were out practicing, but now we can take off when a rocket’s reported, any time.”
Brown cleared his throat. “I can thank you personally,” he said unhappily, “and I do. But—really this situation is intolerable! How can I report this affair? I can’t suggest commendation, or a promotion, or—anything! I don’t even know how to refer to you! I am going to ask you, Mr. Kenmore, to put through a request that your status be clarified. I would imagine that your status would mean a rank—hm—about equivalent to a lieutenant junior grade in the Navy.”
Joe grinned.
“I have—ah—prepared a draft you might find helpful,” said Brown earnestly. “It’s necessary for something to be done. It’s urgent! It’s important!”
“Sorry,” said Joe. “The important thing to me is getting ready to load up the Platform with supplies from Earth. Excuse me.”
He went out of the office. He made his way to the quarters assigned himself and his crew. Mike greeted him with reproachful eyes. Joe waved his hand.
“Don’t say it, Mike! The answer is yes. See that the tanks are refilled, and new rockets put in place. Then you and Haney go out and practice. But no farther than ten miles from the Platform. Understand?”
“No!” said Mike rebelliously. “It’s a dirty trick!”
“Which,” Joe assured him, “I commit only because there’s a robot ship from Bootstrap coming up any time now. And we’ll need to pick it up and tow it here.”
He went to the control-room to see if he could get a vision connection to Earth.
He got the beam, and he got Sally on the screen. A report of the attack on the Platform had evidently already gone down to Earth. Sally’s expression was somehow drawn and haunted. But she tried to talk lightly.
“Derring-do and stuff, Joe?” she asked. “How does it feel to be a victorious warrior?”
“It feels rotten,” he told her. “There must have been somebody in the rocket we blew up. He felt like a patriot, I guess, trying to murder us; But I feel like a butcher.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it,” she said. “Maybe the Chief’s bombs—”
“Maybe,” said Joe. He hesitated. “Hold up your hand.”
She held it up. His ring was still on it. She nodded. “Still there. When will you be back?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know. It was curious that one wanted so badly to talk to a girl after doing something that was blood-stirring—and left one rather sickish afterward. This business of space travel and even space battle was what he’d dreamed of, and he still wanted it. But it was very comforting to talk to Sally, who hadn’t had to go through any of it.
“Write me a letter, will you?” he asked. “We can’t tie up this beam very long.”
“I’ll write you all the news that’s allowed to go out,” she assured him. “Be seeing you, Joe.”
Her image faded from the screen. And, thinking it over, he couldn’t see that either of them had said anything of any importance at all. But he was very glad they’d talked together.
The first robot ship came up some eight hours later—two revolutions after the television call. Mike was ready hours in advance, fidgeting. The robot ship started up while the Platform was over the middle of the Pacific. It didn’t try to make a spiral approach as all other ships had done. It came straight up, and it started from the ground. No pushpots. Its take-off rockets were monsters. They pushed upward at ten gravities until it was out of atmosphere, and then they stepped up to fifteen. Much later, the robot turned on its side and fired orbital speed rockets to match velocity with the Platform.
There were two reasons for the vertical rise, and the high acceleration. If a robot ship went straight up, it wouldn’t pass over enemy territory until it was high enough to be protected by the Platform. And—it costs fuel to carry fuel to be burned. So if the rocketship could get up speed for coasting to orbit in the first couple of hundred miles, it needn’t haul its fuel so far. It was economical to burn one’s fuel fast and get an acceleration that would kill a human crew. Hence robots.
The landing of the first robot ship at the Platform was almost as matter-of-fact as if it had been done a thousand times before. From the Platform its dramatic take-off couldn’t be seen, of course. It first appeared aloft as a pip on a radar screen. Then Mike prepared to go out and hook on to it and tow it in. He was in his space suit and in the landing lock, though his helmet faceplate was still open. A loudspeaker boomed suddenly in Brown’s voice: “Evacuate airlock and prepare to take off!”
Joe roared: “Hold that!”
Brown’s voice, very official, came: “Withhold execution of that order. You should not be in the airlock, Mr. Kenmore. You will please make way for operational procedure.”
“We’re checking the space wagon,” snapped Joe. “That’s operational procedure!”
The loudspeaker said severely: “The checking should have been done earlier!”
There was silence. Mike and Joe, together, painstakingly checked over the very many items that had to be made sure. Every rocket had to have its firing circuit inspected. The tanks’ contents and pressure verified. The air connection to Mike’s space suit. The air pressure. The device that made sure that air going to Mike’s space suit was neither as hot as metal in burning sunlight, nor cold as the chill of a shadow in space.
Everything checked. Mike straddled his red-painted mount. Joe left the lock and said curtly:
“Okay to pump the airlock. Okay to open airlock doors when ready. Go ahead.”
Mike went out, and Joe watched from a port in the Platform’s hull. The drone from Earth was five miles behind the Platform in its orbit, and twenty miles below, and all of ten miles off-course. Joe saw Mike scoot the red space wagon to it, stop short with a sort of cocky self-assurance, hook on to the tow-ring in the floating space-barge’s nose, and blast off back toward the Platform with it in tow.
Mike had to turn about and blast again to check his motion when he arrived. And then he and Haney—Haney in the other space wagon—nudged at it and tugged at it and got it in the great spacelock. They went in after it a
nd the lock doors closed.
Neither Mike nor Haney were out of their space suits when Kent brought Joe a note. A note was an absurdity in the Platform. But this was a formal communication from Brown.
From: Lt. Comdr. Brown
To: Mr. Kenmore
Subject: Cooperation and courtesy in rocket recovery vehicle launchings.
There is a regrettable lack of coordination and courtesy in the launching of rocket-recovery vehicles (space wagons) in the normal operation of the Platform.
The maintenance of discipline and efficiency requires that the commanding officer maintain overall control of all operations at all times.
Hereafter when a space vehicle of any type is to be launched, the commanding officer will be notified in writing not less than one hour before such launching.
The time of such proposed launching will be given in such notification in hours and minutes and seconds, Greenwich Mean Time.
All commands for launching will be given by the commanding officer or an officer designated by him.”
Joe received the memo as he was in the act of writing a painstaking report on the maneuver Mike had carried out. Mike was radiant as he discussed possible improvements with later and better equipment. After all, this had been a lucky landing. For a robot to end up no more than 30 miles from its target, after a journey of 4,000 miles, and with a difference in velocity that was almost immeasurable—such good fortune couldn’t be expected as a regular thing. The space wagons were tiny. If they had to travel long distances to recover erratic ships coming up from Earth—
Joe forgot all about Lieutenant Commander Brown and his memo when the mail was distributed. Joe had three letters from Sally. He read them in the great living compartment of the Platform with its sixty-foot length and its carpet on floor and ceiling, and the galleries without stairs outside the sleeping cabins. He sat in a chair with thigh grips to hold him in place, and he wore a gravity simulation harness. It was necessary. The regular crew of the Platform, by this time, couldn’t have handled space wagons in action against enemy manned rockets. Joe meant to stay able to take acceleration.
It was just as he finished his mail that Brent came in.
“Big news!” said Brent. “They’re building a big new ship of new design—almost half as big as the Platform. With concreted metal they can do it in weeks.”
“What’s it for?” demanded Joe.
“It’ll be a human base on the Moon,” said Brent relievedly. “An expedition will start in six weeks, according to plan. As long as we’re the only American base in space, we’re going to be shot at. But a base on the Moon will be invulnerable. So they’re going ahead with it.”
Joe said hopefully:
“Any orders for me to join it?”
Brent shook his head. “We’re to be loaded up with supplies for the Moon expedition. We’re to be ready to take a robot ship every round. Actually, they can’t hope to send us more than two a day for a while, but even that’ll be eighty tons of supplies to be stored away.”
The Chief grumbled, but somehow his grumbling did not sound genuine. “They’re going to the Moon—and leave us here to do stevedore stuff?” His tone was odd. He looked at a letter he’d been reading and gave up pretense. He said self-consciously: “Listen, you guys.… My tribe’s got all excited. I just got a letter from the council. They’ve been having an argument about me. Wanna hear?”
He was a little amused, and a little embarrassed, but something had happened to make him feel good.
“Let’s have it,” said Joe. Mike was very still in another chair. He didn’t look up, though he must have heard. Haney cocked an interested ear.
The Chief said awkwardly, “You know—us Mohawks are kinda proud. We got something to be proud of. We were one of the Five Nations, when that was a sort of United Nations and all Europe was dog-eat-dog. My tribe had a big pow-wow about me. There’s a tribe member that’s a professor of anthropology out in Chicago. He was there. And a couple of guys that do electronic research, and doctors and farmers and all sorts of guys. All Mohawks. They got together in tribal council.”
He stopped and flushed under his dark skin. “I wouldn’t tell you, only you guys are in on it.”
Still he hesitated. Joe found a curious picture forming in his mind. He’d known the Chief a long time, and he knew that part of the tribe lived in Brooklyn, and individual members were widely scattered. But still there was a certain remote village which to all the tribesmen was home. Everybody went back there from time to time, to rest from the strangeness of being Indians in a world of pale-skinned folk.
Joe could almost imagine the council. There’d be old, old men who could nearly remember the days of the tribe’s former glory, who’d heard stories of forest warfare and zestful hunts, and scalpings and heroic deeds from their grandfathers. But there were also doctors and lawyers and technical men in that council which met to talk about the Chief.
“It’s addressed to me,” said the Chief with sudden clumsiness, “in the World-by-itself Canoe. That’s the Platform here. And it says—I’ll have to translate, because it’s in Mohawk.” He took a deep breath. “It says, ‘We your tribesmen have heard of your journeyings off the Earth where men have never traveled before. This has given us great pride, that one of our tribe and kin had ventured so valiantly.’” The Chief grinned abashedly. He went on. “‘In full assembly, the elders of the tribe have held counsel on a way to express their pride in you, and in the friends you have made who accompanied you. It was proposed that you be given a new name to be borne by your sons after you. It was proposed that the tribe accept from each of its members a gift to be given you in the name of the tribe. But these were not considered great enough. Therefore the tribe, in full council, has decreed that your name shall be named at every tribal council of the Mohawks from this day to the end of time, as one the young braves would do well to copy in all ways. And the names of your friends Joe Kenmore, Mike Scandia, and Thomas Haney shall also be named as friends whose like all young braves should strive to seek out and to be.’”
The Chief sweated a little, but he looked enormously proud. Joe went over to him and shook hands warmly. The Chief almost broke his fingers. It was, of course, as high an honor as could be paid to anybody by the people who paid it.
Haney said awkwardly, “Lucky they don’t know me like you do, Chief. But it’s swell!”
Which it was. But Mike hadn’t said a word. The Chief said exuberantly:
“Did you hear that, Mike? Every Mohawk for ten thousand years is gonna be told that you were a swell guy! Crazy, huh?”
Mike said in an odd voice: “Yeah. I didn’t mean that, Chief. It’s fine! But I—I got a letter. I—never thought to get a letter like this.”
He looked unbelievingly at the paper in his hands.
“Mash note?” asked the Chief. His tone was a little bit harsh. Mike was a midget. And there were women who were fools. It would be unbearable if some half-witted female had written Mike the sort of gushing letter that some half-witted females might write.
Mike shook his head, with an odd, quick smile.
“Not what you think, Chief. But it is from a girl. She sent me her picture. It’s a—swell letter. I’m—going to answer it. You can look at her picture. She looks kind of—nice.”
He handed the Chief a snapshot. The Chief’s face changed. Haney looked over his shoulder. He passed the picture to Joe and said ferociously: “You Mike! You doggoned Don Juan! The Chief and me have got to warn her what kinda guy you are! Stealing from blind men! Fighting cops—”
Joe looked at the picture. It was a very sweet small face, and the eyes that looked out of the photograph were very honest and yearning. And Joe understood. He grinned at Mike. Because this girl had the distinctive look that Mike had. She was a midget, too.
“She’s—thirty-nine inches tall,” said Mike, almost stunned. “She’s just two inches shorter than me. And—she says she doesn’t mind being a midget so much since she heard about me.
I’m going to write her.”
But it would be, of course, a long time before there was a way for mail to get down to Earth.
It was a long time. Now it was possible to send up robot rockets to the Platform. They came up. When the second arrived, Haney went out to pull it in. Joe forgot to notify Brown, in writing, an hour before launching a rocket recovery vehicle (space wagon) according to paragraph 3 of the formal memo, nor the time of launching in hours, minutes, etc., by Greenwich Mean Time (paragraph 4), nor was the testing of all equipment made before moving it into the airlock. This was because the testing equipment was in the airlock, where it belonged. And the commands for launching were not given by Brown or an officer designated by him, because Joe forgot all about it.
Brown made a stormy scene about the matter, and Joe was honestly apologetic, but the Chief and Haney and Mike glared venomously.
The result was completely inconclusive. Joe had not been put under Brown’s command. He and his crew were the only people on the Platform physically in shape to operate the space wagons, considering the acceleration involved. Brent and the others were wearing gravity simulators, and were building back to strength. But they weren’t up to par as yet. They’d been in space too long.
So there was nothing Brown could do. He retreated into icily correct, outraged dignity. And the others hauled in and unloaded rockets as they arrived. They came up fast. The processes of making them had been improved. They could be made faster, heated to sintering temperature faster, and the hulls cooled to usefulness in a quarter of the former time. The production of space ship hulls went up to four a day, while the molds for the Moonship were being worked even faster. The Moonship, actually, was assembled from precast individual cells which then were welded together. It would have features the Platform lacked, because it was designed to be a base for exploration and military activities in addition to research.
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 74
