The Green Hills of Earth
To My Parents
Acknowledgment
The phrase
–R.A.H.
Contents
Delilah and the Space-Rigger
Sure, we had trouble building Space Station One – but the trouble was people.
Not that building a station twenty-two thousand three hundred miles out in space is a breeze. It was an engineering feat bigger than the Panama Canal or the Pyramids – or even the Susquehanna Power Pile. But «Tiny» Larsen built her – and a job Tiny tackles gets built.
I first saw Tiny playing guard on a semi-pro team, working his way through Oppenheimer Tech. He worked summers for me thereafter till he graduated. He stayed in construction and eventually I went to work for him.
Tiny wouldn't touch a job unless he was satisfied with the engineering. The Station had jobs designed into it that called for six-armed monkeys instead of grown men in space suits. Tiny spotted such boners; not a ton of material went into the sky until the specs and drawings suited him.
But it was people that gave us the headaches. We had a sprinkling of married men, but the rest were wild kids, attracted by high pay and adventure. Some were busted spacemen. Some were specialists, like electricians and instrument men. About half were deep-sea divers, used to working in pressure suits. There were sandhogs and riggers and welders and shipfitters and two circus acrobats.
We fired four of them for being drunk on the job; Tiny had to break one stiff's arm before he would stay fired. What worried us was where did they get it? Turned out a shipfitter had rigged a heatless still, using the vacuum around us. He was making vodka from potatoes swiped from the commissary. I hated to let him go, but he was too smart.
Since we were falling free in a 24-hour circular orbit, with everything weightless and floating, you'd think that shooting craps was impossible. But a radioman named Peters figured a dodge to substitute steel dice and a magnetic field. He also eliminated the element of chance, so we fired him.
We planned to ship him back in the next supply ship, the R. S.
«Party named G. Brooks McNye,» I told him.
A line came snaking over from the ship. Tiny said, «I don't believe she's matched.» He buzzed the radio shack for the ship's motion relative to the Station. The answer didn't please him and he told them to call the
Tiny waited until the TV screen showed the rocket ship's C.O. «Good morning, Captain. Why have you placed a line on us?»
«For cargo, naturally. Get your hopheads over here. I want to blast off before we enter the shadow.» The Station spent about an hour and a quarter each day passing through Earth's shadow; we worked two eleven-hour shifts and skipped the dark period, to avoid rigging lights and heating suits.
Tiny shook his head. «Not until you've matched course and speed with us.»
«I
«Not to specification, by my instruments.»
«Have a heart, Tiny! I'm short on maneuvering fuel. If I juggle this entire ship to make a minor correction on a few lousy tons of cargo, I'll be so late I'll have to put down on a secondary field. I may even have to make a dead- stick landing.» In those days all ships had landing wings.
«Look, Captain,» Tiny said sharply, «the only purpose of your lift was to match orbits for those same few lousy tons. I don't care if you land in Little America on a pogo stick. The first load here was placed with loving care in the proper orbit and I'm making every other load match. Get that covered wagon into the groove.»
«Very well, Superintendent!» Captain Shields said stiffly.
«Don't be sore, Don,» Tiny said softly. «By the way, you've got a passenger for me?»
«Oh, yes, so I have!» Shields' face broke out in a grin.
«Well, keep him aboard until we unload. Maybe we can beat the shadow yet.»
«Fine, fine! After all, why should I add to your troubles?» The skipper switched off, leaving my boss looking puzzled.
We didn't have time to wonder at his words. Shields whipped his ship around on gyros, blasted a second or two, and put her dead in space with us pronto – and used very little fuel, despite his bellyaching. I grabbed every man we could spare and managed to get the cargo clear before we swung into Earth's shadow. Weightlessness is an unbelievable advantage in handling freight; we gutted the
The stuff was oxygen tanks, loaded, and aluminum mirrors to shield them, panels of outer skin – sandwich stuff of titanium alloy sheet with foamed glass filling – and cases of jato units to spin the living quarters. Once it was all out and snapped to our cargo line I sent the men back by the same line – I won't let a man work outside without a line no matter how space happy he figures he is. Then I told Shields to send over the passenger and cast off.
This little guy came out the ship's air lock, and hooked on to the ship's line. Handling himself like he was used to space, he set his feet and dived, straight along the stretched line, his snap hook running free. I hurried back and motioned him to follow me. Tiny, the new man, and I reached the air locks together.
Besides the usual cargo lock we had three G. E. Kwikloks. A Kwiklok is an Iron Maiden without spikes; it fits a man in a suit, leaving just a few pints of air to scavenge, and cycles automatically. A big time saver in changing shifts. I passed through the middlesized one; Tiny, of course, used the big one. Without hesitation the new man pulled himself into the small one.
We went into Tiny's office. Tiny strapped down, and pushed his helmet back. «Well, McNye,» he said. «Glad to have you with us.»
The new radio tech opened his helmet. I heard a low, pleasant voice answer, «Thank you.»
I stared and didn't say anything. From where I was I could see that the radio tech was wearing a hair ribbon.
I thought Tiny would explode. He didn't need to see the hair ribbon; with the helmet up it was clear that the new «man» was as female as Venus de Milo. Tiny sputtered, then he was unstrapped and diving for the view port. «Dad!» he yelled. «Get the radio shack. Stop that ship!»
But the
«Nobody, so far as I know.»
He thought a bit. «We've got to keep her out of sight. That's it – we keep her locked up and out of sight until the next ship matches in.» He didn't look at her.
«What in the world are you talking about?» McNye's voice was higher and no longer pleasant.
Tiny glared. «You, that's what. What are you – a stowaway?»
«Don't be silly! I'm G. B. McNye, electronics engineer. Don't you have my papers?»
Tiny turned to me. «Dad, this is your fault. How in Chr – pardon me, Miss. How did you let them send you a woman? Didn't you even read the advance report on her?»
