to Phyllis.
He admitted she had a kick coming – spacemen shouldn't marry. Not that she'd starve if he messed up a landing, but a gal doesn't want insurance; she wants a husband – minus six minutes.
If he got a regular run she could live in Space Terminal.
No good – idle women at Space Terminal went bad. Oh, Phyllis wouldn't become a tramp or a rum bum; she'd just go bats.
Five minutes more – he didn't care much for Space Terminal himself. Nor for space! «The Romance of Interplanetary Travel» – it looked well in print, but he knew what it was: A job. Monotony. No scenery. Bursts of work, tedious waits. No home life.
Why didn't he get an honest job and stay home nights?
He knew! Because he was a space jockey and too old to change.
What chance has a thirty-year-old married man, used to important money, to change his racket? (Four minutes.) He'd look good trying to sell helicopters on commission, now, wouldn't he?
Maybe he could buy a piece of irrigated land and – Be your age, chum! You know as much about farming as a cow knows about cube root! No, he had made his bed when he picked rockets during his training hitch. If he had bucked for the electronics branch, or taken a GI scholarship – too late now. Straight from the service into Harriman's Lunar Exploitations, hopping ore on Luna. That had torn it.
«How's it going, Doc?» Kelly's voice was edgy.
«Minus two minutes some seconds.» Damnation – Kelly knew better than to talk to the pilot on minus time.
He caught a last look through the periscope. Antares seemed to have drifted. He unclutched the gyro, tilted and spun the flywheel, braking it savagely to a stop a moment later. The image was again a pinpoint. He could not have explained what he did: it was virtuosity, exact juggling, beyond textbook and classroom.
Twenty seconds ... across the chronometer's face beads of light trickled the seconds away while he tensed, ready to fire by hand, or even to disconnect and refuse the trip if his judgment told him to. A too-cautious decision might cause Lloyds' to cancel his bond; a reckless decision could cost his license or even his life – and others.
But he was not thinking of underwriters and licenses, nor even of lives. In truth he was not thinking at all; he was feeling, feeling his ship, as if his nerve ends extended into every part of her. Five seconds ... the safety disconnects clicked out. Four seconds ... three seconds ... two seconds ... ... … one —
He was stabbing at the hand-fire button when the roar hit him.
Kelly relaxed to the pseudo-gravity of the blast and watched. Pemberton was soberly busy, scanning dials, noting time, checking his progress by radar bounced off Supra-New York. Weinstein's figures, robot-pilot, the ship itself, all were clicking together.
Minutes later, the critical instant neared when the robot should cut the jets. Pemberton poised a finger over the hand cut-off, while splitting his attention among radarscope, accelerometer, periscope, and chronometer. One instant they were roaring along on the jets; the next split second the ship was in free orbit, plunging silently toward the Moon. So perfectly matched were human and robot that Pemberton himself did not know which had cut the power.
He glanced again at the board, then unbuckled. «How about that cigarette, Captain? And you can let your passengers unstrap.»
No co-pilot is needed in space and most pilots would rather share a toothbrush than a control room. The pilot works about an hour at blast off, about the same before contact, and loafs during free flight, save for routine checks and corrections. Pemberton prepared to spend one hundred and four hours eating, reading, writing letters, and sleeping – especially sleeping.
When the alarm woke him, he checked the ship's position, then wrote to his wife. «Phyllis my dear,» he began, «I don't blame you for being upset at missing your night out. I was disappointed, too. But bear with me, darling, I should be on a regular run before long. In less than ten years I'll be up for retirement and we'll have a chance to catch up on bridge and golf and things like that. I know it's pretty hard to – »
The voice circuit cut in. «Oh, Jake – put on your company face. I'm bringing a visitor to the control room.»
«No visitors in the control room, Captain.»
«Now, Jake. This lunkhead has a letter from Old Man Harriman himself. 'Every possible courtesy – ' and so forth.»
Pemberton thought quickly. He could refuse – but there was no sense in offending the big boss. «Okay, Captain. Make it short.»
The visitor was a man, jovial, oversize – Jake figured him for an eighty pound weight penalty. Behind him a thirteen-year-old male counterpart came zipping through the door and lunged for the control console. Pemberton snagged him by the arm and forced himself to speak pleasantly. «Just hang on to that bracket, youngster. I don't want you to bump your head.»
«Leggo me! Pop – make him let go.»
Kelly cut in. «I think he had best hang on, Judge.»
«Umm, uh – very well. Do as the Captain says, Junior.»
«Aw, gee, Pop!»
«Judge Schacht, this is First Pilot Pemberton,» Kelly said rapidly. «He'll show you around.»
«Glad to know you, Pilot. Kind of you, and all that.»
«What would you like to see, Judge?» Jake said carefully. «Oh, this and that. It's for the boy – his first trip. I'm an old spacehound myself – probably more hours than half our crew.» He laughed. Pemberton did not.
«There's not much to see in free flight.»
«Quite all right. We'll just make ourselves at home – eh, Captain?»
«I wanna sit in the control seat,» Schacht Junior announced. Pemberton winced. Kelly said urgently, «Jake, would you mind outlining the control system for the boy? Then we'll go.»
«He doesn't have to show me anything. I know all about it. I'm a Junior Rocketeer of America – see my button?» The boy shoved himself toward the control desk.
Pemberton grabbed him, steered him into the pilot's chair, and strapped him in. He then flipped the board's disconnect. «Whatcha doing?»
«I cut
«Aintcha gonna fire the jets?»
«No.» Jake started a rapid description of the use and purpose of each button, dial, switch, meter, gimmick, and scope. Junior squirmed. «How about meteors?» he demanded.
«Oh, that – maybe one collision in half a million Earth-Moon trips. Meteors are scarce.»
«So what? Say you hit the jackpot? You're in the soup.»
«Not at all. The anti-collision radar guards all directions five hundred miles out. If anything holds a steady bearing for three seconds, a direct hook-up starts the jets. First a warning gong so that everybody can grab something solid, then one second later –
«Sounds corny to me. Lookee, I'll show you how Commodore Cartwright did it in
«Don't touch those controls!»
«You don't own this ship. My pop says – »
«Oh, Jake!» Hearing his name, Pemberton twisted, fish-like, to face Kelly.
«Jake, Judge Schacht would like to know – « From the corner of his eye Jake saw the boy reach for the board. He turned, started to shout – acceleration caught him, while the jets roared in his ear.
An old spacehand can usually recover, catlike, in an unexpected change from weightlessness to acceleration. But Jake had been grabbing for the boy, instead of for anchorage. He fell back and down, twisted to try to avoid Schacht, banged his head on the frame of the open air-tight door below, and fetched up on the next deck, out cold.
Kelly was shaking him. «You all right, Jake?»
He sat up. «Yeah. Sure.» He became aware of the thunder, the shivering deckplates. «The jets! Cut the power!»
He shoved Kelly aside and swarmed up into the control room, jabbed at the cut-off button. In sudden ringing silence, they were again weightless.
