Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. Oneonta Spaceport Calling Phil Mooney. Come in Mooney.
Ed Kerry came back to the city room with a sheet of yellow paper that he’d torn off the radiotype.
He said, “Here it is, Jake. This kid—her name is Lillian Marshall—is the only survivor of an explosion at that nuclear-fission laboratory they had on the dark side. Her old man and her mother were working under this Professor Deems; both of them killed.”
His eyes went on scanning the story. “Evidently this Phil Mooney runs an unscheduled spaceline. Anyway, he blasted off to rush the kid to an earth hospital.”
Jake took the dispatch and scowled at it. “Kerry,” he growled, “see what we got on this Phil Mooney in the morgue.” He rubbed the end of his nose thoughtfully. “They’ll probably pick him up all right when he gets nearer.”
Somebody on rewrite said, “It doesn’t make any difference how far he is; they should be able to reach him even if he was halfway to Mars. Something’s wrong with his set.”
He decided to try one of the other spaceports. As a matter of fact, it made very little difference at which of them he landed. There’d be suitable hospital facilities within reasonable distance of any spaceport. He was three days out now, and, according to spaceways custom, had to let them know he was coming in. It wasn’t like landing an airplane—they want plenty of time to prepare for a spacecraft’s arrival.
He said, “Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport. Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport. Phil Mooney, Luna, Calling New Albuquerque. Please come in New Albuquerque.”
Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. New Albuquerque Spaceport Calling Phil Mooney. We are receiving you perfectly. Come in Mooney.
He tried once more.
“Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport. Calling New Albuquerque Spaceport. Please come in New Albuquerque. Emergency. Repeat Emergency. Please come in New Albuquerque.”
Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. We are receiving you perfectly, Mooney. Come in Mooney.
Kitty Kildare took up her notes and prepared to make her way back to her own tiny office.
“I’ve got it, Jake,” she said breathlessly. Kitty was always breathless over any story carrying more pathos than a basketball score. “My column tomorrow’ll have them melting. Actually, I mean.”
Jake shuddered inwardly after she left.
Ed Kerry came up and drooped on the edge of the desk.
“Here’s the dope on this Phil Mooney, Jake,” he said. “He’s about thirty. Was in the last war and saw action when we had our space-forces storming New Petrograd. Did some fighting around the satellites, too. Piloted a one seater, got a couple of medals, but never really made big news.”
“Got any pix of him?”
Ed Kelly shook his head. “Like I said, he never really made the big news. Just one more of these young fellas that saw plenty of action and when the war was over was too keyed up to settle down to everyday life.”
Jake picked up the thin folder and riffled through the few clippings there. “What’s he doing now?” he growled.
“Evidently when the war ended he got one of these surplus freighters and converted it. Name of his company is Mooney Space Service; sounds impressive, but he’s the only one in it. Probably going broke; most of those guys are—can’t make the grade against the competition of Terra-Luna Spaceways and the other big boys with the scheduled flights.”
The city editor scratched the end of his nose speculatively. “Maybe we ought to have Jim do up an editorial on these unscheduled spacelines. Something along the line of how heroic some of these guys are; that sort of stuff. Do up the idea that they’re always ready, fair weather or foul, to make an emergency trip. …”
Kerry said, “There isn’t any weather, fair or foul, in space.”
Jake scowled at him. “You know what I mean, wise guy. Meanwhile, get some statements from some authorities.”
Ed Kerry said painfully, “What statements from what authorities?”
The city editor glared at him. “So help me, Ed. I’m going to stick you on obituaries. Any statements from any authorities. You know damn well what I mean. Get some doctor to beef about the fact there aren’t suitable hospitalization facilities on Luna. Get some president of one of these unscheduled spacelines to sound off about what a hero Mooney is and how much good these unscheduled spacelines are—and that reminds me of something—”
He yelled to a tall lanky reporter at the far end of the city room: “Hey, Ted. Get Bunny on the line up in Oneonta and tell her I said to look up some of these unscheduled spacelines guys and see if she can get a photograph of Phil Mooney from them. Maybe he’s got some buddies in Oneonta.”
There was one thing about being in free fall. You had lots of time to sit and think. Too much time, perhaps.
You had the time to think it all over. And over and over again.
There was the war which had torn you from the routine into which life had settled, from friends and relations and sweethearts, and thrown you into a one man space-fighter in which you sometimes stayed for weeks on end without communication with anyone, friend or foe.
There had probably been no equivalent situation in the history of past warfare to the one man space-scouts. The nearest thing to them might have been the flyers of 1914, in the first World War—but, of course, they were up there alone only for hours at a time, not weeks.
“You develop self-reliance, men,” was the way the colonel had put it. “You develop self-reliance, or you’re sunk.
“You’re in space by yourself, alone. You can’t use your radio or they can locate you. If something happens, some emergency, or some contact with the enemy, you’re on your own. You have to figure it out; there’s no superior officer to do your thinking; you’re the whole works.”
And the colonel had been right, of course. It was a matter of using your own wits, your own ability. Fighting
