fuel, Hydyne, which has a longer burning time and higher exhaust velocity, but it may erode the vanes so much that they become ineffective for steering.” He spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “We have not had time to run sufficiently many tests.”
“I guess all I need to know is whether this is going to delay the launch.” She felt she could not stand a postponement. The suspense was already killing her.
“That’s what we’re trying to decide.” Keller looked around at his colleagues. “And I think our answer is going to be: Let’s take the chance.” The others nodded gloomily.
Elspeth felt relieved. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” she said, turning to leave.
“That’s about as useful as anything we can do,” Keller said, and the others laughed ruefully.
She went outside into the scorching Florida sun. The hangars stood in a sandy clearing hacked out of the low scrub that covered the Cape—palmetto palms and scrub oaks and sharp sandspur grass that would cut your skin if you walked barefoot. She crossed a dusty apron and entered Hangar D, its welcome shade falling across her face like the touch of a cool breeze.
In the telemetry room she saw Hans Mueller, known as Hank. He pointed a finger at her and said, “One hundred thirty-five.”
It was a game they played. She had to say what was unusual about the number. “Too easy,” she said. “Take the first digit, add the square of the second digit, plus the cube of the third, and you get the number you first thought of.” She gave him the equation:
1 1 +3 2 +5 3 =135
“All right,” he said. “So what is the next highest number that follows the pattern?”
She thought hard, then said: “One hundred and seventy-five.”
1 1 +7 2 +5 3 =175
“Correct! You win the big prize.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a dime.
She took it. “I’ll give you a chance to win it back,” she said. “One hundred thirty-six.”
“Ah.” He frowned. “Wait. Sum the cubes of its digits.”
1 3 +3 3 +6 3 =244
“Now repeat the process, and you get the number you first thought of!”
2 3 +4 3 +4 3 =136
She gave him back his dime, and a copy of her update.
As she went out, her eye was caught by a telegram pinned to the wall: I ’ VE HAD MY LITTLE SATELLITE, NOW YOU HAVE YOURS . Mueller noticed her reading it and explained, “It’s from Stuhlinger’s wife.” Stuhlinger was chief of research. “She had a baby boy.” Elspeth smiled.
She found Willy Fredrickson in the communications room with two Army technicians, testing the Teletype link to the Pentagon. Her boss was a tall, thin man, bald with a fringe of curly hair, like a medieval monk. The Teletype machine was not working, and Willy was frustrated, but as he took the update he gave her a grateful look and said, “Elspeth, you are twenty-two-carat gold.”
A moment later, two people approached Willy: a young Army officer carrying a chart, and Stimmens, one of the scientists. The officer said, “We got a problem.” He handed Willy the chart, and went on. “The jet stream has moved south, and it’s blowing at one hundred forty-six knots.”
Elspeth’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The jet-stream was a high-altitude wind in the stratosphere between thirty and forty thousand feet. It did not normally extend over Cape Canaveral, but it could move. And if it was too fierce, it might throw the missile off course.
Willy said, “How far south is it?”
“All over Florida,” the officer replied.
Willy turned to Stimmens. “We’ve allowed for this, haven’t we?”
“Not really,” Stimmens said. “It’s all guesswork, of course, but we figure the missile can withstand winds up to one hundred twenty knots, no higher.”
Willy turned back to the officer. “What’s the forecast for tonight?”
“Up to one hundred seventy-seven knots, and no sign of the jet stream moving back north.”
“Hell.” Willy ran a hand over his smooth pate. Elspeth knew what he
“I guess all I need to know is whether this is going to delay the launch.” She felt she could not stand a postponement. The suspense was already killing her.
“That’s what we’re trying to decide.” Keller looked around at his colleagues. “And I think our answer is going to be: Let’s take the chance.” The others nodded gloomily.
Elspeth felt relieved. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” she said, turning to leave.
“That’s about as useful as anything we can do,” Keller said, and the others laughed ruefully.
She went outside into the scorching Florida sun. The hangars stood in a sandy clearing hacked out of the low scrub that covered the Cape—palmetto palms and scrub oaks and sharp sandspur grass that would cut your skin if you walked barefoot. She crossed a dusty apron and entered Hangar D, its welcome shade falling across her face like the touch of a cool breeze.
In the telemetry room she saw Hans Mueller, known as Hank. He pointed a finger at her and said, “One hundred thirty-five.”
It was a game they played. She had to say what was unusual about the number. “Too easy,” she said. “Take the first digit, add the square of the second digit, plus the cube of the third, and you get the number you first thought of.” She gave him the equation:
1 1 +3 2 +5 3 =135
“All right,” he said. “So what is the next highest number that follows the pattern?”
She thought hard, then said: “One hundred and seventy-five.”
1 1 +7 2 +5 3 =175
“Correct! You win the big prize.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a dime.
She took it. “I’ll give you a chance to win it back,” she said. “One hundred thirty-six.”
“Ah.” He frowned. “Wait. Sum the cubes of its digits.”
1 3 +3 3 +6 3 =244
“Now repeat the process, and you get the number you first thought of!”
2 3 +4 3 +4 3 =136
She gave him back his dime, and a copy of her update.
As she went out, her eye was caught by a telegram pinned to the wall: I ’ VE HAD MY LITTLE SATELLITE, NOW YOU HAVE YOURS . Mueller noticed her reading it and explained, “It’s from Stuhlinger’s wife.” Stuhlinger was chief of research. “She had a baby boy.” Elspeth smiled.
She found Willy Fredrickson in the communications room with two Army technicians, testing the Teletype link to the Pentagon. Her boss was a tall, thin man, bald with a fringe of curly hair, like a medieval monk. The Teletype machine was not working, and Willy was frustrated, but as he took the update he gave her a grateful look and said, “Elspeth, you are twenty-two-carat gold.”
A moment later, two people approached Willy: a young Army officer carrying a chart, and Stimmens, one of the scientists. The officer said, “We got a problem.” He handed Willy the chart, and went on. “The jet stream has moved south, and it’s blowing at one hundred forty-six knots.”
Elspeth’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The jet-stream was a high-altitude wind in the stratosphere between thirty and forty thousand feet. It did not normally extend over Cape Canaveral, but it could move. And if it was too fierce, it might throw the missile off course.
Willy said, “How far south is it?”
“All over Florida,” the officer replied.
Willy turned to Stimmens. “We’ve allowed for this, haven’t we?”
“Not really,” Stimmens said. “It’s all guesswork, of course, but we figure the missile can withstand winds up to one hundred twenty knots, no higher.”
Willy turned back to the officer. “What’s the forecast for tonight?”
“Up to one hundred seventy-seven knots, and no sign of the jet stream moving back north.”
“Hell.” Willy ran a hand over his smooth pate. Elspeth knew what he
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