Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky by Robert A. Heinlein Page A

slender, intense needle of light. One of the technicians looked up, and Gaines snapped the light on and off in a repeated, irregular pattern. A figure detached itself from the group, and ran toward them.
    It was a slender young man, dressed in dungarees and topped off with earpads and an incongruous pill-box cap, bright with gold braid and insignia. He recognized the Chief Engineer and saluted, his face falling into humorless, boyish intentness.
    Gaines stuffed his torch into a pocket and commenced to gesticulate rapidly with both hands—clear, clean gestures, as involved and as meaningful as deaf-mute language. Blekinsop dug into his own dilettante knowledge of anthropology and decided that it was most like American Indian sign language, with some of the finger movements of hula. But it was necessarily almost entirely strange, being adapted for a particular terminology.
    The cadet answered him in kind, stepped to the edge of the causeway, and flashed his torch to the south. He picked out a car, still some distance away, but approaching at headlong speed. It braked, and came to a stop alongside them.
    It was a small affair, ovoid in shape, and poised on two centerline wheels. The forward, upper surface swung up and disclosed the driver, another cadet. Gaines addressed him briefly in sign language, then hustled Blekinsop ahead of him into the cramped passenger compartment.
    As the glassite hood was being swung back into place, a blast of wind smote them, and the Australian looked up in time to glimpse the last of three much larger vehicles hurtle past them. They were headed north, at a speed of not less than two hundred miles per hour. Blekinsop thought that he had made out the little hats of cadets through the windows of the last of the three, but he could not be sure.
    He had no time to wonder, so violent was the driver’s getaway. Gaines ignored the accelerating surge; he was already calling Davidson on the built-in communicator. Comparative silence had settled down once the car was closed. The face of a female operator at the relay station showed on the screen.
    “Get me Davidson—Senior Watch Office!”
    “Oh! It’s Mr. Gaines! The Mayor wants to talk to you, Mr. Gaines.”
    “Refer him—and get me Davidson. Move!”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “And see here—leave this circuit hooked in to Davidson’s board until I tell you personally to cut it.”
    “Right.” Her face gave way to the Watch Officer’s.
    “That you, Chief? We’re moving—progress O.K.—no change.”
    “Very well. You’ll be able to raise me on this circuit, or at Subsector Ten office. Clearing now.” Davidson’s face gave way to the relay operator.
    “Your wife is calling, Mr. Gaines. Will you take it?”
    Gaines muttered something not quite gallant, and answered, “Yes.”
    Mrs. Gaines flashed into facsimile. He burst into speech before she could open her mouth. “Darling I’m all right don’t worry I’ll be home when I get there I’ve got to go now.” It was all out in one breath, and he slapped the control that cleared the screen.
    They slammed to a breath-taking stop alongside the stair leading to the watch office of Subsector Ten, and piled out. Three big lorries were drawn up on the ramp, and three platoons of cadets were ranged in restless ranks alongside them.
    A cadet trotted up to Gaines, and saluted. “Lindsay, sir—Cadet Engineer of the Watch. The Engineer of the Watch requests that you come at once to the control room.”
    The Engineer of the Watch looked up as they came in. “Chief—Van Kleeck is calling you.”
    “Put him on.”
    When Van Kleeck appeared in the big visor, Gaines greeted him with, “Hello, Van. Where are you?”
    “Sacramento Office. Now, listen—”
    “Sacramento? That’s good! Report.”
    Van Kleeck looked disgruntled. “Report, hell. I’m not your deputy anymore, Gaines. Now, you—”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Listen and don’t interrupt me, and you’ll find out.