the top of his boat’s hull and lifted the space armor torso. Sarmishkidu swarmed after him like a herpetarium gone mad. The Dane dropped the Martian inside, took a final checkaround, and lowered himself. He screwed the spacesuit into place and hunched, breathing heavily. His bicycle headlamp was the only illumination in the box. It showed him the bicycle itself, braced upright with the little generator hitched to its rear wheel; the pants of his space armor, seated on a case of beer; a bundle of navigation instruments, tables, pencils, slide rule, and note pad; a tool box; two oxygen cylinders and a C0 2 -H 2 0 absorber unit with an electric blower, which would also circulate the air as needed during free fall; the haywired control levers which were supposed to steer the boat; Sarmishkidu, draped on a box of pretzels; and Claus, disdainfully stealing from a box of popcorn which Herr Syrup suddenly realized he had no wav of popping. And then, of course, himself.
It was rather cramped quarters.
The air pump roared, evacuating the chamber. Herr Syrup saw darkness thicken outside the boat windows, as the fluoro light ceased to be diffused. And then the great hatch swung ponderously open, and steel framed a blinding circle of stars.
‘Hang on!’ he yelled. ‘Here ve go!’
The derrick scanned the little boat with beady photoelectric eyes, seized it in four claws, lifted it, and pitched it delicately through the hatch, which thereupon closed with an air of good riddance to bad rubbish. Since there was nomachine outside to receive the boat, it turned end for end, spun a few meters from the
Mercury Girl
, and drifted along in much the same orbit, still trying to rotate on three simultaneous axes.
Herr Syrup gulped. The transition to weightlessness was an outrage, and the stars ramping around his field of view didn’t help matters. His stomach lurched. Sarmishkidu groaned, hung onto the pretzel box with all six tentacles, and covered his eyes with his ears. Claus screamed, turning end for end in midair, and tried without success to fly. Herr Syrup reached for a control lever but didn’t quite make it. Sarmishkidu uncovered one sick eye long enough to mumble: ‘Bloody blank blasted Coriolis force.’ Herr Syrup clenched his teeth, caught a mouthful of mustache, grimaced, spat it out, and tried again. This time he laid hands on the switch and pulled.
A cloud of beer gushed frostily from one of the transverse pipes. After several rather unfortunate attempts, Herr Syrup managed to stop the boat’s rotation. He looked around him. He hung in darkness, among blazing stars. Grendel was a huge gibbous green moon to starboard. The
Mercury Girl
was a long rusty spindle to port. The asteroid sun, small and weak but perceived by the adaptable human eye as quite bright enough, poured in through the spacesuit helmet in the roof and bounced dazzlingly off his bare scalp.
He swallowed sternly, to remind his stomach who was boss, and began taking navigational sights. Sarmishkidu rolled a red look ‘upward’ at Claus, who clung miserably to the Martian’s head with eyes tightly shut.
Herr Syrup completed his figuring. It would have been best to wait a while yet, to get the maximum benefit of orbital ‘velocity toward New Winchester; but McConnell was not going to wait. Anyhow, this was such a slow orbit that itdidn’t make much difference. Most likely the factor would be quite lost among the fantastically uncertain quantities of the boat itself. One would have to take what the good Lord sent. He gripped the control levers.
A low murmur filled the cabin as the rearmost beer barrel snorted its vapors into space. There was a faint backward tug of acceleration pressure, which mounted very gradually as mass decreased. The thrust was not centered with absolute precision, and of course the distribution of mass throughout the whole structure was hit-or-miss, so the boat began to pick up a spin again. Steering by the seat of his pants and a
It was rather cramped quarters.
The air pump roared, evacuating the chamber. Herr Syrup saw darkness thicken outside the boat windows, as the fluoro light ceased to be diffused. And then the great hatch swung ponderously open, and steel framed a blinding circle of stars.
‘Hang on!’ he yelled. ‘Here ve go!’
The derrick scanned the little boat with beady photoelectric eyes, seized it in four claws, lifted it, and pitched it delicately through the hatch, which thereupon closed with an air of good riddance to bad rubbish. Since there was nomachine outside to receive the boat, it turned end for end, spun a few meters from the
Mercury Girl
, and drifted along in much the same orbit, still trying to rotate on three simultaneous axes.
Herr Syrup gulped. The transition to weightlessness was an outrage, and the stars ramping around his field of view didn’t help matters. His stomach lurched. Sarmishkidu groaned, hung onto the pretzel box with all six tentacles, and covered his eyes with his ears. Claus screamed, turning end for end in midair, and tried without success to fly. Herr Syrup reached for a control lever but didn’t quite make it. Sarmishkidu uncovered one sick eye long enough to mumble: ‘Bloody blank blasted Coriolis force.’ Herr Syrup clenched his teeth, caught a mouthful of mustache, grimaced, spat it out, and tried again. This time he laid hands on the switch and pulled.
A cloud of beer gushed frostily from one of the transverse pipes. After several rather unfortunate attempts, Herr Syrup managed to stop the boat’s rotation. He looked around him. He hung in darkness, among blazing stars. Grendel was a huge gibbous green moon to starboard. The
Mercury Girl
was a long rusty spindle to port. The asteroid sun, small and weak but perceived by the adaptable human eye as quite bright enough, poured in through the spacesuit helmet in the roof and bounced dazzlingly off his bare scalp.
He swallowed sternly, to remind his stomach who was boss, and began taking navigational sights. Sarmishkidu rolled a red look ‘upward’ at Claus, who clung miserably to the Martian’s head with eyes tightly shut.
Herr Syrup completed his figuring. It would have been best to wait a while yet, to get the maximum benefit of orbital ‘velocity toward New Winchester; but McConnell was not going to wait. Anyhow, this was such a slow orbit that itdidn’t make much difference. Most likely the factor would be quite lost among the fantastically uncertain quantities of the boat itself. One would have to take what the good Lord sent. He gripped the control levers.
A low murmur filled the cabin as the rearmost beer barrel snorted its vapors into space. There was a faint backward tug of acceleration pressure, which mounted very gradually as mass decreased. The thrust was not centered with absolute precision, and of course the distribution of mass throughout the whole structure was hit-or-miss, so the boat began to pick up a spin again. Steering by the seat of his pants and a
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