The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction MEGAPACK® by Robert Silverberg Page B
Authors: Robert Silverberg
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at the top. To make blastoff a little easier, we built the raft propped up against a rock outcropping, at a 45° angle.
I unshipped the smallest rocket engine and fastened it securely to the rear of the raft. I strapped down as many fuel tanks as the raft would hold.
Then—chuckling to myself—I asked Erna to help me haul the cannon out.
“The cannon? Whatever for?”
“To mount at the front of the raft.”
“Are you figuring on meeting space pirates?”
“I’m figuring on using the cannon as a brake,” I told her. We fastened it at the front of the raft, strapped down the supply of cannonballs and powder nearby it. The cannon would make an ideal brake. All we needed was something that would eject mass in a forwardly direction, pushing us back by courtesy of Newton’s Third Law. Why waste fuel when cannonballs would achieve the same purpose?
It took us forty-eight standard Earthtime hours to build the raft. I don’t know how many thousands of (719)-Albert days that was, but the little asteroid spun on its axis like a yo-yo, and it seemed that the sun was rising or setting every time we took a breath.
After I had bound the last thong around the rocket engine, Erna grinned and dashed into the ship. She returned, a few moments later, waving a red flag with some sort of blue-and-white design on it.
“What’s that?”
“The flag that flew over Macintyre’s cabin,” she explained. “It’s a rebel flag, and we’re not strictly insurrectionists, but we ought to have some kind of flag on our ship.”
I was agreeable, so she mounted the flag just fore of the rocket engine. Then we returned to the ship to wait.
We waited for three days, Earthtime—maybe several centuries by (719)-Albert reckoning. And in case you’re wondering how we passed the time on the barren asteroid for three days, just one reasonably virile ferry pilot and one nubile museum curator, the answer is no. We didn’t. I have an inflexible rule about making passes at passengers, even when we’re stranded on places like (719)-Albert and when the passengers are as pretty as this one is.
That isn’t to say I didn’t feel temptation. Erna’s breathing-suit was of the plastic kind that looked as though it was force-molded to her body. I didn’t have to do much imagining. But I staunchly told Satan to get behind me, and—to my own amazement—he did. I resisted temptation and resisted it manfully.
Meanwhile Jupiter swelled bigger and bigger as (719)-Albert plunged madly along its track toward its rendezvous with Jove. If luck rode with us—translated, if my math had been right—we would find Ganymede midway in her seven-plus day orbit round the big planet.
Time came when the mass detectors in my ship informed me that Jupiter had stopped getting closer and was now getting farther away. That meant that (719)-Albert had passed its point of aphelion and was heading back toward Earth. It was time to get moving.
“All aboard,” I told Erna. “Make sure everything we’re taking is strapped down tight—food, fuel, air tanks, cannonballs, flags.”
She checked off as if we were running down meters and gauges at a spaceport. “Food. Fuel. Air tanks. Cannonballs. Flag. All set to blast, Captain.”
“Okay. Get yourself flattened out and hang onto the raft while we blast.”
Blastoff was a joke. I had computed the escape velocity of (719)-Albert at approximately .0015 miles/sec. We could have shoved off with a good rearward kick.
But we had fuel to burn. “Allons!” I cried, slamming the rocket engine into action. A burst of flame hurled us upward into the night. “A la belle Ètoile!” I shouted. “To the stars!”
The raft soared off into space. Erna laughed with delight. As (719)-Albert slowly sank into the sunset, we plunged forward toward giant Jupiter. The only thing missing was soft music in the background.
* * * *
We rode the raft for three days at constant acceleration. Jupiter grew, and grew, and grew, and gleaming
I unshipped the smallest rocket engine and fastened it securely to the rear of the raft. I strapped down as many fuel tanks as the raft would hold.
Then—chuckling to myself—I asked Erna to help me haul the cannon out.
“The cannon? Whatever for?”
“To mount at the front of the raft.”
“Are you figuring on meeting space pirates?”
“I’m figuring on using the cannon as a brake,” I told her. We fastened it at the front of the raft, strapped down the supply of cannonballs and powder nearby it. The cannon would make an ideal brake. All we needed was something that would eject mass in a forwardly direction, pushing us back by courtesy of Newton’s Third Law. Why waste fuel when cannonballs would achieve the same purpose?
It took us forty-eight standard Earthtime hours to build the raft. I don’t know how many thousands of (719)-Albert days that was, but the little asteroid spun on its axis like a yo-yo, and it seemed that the sun was rising or setting every time we took a breath.
After I had bound the last thong around the rocket engine, Erna grinned and dashed into the ship. She returned, a few moments later, waving a red flag with some sort of blue-and-white design on it.
“What’s that?”
“The flag that flew over Macintyre’s cabin,” she explained. “It’s a rebel flag, and we’re not strictly insurrectionists, but we ought to have some kind of flag on our ship.”
I was agreeable, so she mounted the flag just fore of the rocket engine. Then we returned to the ship to wait.
We waited for three days, Earthtime—maybe several centuries by (719)-Albert reckoning. And in case you’re wondering how we passed the time on the barren asteroid for three days, just one reasonably virile ferry pilot and one nubile museum curator, the answer is no. We didn’t. I have an inflexible rule about making passes at passengers, even when we’re stranded on places like (719)-Albert and when the passengers are as pretty as this one is.
That isn’t to say I didn’t feel temptation. Erna’s breathing-suit was of the plastic kind that looked as though it was force-molded to her body. I didn’t have to do much imagining. But I staunchly told Satan to get behind me, and—to my own amazement—he did. I resisted temptation and resisted it manfully.
Meanwhile Jupiter swelled bigger and bigger as (719)-Albert plunged madly along its track toward its rendezvous with Jove. If luck rode with us—translated, if my math had been right—we would find Ganymede midway in her seven-plus day orbit round the big planet.
Time came when the mass detectors in my ship informed me that Jupiter had stopped getting closer and was now getting farther away. That meant that (719)-Albert had passed its point of aphelion and was heading back toward Earth. It was time to get moving.
“All aboard,” I told Erna. “Make sure everything we’re taking is strapped down tight—food, fuel, air tanks, cannonballs, flags.”
She checked off as if we were running down meters and gauges at a spaceport. “Food. Fuel. Air tanks. Cannonballs. Flag. All set to blast, Captain.”
“Okay. Get yourself flattened out and hang onto the raft while we blast.”
Blastoff was a joke. I had computed the escape velocity of (719)-Albert at approximately .0015 miles/sec. We could have shoved off with a good rearward kick.
But we had fuel to burn. “Allons!” I cried, slamming the rocket engine into action. A burst of flame hurled us upward into the night. “A la belle Ètoile!” I shouted. “To the stars!”
The raft soared off into space. Erna laughed with delight. As (719)-Albert slowly sank into the sunset, we plunged forward toward giant Jupiter. The only thing missing was soft music in the background.
* * * *
We rode the raft for three days at constant acceleration. Jupiter grew, and grew, and grew, and gleaming
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