the mistake is large enough, it will be paid for tragically and inexorably with the lives of captain and crew while the ship plunges endlessly on into the empty depths of space.
Roger Stone had a high opinion of the abilities of his twins, but, on this touchy occasion, he wanted the co-pilot backing him up to have the steadiness of age and experience. With Hazel riding the other couch he could give his whole mind to his delicate task.
To establish a frame of reference against which to aim his ship he had three stars, Spica, Deneb, and Fomolhaut, lined up in his scope, their images brought together by prisms. Mars was still out of sight beyond the bulging breast of Earth, nor would it have helped to aim for Mars; the road to Mars is a long curve, not a straight line. One of the images seemed to drift a trifle away from the others; sweating, he unclutched his gyros and nudged the ship by flywheel. The errant image crept back into position. “Doppler?” he demanded.
“In the groove.”
“Time?”
“About a minute. Son, keep your mind on your duck shooting and don’t fret.”
He wiped his hands on his shirt and did not answer. For some seconds silence obtained, then Hazel said quietly, “Unidentified radar-beacon blip on the screen, sir. Robot response and a string of numbers.”
“Does it concern us?”
“Closing north and starboard. Possible collision course.”
Roger Stone steeled himself not to look at his own screen; a quick glance would tell him nothing that Hazel had not reported. He kept his face glued to the eyeshade of the coelostat. “Evasive maneuver indicated?”
“Son, you’re as likely to dodge into it as duck away from it. Too late to figure a ballistic.”
He forced himself to watch the star images and thought about it. Hazel was right, one did not drive a spaceship by the seat of the pants. At the high speeds and tight curves at the bottom of a gravity well, close up to a planet, an uncalculated maneuver might bring on a collision. Or it might throw them into an untenable orbit, one which would never allow them to reach Mars.
But what could it be? Not a spaceship, it was unmanned. Not a meteor, it carried a beacon. Not a bomb rocket, it was too high. He noted that the images were steady and stole a glance, first at his own screen, which told him nothing, and then through the starboard port.
Good heavens! he could see it!
A great gleaming star against the black of space…growing—growing!
“Mind your scope, son,” said Hazel. “Nineteen seconds.”
He put his eye back to the scope; the images were steady. Hazel continued, “It seems to be drawing ahead slightly.”
He had to look. As he did so something flashed up and obscured the starboard port and at once was visible in the portside port—visible but shrinking rapidly. Stone had a momentary impression of a winged torpedo shape.
“ Whew! ” Hazel sighed. “They went that-a-way, podnuh!” She added briskly, “All hands, brace for acceleration—five seconds!”
He had his eye on the star images, steady and perfectly matched, as the jet slammed him into his pads. The force was four gravities, much more than the boost from Luna, but they held it for only slightly more than one minute. Captain Stone kept watching the star images, ready to check her if she started to swing, but the extreme care with which he had balanced his ship in loading was rewarded; she held her attitude.
He heard Hazel shout, “ Brennschluss! ” just as the noise and pressure dropped off and died. He took a deep breath and said to the mike, “You all right, Edith?”
“Yes, dear,” she answered faintly. “We’re all right.”
“Power room?”
“Okay!” Pollux answered.
“Secure and lock.” There was no need to have the power room stand by, any corrections to course and speed on this leg would be made days or weeks later, after much calculation.
“Aye aye, sir. Say, Dad, what was the chatter about a blip?”
“Pipe down,” Hazel
Roger Stone had a high opinion of the abilities of his twins, but, on this touchy occasion, he wanted the co-pilot backing him up to have the steadiness of age and experience. With Hazel riding the other couch he could give his whole mind to his delicate task.
To establish a frame of reference against which to aim his ship he had three stars, Spica, Deneb, and Fomolhaut, lined up in his scope, their images brought together by prisms. Mars was still out of sight beyond the bulging breast of Earth, nor would it have helped to aim for Mars; the road to Mars is a long curve, not a straight line. One of the images seemed to drift a trifle away from the others; sweating, he unclutched his gyros and nudged the ship by flywheel. The errant image crept back into position. “Doppler?” he demanded.
“In the groove.”
“Time?”
“About a minute. Son, keep your mind on your duck shooting and don’t fret.”
He wiped his hands on his shirt and did not answer. For some seconds silence obtained, then Hazel said quietly, “Unidentified radar-beacon blip on the screen, sir. Robot response and a string of numbers.”
“Does it concern us?”
“Closing north and starboard. Possible collision course.”
Roger Stone steeled himself not to look at his own screen; a quick glance would tell him nothing that Hazel had not reported. He kept his face glued to the eyeshade of the coelostat. “Evasive maneuver indicated?”
“Son, you’re as likely to dodge into it as duck away from it. Too late to figure a ballistic.”
He forced himself to watch the star images and thought about it. Hazel was right, one did not drive a spaceship by the seat of the pants. At the high speeds and tight curves at the bottom of a gravity well, close up to a planet, an uncalculated maneuver might bring on a collision. Or it might throw them into an untenable orbit, one which would never allow them to reach Mars.
But what could it be? Not a spaceship, it was unmanned. Not a meteor, it carried a beacon. Not a bomb rocket, it was too high. He noted that the images were steady and stole a glance, first at his own screen, which told him nothing, and then through the starboard port.
Good heavens! he could see it!
A great gleaming star against the black of space…growing—growing!
“Mind your scope, son,” said Hazel. “Nineteen seconds.”
He put his eye back to the scope; the images were steady. Hazel continued, “It seems to be drawing ahead slightly.”
He had to look. As he did so something flashed up and obscured the starboard port and at once was visible in the portside port—visible but shrinking rapidly. Stone had a momentary impression of a winged torpedo shape.
“ Whew! ” Hazel sighed. “They went that-a-way, podnuh!” She added briskly, “All hands, brace for acceleration—five seconds!”
He had his eye on the star images, steady and perfectly matched, as the jet slammed him into his pads. The force was four gravities, much more than the boost from Luna, but they held it for only slightly more than one minute. Captain Stone kept watching the star images, ready to check her if she started to swing, but the extreme care with which he had balanced his ship in loading was rewarded; she held her attitude.
He heard Hazel shout, “ Brennschluss! ” just as the noise and pressure dropped off and died. He took a deep breath and said to the mike, “You all right, Edith?”
“Yes, dear,” she answered faintly. “We’re all right.”
“Power room?”
“Okay!” Pollux answered.
“Secure and lock.” There was no need to have the power room stand by, any corrections to course and speed on this leg would be made days or weeks later, after much calculation.
“Aye aye, sir. Say, Dad, what was the chatter about a blip?”
“Pipe down,” Hazel
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