it up making Centaurus, they would be marooned; they would
have made their one round trip one-way. Besides . . . your
drive is more important than anything else on board. Get the
passengers where they want to go by all means if it’s feasible,
but if it isn’t, the government wants that drive back. . . .
Understand?
“We contracted with the passengers to go to Centaurus,”
Arpe said, sitting down before the computer. “That’s where
we’ll go.”
“Very good, sir,” Oestreicher said. They were the finest
three words Arpe had ever heard in his life.
The Negro girl, exquisite even in her still and terrible
coma, was first off the ship into the big ship-to-shore ferry.
Hammersmith went with her, his big face contorted with
anguish.
Then the massive job of evacuating everybody else began.
Everyonepassengers and ship’s complement alikewas
wearing a mask now. After the jump through the heavy
cosmic-ray primary that Arpe had picked, a stripped nucleus
which happened to be going toward Centaurus anyhow, the
Flyaway II was leaking air as though she were made of some-
thing not much better than surgical gauze. She was through.
Oestreicher turned to Arpe and held out his hand. “A
great achievement, sir,” the first officer said. “It’ll be cut
and dried into a routine after it’s collimatedbut they won’t
even know that back home until the radio word comes
through, better than four years from now. I’m glad I was
along while it was still new.”
“Thank you, Mr. Oestreicher. You won’t miss the Mars
run?”
“They’ll need interplanetary captains here too, sir.” He