He was almost relieved when a glance at his watch told him that he was late. “Got to run,” he said. “Nineteen minutes.”
“Yes, my dear Donald. Your short-lived race must always live in frantic haste.”
“Well—g’bye.”
“Farewell, Mist on the Waters.”
He stopped outside Sir Isaac’s study to blow his nose and pull himself together. Isobel stepped out from behind a massive pillar. “Don—I wanted to say goodbye to you.”
“Huh? Sure, sure—but aren’t you coming out to see ‘raise ship’?”
“No.”
“Well, as you like, but I’ve got to hurry, Grandma.”
“I told you to stop calling me ‘Grandma’!”
“So you fibbed about your age. So you’re stuck with it—Grandma.”
“Don, you stubborn beast! Don—you come back. You understand me?”
“Why, sure! We’ll be back in jig time.”
“See that you do! You’re not bright enough to take care of yourself. Well—Open sky!” She grabbed him by both ears and kissed him quickly, then ran away.
Don stared after her, rubbing his mouth. Girls, he reflected, were much odder than dragons. Probably another race entirely. He hurried on down to the take-off point. The entire colony seemed to be there and he was the last of the crew to arrive, winning thereby a dirty look from Captain Rhodes, skipper of the Little David. Rhodes, once of Interplanet and now of the Middle Guard, had appeared three days ago; he had not been inclined to talk and had spent the whole time with Conrad. Don touched the pocket and wondered if Rhodes carried orders that read as oddly as his.
The Little David had been dragged up on shore, where she rested in skids. No catapult would be needed for her take-off, nor was any available: the three shuttle catapults on Venus were all in the hands of the Federation forces. The ship had been concealed by a screen of boughs; these were now cut back, giving her open sky, room to lift.
Don looked at her, thinking that she looked more like an oversized and unusually ugly concrete mixer than a space ship. The roots of her amputated wings stubbed out sadly to port and starboard. Her needle nose had been trimmed off and replaced by a bulbous special radar housing. She was scarred here and there by the marks of cutting torches where modifications had been done hastily and with no attempt to pretty up, smooth out, and make ship-shape after the surgery.
Her rocket tubes were gone and the space formerly occupied by rocket fuel tanks now held an atomic power pile, while a major part of what had been her passenger space was now taken up by a massive bulkhead, the antiradiation shield to protect the crew from the deadly emanations of the pile. All over her outer surface, disfiguring what had been sleek streamlines, were bulging discoids—”antennas” Conrad had called them, antennas used to strain the very shape of space. They did not look much like antennas to Don.
The Little David carried a crew of nine, Rhodes, Conrad, Harvey, and six others, all young and all on “makee-learnee”—except Roger Conrad who carried the undignified title of “Gadget Officer,” that being shorter than “Officer in Charge of Special Appliances.” She carried one passenger, Old Malath. He was not in sight and Don did not look for him; the after part of the remaining cabin space had been sealed off for his use and airconditioned thin, dry, and cold.
All were aboard, the lock was sealed, and Don sat down. Despite the space taken up by the new equipment enough passenger seats had been left in the little ship to accommodate them. Captain Rhodes settled himself in his control seat and barked, “Acceleration stations! Fasten belts!” Don did so.
Rhodes turned to Conrad who was still standing. Conrad said conversationally, “About two minutes, gentlemen. Since we had no time for a test run, this will be a very interesting experiment. Any of three things can happen.”
He paused.
Rhodes snapped, “Yes? Go on!”
“First, nothing might happen. We might bog down on a slight theoretical oversight. Second, it might work. And third—it might blow up.” He grinned. “Anyone want to place a small bet?”
Nobody answered. He glanced down and said, “Okay, Captain-twist her tail!”