McMasters had certainly been right; there was just one way to get to Mars—in a spacing task force.
He looked around him. The inevitable card game was still in progress and two of his mates were shooting dice on the deckplates, the cubes spinning lazily in the low paragravity field. Conrad had opened up his chair and was stretched out asleep, his mouth open. He decided that it certainly did not look like a world-saving task force; the place had more the air of an unmade bed.
They were due to “come out” on the eleventh day, within easy free fall of Mars, and—if all guesses had been right—close by the Federation task force, making almost a photo finish with those ships. “Gadget class” gave way to drill at battle stations. Rhodes picked Art Frankel, who had had some shiphandling experience, as his co-pilot; Conrad was assisted by Franklyn Chiang, a physicist like himself. Of the other four, two were on radio, two on radar. Don’s battle station was a saddle amidships, back of the pilots’ chairs—the “dead man’s” seat. Here he guarded a springloaded demolition switch, a type of switch known through the centuries as a “dead-man” switch for the contrary reason that it operated only if its operator were dead.
At first drill Conrad got the others squared away, then came back to Don’s station. “You savvy what you are to do, Don?”
“Sure. I throw this switch to arm the bomb, then I hang onto the dead-man switch.”
“No, no! Grab the dead-man switch first—then close the arming switch”
“Yes, sure. I just said it backwards.”
“Be sure you don’t do it backwards! Just remember this, Lieutenant: if you let go, everything does.”
“Okay. Say, Rog, this thing triggers an A-bomb—right?”
“Wrong. We should waste so much money! But the load of H.E. in there is plenty for a little can like this, I assure you. So, anxious as we are to blow up this packet rather than let it be captured, don’t let go of that switch otherwise. If you feel a need to scratch, rise above it.”
Captain Rhodes came aft and with a motion of his head sent Conrad forward. He spoke to Don in a low voice, such that his words did not reach the others. “Harvey, are you satisfied with this assignment? You don’t mind it?”
“No, I don’t mind,” Don answered. “I know the others all have more technical training than I have. This is my speed.”
“That’s not what I mean,” the Captain corrected. “You could fill any of the other seats, except mine and Dr. Conrad’s. I want to be sure you can do this job.”
“I don’t see why not. Grab onto this switch, and then close that one—and hang on for dear life. It sure doesn’t take any higher mathematics to do that.”
“That’s still not what I mean. I don’t know you, Harvey. I understand you have had combat experience. These others haven’t-which is why you have this job. Those who do know you think you can do it. I’m not worried that you might forget to hang on; what I want to know is this: if it becomes necessary to let go of that switch, can you do it?”
Don answered almost at once—but not before there had been time for him to think of several things—Dr. Jefferson, who had almost certainly suicided, not simply died—Old Charlie with his mouth quivering but his cleaver hand steady and sure—and an undying voice ringing through the fog, “Venus and Freedom!”.
“Guess I can if I have to.”
“Good. I’m by no means sure that I could. I’m depending on you, sir, if worse comes to worst, not to let my ship be captured.” He went forward.
Tension mounted, tempers got edgy. They had no way to be sure that they would come out near the Federation task force; that force might be using something other than what was assumed to be the maximum-performance orbit. They could not even be certain that the Federation forces were not already on Mars, already in command and difficult to dislodge. The Little David’s laboratory miracles were designed for ship-to-ship encounter in space, not for mopping up on the surface of a planet.