five centimeters total enroute—claims it upsets the dainty customers and loses business
for the road. They’re tightening up on us all the time. A couple of years ago, you
remember, it didn’t make any difference what we did with the acceleration as long as we
checked in somewhere near zero time—we used to spin ’em dizzy when we reversed at
the halfway station—but that kind of stuff doesn’t go any more. We’ve got to hold the
acceleration constant and close to normal, got to hold our schedule on zero, plus or
minus ten seconds, and yet we’ve got to make any detours they tell us to, such as this
seven-million kilometer thing they handed us just now. To make things worse, we’ve got
to take orders at every check-station, and yet we get the blame for everything that
happens as a consequence of obeying those orders! Of course, I know as well as you
do that it’s rotten technique to change acceleration at every check-station; but we’ve told
’em over and over that we can’t do any better until they put a real computer on every
ship and tell the check-stations to report meteorites and other obstructions to us and
then to let us alone. So you’d better recommend us some computers!”
“You’re getting rotten computation, that’s a sure thing, and I don’t blame you
pilots for yelling, but I don’t believe that you’ve got the right answer. I can’t help but think
that the astronomers are laying down on the job. They’re so sure that you pilots are to
blame that it hasn’t occurred to them to check up on themselves very carefully.
However, we’ll know pretty quick, and then we’ll take steps.”
“I hope so—but say, Steve, I’m worried about using that much plus equilibrium
power. Remember we’ve got to hit Mi4 absolutely all x, or plenty heads will drop.”
“I’ll say they will: I know just how the passengers will howl if we hold them
weightless for half an hour, waiting for those two moons to get out of the way, and I
know just what the manager will do if we check in thirty-one minutes plus. Wow! He’ll
swell up and bust, sure. But don’t worry, Breck—if we don’t check in all x, anybody can
have my head that wants it, and I’m taking full responsibility, you know.”
“You’re welcome to it.” Breckenridge shrugged and turned the conversation into a
lighter vein. “Speaking of weightlessness, it’s funny how many weight-fiends there are in
the world, isn’t it? You’d think the passengers would enjoy a little weightlessness
occasionally—especially the fat ones—but they don’t. But say, while I think of it, how
come you were here and loose to make this check-up? I thought you were out with the
other two of the Big Three, solving all the mysteries of the Universe ?”
“Had to stay in this last trip—been doing some work on the ether, force-field
theory, and other stuff that I had to go to Mars and Venus to get. Just got back last
week. As for solving mysteries, laugh while you can, old hyena. You and a lot of other
dim bulbs who think that Roeser’s Rays are the last word—that there’s nothing left to
discover—are going to get jarred loose from your hinges one of these days. When I
came in nine months ago they were hot on the trail of something big, and I’ll bet they
bring it in . . .”
Out upon the dock an insistent siren blared a crescendo and diminuendo blast of
sound, and two minutes remained. In every stateroom and in every lounge and saloon
speakers sounded a warning:
“For a short time, while we are pulling clear of the gravitational field of the Earth,
walking will be somewhat difficult, as everything on board will apparently increase in
weight by about one-fifth of its present amount. Please remain seated, or move about
with caution. In about an hour weight will gradually return to normal. We start in one
minute.”
“Hipe!” barked the chief pilot as a flaring purple light sprang into being upon his
board, and the assistants came to attention at their stations. “Seconds! Four! Three!
Two! One! LIFT!” He touched a button and a set of plunger switches drove home,
releasing into the forty-five enormous driving projectors the equilibrium power—the
fifteen-thousand-and-odd kilofranks of energy that exactly counterbalanced the pull of
gravity upon the mass of the cruiser. Simultaneously there was added from the
potentiometer, already set to the exact figure given by the computer, the plus-
equilibrium power — which would not be changed throughout the journey if the ideal
acceleration curve were to be registered upon the recorders—and the immense mass of
the cruiser of the void wafted vertically upward at a low and constant velocity. The
bellowing, shrieking siren had cleared the air magically of the swarm of aircraft in her
path, and quietly, calmly, majestically, the Arcturus floated upward.
Sixty seconds after the initial lift Breckenridge actuated the system of magnetic
relays which would gradually cut in the precisely-measured “starting power,” which it
would be necessary to employ for sixty-nine minutes—for, without the acceleration
given by this additional power, they would lose many precious hours of time in covering
merely the few thousands of miles during which Earth’s attraction would operate
powerfully against their progress.
Faster and faster the great cruiser shot upward as more and more of the starting
power was released, and heavier and heavier the passengers felt themselves become.
Soon the full calculated power was on and the acceleration became constant. Weight
no longer increased, but remained constant at a value of plus twenty three and six-
tenths percent. For a few moments there had been uneasy stomachs among the
passengers—perhaps a few of the first-trippers had been made ill—but it was not much
worse than riding in a highspeed elevator, particularly since there was no change from
positive to negative acceleration such as is experienced in express elevators.
The computer, his calculations complete, watched the pilot with interest, for,
accustomed as he was to traversing the depths of space, there was a never-failing thrill
to his scientific mind in the delicacy and precision of the work which Breckenridge was
doing—work which could be done only by a man having had long training in the
profession and possessed of almost instantaneous nervous reactions and of the highest
degree of manual dexterity and control. Under his right and left hands were the double-
series potentiometers actuating the variable-speed drives of -the flight-angle directors in
the hour and declination ranges; before his eyes was the finely-marked micrometer
screen upon which the goniometer threw its needle-point of light; powerful optical
systems of prisms and lenses revealed to his sight the director-angles, down to
fractional seconds of arc. It was the task of the chief pilot to hold the screened image of
the cross hairs of the two directors in such position relative to the ever-moving point of
light as to hold the mighty vessel , precisely upon its course, in spite of the complex
system of forces acting upon it.
For almost an hour Breckenridge sat motionless, his eyes flashing from,
micrometer screen to signal panel, his sensitive fingers moving the potentiometers
through minute arcs because of what he saw upon the screen and in response to the
flashing, multicolored lights and tinkling signals of his board. Finally, far from Earth, the
moon’s attraction and other perturbing forces comparatively slight, the signals no longer
sounded and the point of light ceased its irregular motion, becoming almost stationary.
The chief pilot brought both cross-hairs directly upon the brilliant point which for some
time they had been approaching more and more nearly, adjusted the photo-cells and
amplifiers which would hold them immovably upon it, and at the calculated second of
time cut out the starting power by means of another set of automatically-timed relays.
When only the regular driving power was left, and the acceleration had been checked
and found to be exactly the designated value of 981.286 centimeters, he stood up,
stretched, and heaved a profound sigh of relief.
“Well, Steve, that’s over with—we’re on our way. I’m always glad when this part
of it is done.”
“It’s a ticklish job, no fooling—even for an expert,” the mathematician agreed. “No
wonder the astronomers think you birds are the ones who are gumming up their dope.
Well, it’s about time to plug in on E2. Here’s where the fireworks start!” He closed the
connections which transferred the central portion of the upper lookout screen to a small
micrometer screen at Breckenridge’s desk and plugged it into the first check-station.
Instantly a point of red light, surrounded by a vivid orange circle, appeared upon the
screen, low down and to the left of center, and the timing galvanometer showed a wide
negative deflection.
“Hashed again!” growled Breckenridge. “I must be losing my grip, I guess. I put
everything I had on that sight, and missed it ten divisions. I think I’ll turn in my