trigger. “He can’t manage the controls — ” He hurried toward him.
Steinke looked up at his approach. “Chief!” he called out. “Chief! I’ve got
my mathematics back!”
King looked bewildered, then nodded vaguely, and let him be. He turned back
to Harper. “How does it happen you’re here?”
“Me? I’m here to report — we’ve done it, chief!”
“Eh?”
“We’ve finished; it’s all done. Erickson stayed behind to complete the
power-plant installation on the big ship. I came over in the ship we’ll use
to shuttle between Earth and the big ship, the power plant. Four minutes
from Goddard Field to here in her. That’s the pilot over there.” He pointed
to the door, where Greene’s solid form partially hid Lentz.
“Wait a minute. You say that everything is ready to install the bomb in the
ship? You’re sure?”
“Positive. The big ship has already flown with our fuel-longer and faster
than she will have to fly to reach station in her orbit; I was in it — out
in space, chief! We’re all set, six ways from zero.”
King stared at the dumping switch, mounted behind glass at the top of the
instrument board. “There’s fuel enough,” he said softly, as if he were
alone and speaking only to himself; “there’s been fuel enough for weeks.”
He walked swiftly over to the switch, smashed the glass with his fist, and
pulled it.
The room rumbled and shivered as two and a half tons of molten, massive
metal, heavier than gold, coursed down channels, struck against baffles,
split into a dozen dozen streams, and plunged to rest in leaden receivers —
to rest, safe and harmless, until it should be reassembled far out in
space.
SEARCHLIGHT
“WILL SHE HEAR YOU?”
“If she’s on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship.
If her suit radio wasn’t damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive.
Since the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is
unlikely that she or the pilot lived through it.”
“She’s got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge.”
Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. “Lunar Base,
Commanding General.”
“General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!”
Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. “Sir, do you know how
big the Moon is?”
“No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere — so every man is to search
until she is found. If she’s dead, your precious pilot would be better off
dead, too!”
“Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man
I have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave
Betsy my best pilot. I won’t listen to threats against him when he can’t
answer back. Not from anyone, sir! I’m sick of being told what to do by
people who don’t know Lunar conditions. My advice — my official advice, sir
— is to let Meridian Station try. Maybe they can work a miracle.”
The answer rapped back, “Very well, General! I’ll speak to you later.
Meridian Station! Report your plans.”
Elizabeth Barnes, “Blind Betsy,” child genius of the piano, had been making
a USO tour of the Moon. She “wowed ’em” at Tycho Base, then lifted by jeep
rocket for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely missile men behind the
Moon. She should have been there in an hour. Her pilot was a safety pilot;
such ships shuttled unpiloted between Tycho and Farside daily.
After lift-off her ship departed from its programming, was lost by Tycho’s
radars. It was . . . somewhere.
Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would
be seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed — or
made emergency landing — somewhere on the vastness of Luna.
“Meridian Space Station, Director speaking — ” Lag was unnoticeable; radio
bounce between Washington and the station only 22,000 miles up was only a
quarter second. “We’ve patched Earthside stations to blanket the Moon with
our call. Another broadcast blankets the far side from Station Newton at
the three-body stable position. Ships from Tycho are orbiting the Moon’s