Rocketship Galileo

Chapter 8 - SKYWARD!

"THAT SOUNDS MORE LIKE you, Doc!"

"Thanks. Are the others up yet?"

"Not yet. They didn't get much sleep."

"I know. Let's let them sleep. We'll sit out in the car. Take my arm."

When they had settled themselves Ross asked, "Doc, how much longer will it take to get ready?"

"Not long. Why?"

"Well, I think the key to our problems lies in how fast we can get away. If these attempts to stop us keep up, one of them is going to work. I wish we would leave today."

"We can't do that," Cargraves answered, "but it shouldn't be long. First I've got to install the drive, but it's really just a matter of fitting the parts together. I had almost everything prepared before I ever laid eyes on you guys."

"I wish my blinkers weren't on the fritz."

"It's one job I'll have to do myself. Not that I am trying to keep you out of it, Ross," he added hastily, seeing the boy's expression. "I've never explained it because I thought it would be easier when we had all the gear in front of us."

"Well, how does it work?"

"You remember Heron's turbine in elementary physics? Little boiler on the bottom and a whirligig like a lawn sprinkler on top? You heat the boiler, steam comes up through the whirligig, and makes it whirl around. Well, my drive works like that. Instead of fire, I use a thorium atomic power pile; instead of water, I use zinc. We boil the zinc, vaporize it, get zinc ‘steam.' We let the ‘steam' exhaust through the jet. That's the works."

Ross whistled. "Simple—and neat. But will it work?"

"I know it'll work. I was trying for a zinc ‘steam' power plant when I hit on it. I got the hard, hot jet I wanted, but I couldn't get a turbine to stand up under it. Broke all the blades. Then I realized I had a rocket drive."

"It's slick, Doc! But say—why don't you use lead? You'd get more mass with less bulk."

"A good point. Concentrated mass means a smaller rocket motor, smaller tanks, smaller ship, less dead weight all around. But mass isn't our main trouble; what we've got to have is a high-velocity jet. I used zinc because it has a lower boiling point than lead. I want to superheat the vapor so as to get a good, fast jet, but I can't go above the stable limit of the moderator I'm using."

"Carbon?"

"Yes, carbon-graphite. We use carbon to moderate the neutron flow and cadmium inserts to control the rate of operation. The radiations get soaked up in a bath of liquid zinc. The zinc boils and the zinc ‘steam' goes whizzing out the jet as merry as can be."

"I see. But why don't you use mercury instead of zinc? It's heavier than lead and has a lower boiling point than either one of them."

"I'd like to, but it's too expensive. This is strictly a cut-rate show." Doc broke off as Morrie stuck his head out the cabin door.

"Hi, there! Come to breakfast, or we'll throw it out!"

"Don't do that!" Cargraves slipped a leg over the side of the car- the wrong leg- touched the ground and said, "Ouch!"

"Wait a minute, and lean on me," Ross suggested.

They crept back, helping each other. "Aside from the pile," Cargraves went on, "there isn't much left. The thorium is already imbecided in the graphite according to my calculations. That leaves just two major jobs: the air lock and a test-stand run."

The rocket, although it had operated on the trans-Atlantic run above the atmosphere, had no air lock, since it's designers had never intended it to be opened up save on the ground. If they were to walk the face of the moon, an air lock, a small compartment with two doors, was necessary. Cargraves planned to weld a steel box around the inside of the present door frame, with a second air-tight door, opening inward.

"I can weld the lock," Ross offered, "while you rig the pile. That is, if my eyes clear up in time."

"Even if they do, I don't think it would be smart to stare at a welding arc. Can't the others weld?"

"Well, yes, but just between us chickens, I run a smoother seam."

"We'll see..."

At breakfast Cargraves told the other two of his decision to go ahead. Art turned pink and got his words twisted. Morrie said gravely, "I thought your temperature would go down over night. What are the plans?"

"Just the same, only more so. How's your department?"

"Shucks, I could leave this afternoon. The gyros are purring like kittens; I've calculated Hohmann orbits and S-trajectories till I'm sick of ‘em; the computer and me are like that." He held out two fingers.

"Fine. You concentrate on getting the supplies in, then. How about you, Art?"

"Who, me? Why, I've got everything lined up, I guess. Both radars are right on the beam. I've got a couple wrinkles I'd like to try with the FM circuit."

"Is it all right the way it is?"

"Good enough, I guess."

"Then don't monkey with the radios. I can keep you busy."

"Oh, sure."

"How about the radar screen Art was going to rig?" Morrie inquired.

"Eh? Oh, you mean the one for our friend the prowler. Hm... .," Cargraves studied the matter. "Ross thinks and I agree that the best way to beat the prowler is to get out of here as fast as we can. I don't want that radar out of the ship. It would waste time and always with the chance of busting a piece of equipment we can't afford to replace and can't get along without."

Morrie nodded. "Suits. I still think that a man with a gun in his hands is worth more than a gadget anyhow. See here—there are four of us. That's two hours a' night. Let's stand guard."

Cargraves agreed to this. Various plans were offered to supplement the human guard and the charged fence, but all were voted down as too time-consuming, too expensive or impractical. It was decided to let the matter stand, except that lights would be left burning at night, including a string to be rigged around the ship. All of these lines were to be wired to cut over automatically to the ship's batteries.

Cargraves sat down to lunch on Wednesday of the following week with a feeling of satisfaction. The thorium power pile was in place, behind the repaired shield. This in itself was good; he disliked the finicky, ever-dangerous work of handling the radioactive element, even though he used body shields and fished at it with tongs.

But the pile was built; the air lock had been welded in place and tested for air-tightness; almost all the supplies were aboard. Acceleration hammocks had been built for Art and Ross (Cargraves and Morrie would ride out the surges of power in the two pilot seats). The power pile had been operated at a low level; all was well, he felt, and the lights on the board were green.

The phony inspector had not showed up again, nor were the night watches disturbed. Best of all, Ross's eyesight had continued to improve; the eye specialist had pronounced him a cure on Monday, subject to wearing dark glasses for a couple of weeks.

Cargraves' sprain still made him limp, but he had discarded his stick. Nothing bothered him. He tackled Aggregate a la Galileo (hash to ordinary mortals) with enthusiasm, while thinking about a paper he would write for the Physical Review. Some Verified Experimental Factors in Space Flight seemed like a good title—by Doctor Donald Morris Cargraves, B.S., Sc.D., LL.D., Nobel Prize, Nat. Acad., Fr. Acad., etc. The honors were not yet his—he was merely trying them on for size.

The car ground to a stop outside and Art came in with the mail. "Santa Claus is here!" he greeted them. "One from your folks, Ross, and one from that synthetic blonde you're sweet on."

"I'm not sweet on her and she's a natural blonde," Ross answered emphatically.

"Have it your own way—you'll find out. Three for you, Morrie—all business. The rest are yours, Doc," he finished, holding back the one from his mother. "Hash again," he added.

"It's to soften you up for what you're going to eat on the moon," said the cook. "Say, Doc-"

"Yes, Morrie?"

"The canned rations are at the express office in town, it says here. I'll pick ‘em up this afternoon. The other two are bills. That finishes my check-off list."

"Good," he answered absently, as he tore open a letter. "You can help Ross and me on the test stand. That's the only big job left." He unfolded the letter and read it.

Then he reread it. Presently Ross noticed that he had stopped eating and said, "What's the matter, Doc?"

"Well, nothing much, but it's awkward. The Denver outfit can't supply the dynamometers for the test stand run." He tossed the letter to Ross.

"How bad off does that leave us?" asked Morrie.

"I don't know, yet. I'll go with you into town. Let's make it right after lunch; I have to call the East Coast and I don't want to get boxed in by the time difference."

"Can do."

Ross handed the letter back. "Aren't there plenty of other places to buy them?"

"Hardly ‘plenty.' Half-a-million-pound dynamometers aren't stock items. We'll try Baldwin Locomotives."

"Why don't we make them?" asked Art. "We made our own for the Starstruck series."'

Cargraves shook his head. "High as my opinion is of you lugs as good, all-around jack-leg mechanics and pretzel benders, some jobs require special equipment. But speaking of the Starstruck series," he went on, intentionally changing the subject, "do you guys realize we've never named the ship? How does Starstruck VI appeal to you?"

Art liked it. Morrie objected that it should be Moonstruck. But Ross had another idea. "Starstruck was a good enough name for our model rockets, but we want something with a little more—oh, I don't know; dignity, I guess-for the moon ship."

"The Pioneer?"

"Corny."

"The Thor—for the way she's powered."

"Good, but not enough."

"Let's call it Einstein."

"I see why you want to name it for Doctor Einstein," Cargraves put in, "but maybe I've got another name that will symbolize the same thing to you. How about the Galileo?"

There was no dissension; the members of the Galileo Club again were unanimous. The man who had first seen and described the mountains of the moon, the man whose very name had come to stand for steadfast insistence on scientific freedom and the freely inquiring mind—his name was music to them.

Cargraves wondered whether or not their own names would be remembered after more than three centuries. With luck, with lots of luck—Columbus had not been forgotten. If the luck ran out, well, a rocket crash was a fast clean death.

The luck appeared to be running out, and with nothing as gallant and spectacular as a doomed and flaming rocket. Cargraves sweated in a phone booth until after five o'clock, East Coast time, and then another hour until it was past five in Chicago as well before he admitted that dynamometers of the size he needed were not to be had on short notice.

He blamed himself for having slipped up, while neglecting to credit himself with having planned to obtain the instruments from the Denver firm for reasons of economy; he had expected to get them second-hand. But blaming himself comforted him.

Morrie noted his long face as he climbed into the heavily loaded little car. "No soap, eh?"

"No soap. Let's get back to camp."

They sped along the desert road in worried silence for several minutes. Finally Morrie spoke up. "How about this, Doc? Make a captive run on the ground with the same yoke and frame you planned to use, but without dynamometers."

"What good would that do? I have to know what the thrust is."

"I'm getthig to that. We put a man inside. He watches the accelerometer—the pendulum accelerometer of course; not the distance-integrating one. It reads in g's. Figure the number of gravities against the gross weight of the ship at the time and you come out with your thrust in pounds."

Cargraves hesitated. The boy's mistake was so obvious and yet so easy to make that he wished to point it out without hurting his pride. "It's a clever plan, except that I would want to use remote control—there's always the chance that a new type of atomic-fission power plant will blow up. But that's not the hitch; if the ship is anchored to the ground, it won't be accelerating no matter how much thrust is developed."

"Oh!" said Morrie. "Hmm. I sure laid an egg on that one, Doc."

"Natural mistake."

After another five miles Morrie spoke again. "I've got it, Doc. The Galileo has to be free to move to show thrust on the accelerometer. Right? Okay, I'll test-fly it. Hold it, hold it," he went on quickly, "I know exactly what you are going to say: you won't let any one take a risk if you can help it. The ship might blow up, or it might crash. Okay, so it might. But it's my job. I'm not essential to the trip; you are. You have to have Ross as flight engineer; you have to have Art for the radar and radio; you don't have to have a second pilot. I'm elected."

Cargraves tried to make his voice sound offhand. "Morrie, your analysis does your heart credit, but not your head. Even if what you said is true, the last part doesn't quite add up. I may be essential, if the trip is made. But if the test flight goes wrong, if the power pile blows, or if the ship won't handle and crashes, then there won't be any trip and I'm not essential."

Morrie grinned. "You're sharp as a tack, Doc."

"Tried to frame me, eh? Well, I may be old and feeble but I'm not senile. Howsoever, you've given me the answer.

"We skip the captive run and test-fly it. I test-fly it." Morrie whistled, "When?"

"Just as soon as we get back."

Morrie pushed the accelerator down to the floor boards; Cargraves wished that he had kept quiet until they reached the camp.

Forty minutes later he was handing out his final instructions. "Drive outside the reservation and find some place at least ten miles away where you can see the camp and where you can huddle down behind a road cut or something. If you see a Hiroshima mushroom, don't try to come back. Drive on into town and report to the authorities." He handed Ross a briefcase. "In case I stub my toe, give this stuff to your father. He'll know what to do with it. Now get going. I'll give you twenty minutes. My watch says seven minutes past five."

"Just a minute, Doc."

"What is it, Morrie?" His tones showed nervous irritability. "I've polled the boys and they agree with me. The Galileo is expendable but you aren't. They want you left around to try it again."

"That's enough on that subject, Morrie."

"Well, I'll match you for it."

"You're on thin ice, Morrie!"

"Yes, sir." He climbed in the car. The other two squeezed in beside him.

"So long!"

"Good luck!"

He waved back at them as they drove away, then turned toward the open door of the Galileo. He was feeling suddenly very lonely.

The boys found such a spot and crouched down behind a bank, like soldiers in a trench. Morrie had a small telescope; Art and Ross were armed with the same opera glasses they had used in their model rocket tests. "He's closed the door," announced Morrie.

"What time is it?"

"I've got five twenty-five."

"Any time now. Keep your eyes peeled." The rocket was tiny even through the opera glasses; Morrie's view was slightly better. Suddenly he yelled, "That's it! Geronimo!"

The tail jet, bright silver even in the sun light, had flared out. The ship did not move. "There go his nose jets!" Red and angry, the aniline-and-nitric reached out in front. The Galileo, being equipped with nose and belly maneuvering jets, could take off without a launching platform or catapult. He brought his belly jets into play now; the bow of the Galileo reared up, but the opposing nose and tail jets kept her nailed to one spot.

"He's off!" The red plumes from the nose were suddenly cut and the ship shot away from the ground. It was over their heads almost before they could catch their breaths. Then it was beyond them and shooting toward the horizon. As it passed over the mountains, out of sight, the three exhaled simultaneously. "Gosh!" said Art, very softly.

Ross started to run.

"Hey, where y' going?"

"Back to the camp! We want to be there before he is!"

"Oh!" They tore after him.

Ross set a new high in herding the rig back to the camp site, but his speed did not match their urgency. Nor were they ahead of time. The Galileo came pouring back over the horizon and was already braking on her nose jets when the car slammed to a stop.

She came in at a steep dive, with the drive jet already dead. The nose jets splashed the ground on the very spot where she had taken off. He kicked her up with the belly jets and she pancaked in place. Morrie shook his head. "What a landing!" he said reverently.

Cargraves fell out of the door into a small mob. The boys yelled and pounded him on the back.

"How did she behave? How did she handle?"

"Right on the button! The control of the drive jet is laggy, but we expected that. Once she's hot she doesn't want to cool off. You have to get rid of your head of ‘steafli.'(<-- SeaGull/Zopharnal - Is this right?) I was half way to Oklahoma City before I could slow down enough to turn and come back."

"Boy, oh boy! What a ship!"

"When do we start?"

Cargraves' face sobered. "Does staying up all night to pack suit you?"

"Does it! Just try us!"

"It's a deal. Art, get in the ship and get going with the radio. Get the Associated Press station at Salt Lake. Get the United Press. Call up the radio news services. Tell them to get some television pick-ups out here. The lid is off now. Make them realize there is a story here."

"On my way!" He scrambled up into the ship, then paused in the door. "Say—what if they don't believe me?"

"Make them believe you. Tell them to call Doctor Larksbee at the commission for confirmation. Tell them that if they miss they'll be scooped on the biggest story since the war. And say—call up Mr. Buchanan on the forestry frequency. He's kept his mouth shut for us; he ought to be in on it."

By midnight the job was practically complete and Cargraves insisted that they take turns lying down, two at a time, not to sleep, but just to keep from starting the trip completely tired out. The fuel tanks for the belly and nose jets were topped off and the specially installed reserve tanks were filled. The tons of zinc which served the main drive were already aboard as well as an equal weight of powdered reserve. The food was aboard; the carefully rationed water was aboard. (Water was no problem; the air-conditioner would scavenge the vapor of their own exhalations.) The liquid oxygen tanks were full. Cargraves himself had carried aboard the two Garands, excusing it to himself on the pretext that they might land in some wild spot on the return trip... that, despite the fact they had ripped the bindings from their few books in order to save space and weight.

He was tired. Only the carefully prepared lists enabled him to be sure that the ship was in all respects ready—or would be soon.

The boys were tired, confused, and excited. Morrie had worked the problem of their departure trajectory three times and then had gotten nerves over it, although it had checked to the last decimal each time. He was gnawed by fear that he had made some silly and fatal mistake and was not satisfied until Cargraves had gotten the same answer, starting with a clear board.

Mr. Buchanan, the Ranger, showed up about one o'clock, "Is this the Central New Mexico Insane Asylum?" he inquired pleasantly.

Cargraves admitted it. "I've wondered what you folks were up to," the Ranger went on. "Of course I saw your ship, but your message surely surprised me. I hope you don't mind me thinking you're crazy; I wish you luck just the same."

"Thanks." Cargraves showed him the ship, and explained their plans. The moon was full and an hour past its greatest elevation. They planned to take off shortly after daybreak, as it was sinking in the west. This would lose them the earth's spin, but, after the trial run, Cargraves did not care; he had power to throw away. Waiting twelve hours to save a difference of about 1600 miles per hour was more than his nerves could stand.

He had landed the rocket faced west; it would save jacking her around as well.

Buchanan looked the layout over and asked where the jets would splash. Cargraves showed him. Whereupon Buchanan asked, "Have you arranged for any guards?"

In truth, Cargraves had forgotten it. "Never mind," said Buchanan, "I'll call Captain Taylor and get some state police over."

"Never mind calling; we'll radio. Art!"

The press started showing up at four; by the time the state police arrived, Cargraves knew that he had been saved real grief. The place was crowded. Escorts were necessary from the outer gate to the corral to make sure that no one drove on the danger-studded mock-battle fields. Once in the corral it took the firm hand of the state police to keep them there—and to keep them from swarming over the ship.

At five they ate their last breakfast in the camp, with a guard at the door to give them some peace. Cargraves refused to be interviewed; he had prepared a typed hand-out and given copies to Buchanan to distribute. But the boys were buttonholed whenever his back was turned. Finally Captain Taylor assigned a bodyguard to each.

They marched in a hollow square of guards to the ship. Flash guns dazzled their eyes and television scanners followed their movements. It seemed impossible that this was the same lonely spot where, only hours before, they had worried about silent prowlers in the dark.

Cargraves had the boys climb in, then turned to Buchanan and Captain Taylor. "Ten minutes, gentlemen. Are you sure you can keep everybody clear? Once I get in the seat I can't see the ground near me."

"Don't worry, Captain Cargraves," Taylor assured him. "Ten minutes it is."

Buchanan stuck out his hand. "Good luck, Doctor. Bring me back some green cheese." ‘

A man came puffing up, dodged past a guard, and thrust a folded paper in Cargraves' hand.

"Here, what's this?" demanded Taylor. "Get back where you belong."

The man shrugged. "It's a court order."

"Eh? What sort?"

"Temporary injunction against flying this ship. Order to appear and show cause why a permanent injunction should not be issued to restrain him from willfully endangering the lives of minors."

Cargraves stared. It felt to him as if the world were collapsing around him. Ross and Art appeared at the door behind him. "Doc, what's up?"

"Hey, there! You boys-come down out of there," yelled the stranger, and then said to Captain Taylor, "I've got another paper directing me to take them in charge on behalf of the court."

"Get back in the ship," Cargraves ordered firmly, and opened the paper. It seemed in order. State of New Mexico and so forth. The stranger began to expostulate. Taylor took him by the arm.

"Take it easy," he said.

"Thanks," said Cargraves. "Mr. Buchanan, can I have a word with you? Captain, will you hang on to this character?"

"Now, I don't want any beef," protested the stranger. "I'm just carrying out my duty."

"I wonder," Cargraves said thoughtfully. He led Buchanan around the nose of the craft and showed him the paper.

"It seems to be in order," Buchanan admitted.

"Maybe. This says it's the order of a state court. This is federal territory, isn't it? As a matter of fact, Captain Taylor and his men are here only by your invitation and consent. Isn't that right?"

"Hmmm....es. That's so." Buchanan suddenly jammed the paper in his pocket. "I'll fix his clock!"

"Just a minute." Cargraves told him rapidly about the phony inspector, and the prowlers, matters which he had kept to himself, save for a letter to the Washington CAB office. "This guy may be a phony, or a stooge of a phony. Don't let him get away until you check with the court that supposedly issued this order."

"I won't!"

They went back, and Buchanan called Taylor aside. Cargraves took the stranger by the arm, not gently. The man protested. "How would you like a poke in the eye?" Cargraves inquired.

Cargraves was six inches taller, and solid. The man shut up. Taylor and Buchanan came back in a moment or two. The state policeman said, "You are due to take off in three minutes, Captain. I had better be sure the crowd is clear." He turned and called out, "Hey! Sergeant Swanson!"

"Yes, sir!'

"Take charge of this guy." It was the stranger, not Cargraves, whom he indicated.

Cargraves climbed in the ship. As he turned to close the door a cheer, ragged at first but growing to a solid roar, hit him. He clamped the door and locked it, then turned. "Places, men."

Art and Ross trotted to their hammocks, directly behind the pilots' seats. These hammocks were vertical, more like stretchers braced upright than garden hammocks. They snapped safety belts across their knees and chests.

Morrie was already in his chair, legs braced, safety belts buckled, head back against the shock pad. Cargraves slipped into the seat beside him, favoring his bad foot as he did so. "All set, Morrie." His eyes glanced over the instrument board, particularly noticing the temperature of the zinc and the telltale for position of the cadmium damping plates.

"All set, Captain. Give her the gun when you are ready."

He buckled himself in and glanced out the quartz glass screen ahead of him. The field was clear as far as he could see. Staring straight at him, round and beautiful, was their destination. Under his right hand, mounted on the arm rest, was a large knurled knob. He grasped it. "Art?"

"Ready sir."

"Ross?"

"Ready, Captain."

"Co-pilot?"

"Ready, Captain. Time, six-oh-one."

He twisted the knob slowly to the right. Back behind him, actuated by remote control, cadmium shields slowly withdrew from between lattices of graphite and thorium; uncountable millions of neutrons found it easier to seek atoms of thorium to destroy. The tortured nuclei, giving up the ghost, spent their energy in boiling the molten zinc.

The ship began to tremble.

With his left hand he cut in the nose rockets, balancing them against the increasing surge from the rear. He slapped in the belly jets; the ship reared. He let the nose jets die.

The Galileo leaped forward, pressing them back into their pads.

They were headed skyward, out and far.