There was a roar of thunder, a series of explosions so close together it was impossible to distinguish between them, but still it seemed like many explosions because it went on far too long to have been just one. It did not at all sound like a large rocket.
The ship that rose above the hill was like nothing Jeff had ever imagined. It looked like an artillery shell mounted above a large inverted cup. Impossibly bright flashes came downward from the cup. They were so close together they appeared to be one long tongue of flame, yet once again Jeff had the impression of many small explosions rather than one continuous burn. He cringed involuntarily. There was no protection at all if the — ship? — exploded. He wondered why they would expose their king to so much danger. “What is that thing?” Jeff demanded.
“A piloted spaceship,” Dougal said proudly.
“It doesn’t look much like a spaceship,” Jeff said. “It doesn’t even look like a rocket.”
“It’s not a rocket.” The newcomer’s voice was high-pitched and almost querulous, but filled with pride.
“Allow me to present Academician Kleinst,” Dougal said.
“Kleinst,” Jeff said aloud. “You were also on the Makassar expedition.”
“I had that privilege,” Kleinst said. He turned to stare after the rapidly rising ship.
Jeff watched it also, and willed it to succeed. There was something highly dramatic about this ship rising on a thunder of fire. “If it explodes we could be killed,” Jeff said. “Didn’t you think of a bunker for the observers?”
“Your pardon,” Dougal said. “His Majesty thought that as the pilot was willing to take the risk, we should all share it. Perhaps we had no right to assume you would feel the same way. It is not your ship—”
“It’s academic now,” Jeff said. “How does the ship work, then?”
“For God’s sake,” Greenaugh’s voice interrupted. “Call it a goddam craft, or a probe, or anything else, but don’t be on record as calling it a ship! His Excellency almost excreted bricks when I told him what your colonial friends are up to.”
“Craft,"Jeff corrected himself. “How does it work if it’s not a rocket?”
Kleinst preened. “There is a rapid-firing gun, a multi-barreled gun that fires explosive shells downward. The shells explode in the hemispherical chamber beneath. The explosion drives the ship upward.”
“I never heard of anything like that,” Jeff said. “Captain, have-”
“I’m looking it up,” Greenaugh’s voice said. “Primitive spacecraft, propulsion by explosive — Jesus Christ!”
“Sir?”
“The earliest known reference is 1899.”
“Sir, did you say 1899?”
“I did. We don’t have the text, but the reference is here. And in 1957, Goddard applied for some kind of license to build such a ship. Dyson experimented with them, too.”
Goddard. Dyson. Names from ancient history, people who’d lived in legendary times. Jefferson had been aboard a luxury liner named Goddard, and thought he recalled a scout survey ship named Freeman Dyson as well.
The ship was almost out of sight now. Its thunder was muted as it plunged eastward and rose into the ultra-deep blue of Prince Samual’s skies.
“How are you stabilizing it?” Jefferson demanded.
“It’s largely self-stabilizing,” Kleinst said. “From the geometry of the explosion chamber. We also have peroxide rockets to correct the heading.”
“And your pilot’s a girl—”
“A freelady,” Colonel MacKinnie said coldly.
“The gyroscopes do most of the steering,” Kleinst added.
MacKinnie was staring toward the east at the spot where the oddball ship was now almost invisible. Jeff didn’t care much for the expression on the colonel’s face. “Captain, you’d better alert Tombaugh not to shoot it down,” he said.
“Already done,” Greenaugh said.
“Colonel,” Jeff said, “am I being too personal in asking why you sent your fiancee as pilot?”
“Weight,” MacKinnie said through clenched teeth.
“Mass,” Kleinst corrected. “We needed a pilot who had experience in no gravity. Of those few available, Freelady Graham and I mass the least. I was needed on other duties.”
“And what’s your plan now?” Jefferson demanded.
“There is a transmitter aboard,” Kleinst said. “When the ship achieves orbit it will be turned on to provide a signal so that Prince Samual’s Hope can be located in space. We had hoped your ship would be able to assist.”
“No reentry capability, “Jefferson said.
Kleinst looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Correct. We were unable to provide for a return from orbit within the time limits available.’’
“And you call that a spaceship?” Jefferson demanded.
King David had been listening quietly. “That, I think, is a matter to be discussed between your superiors and my advisors, is it not, Lieutenant? Prince Samual’s Hope has carried one of my officers to space. Does that not make it a spaceship?”
“Don’t answer,” Greenaugh’s voice said. “Don’t even discuss the matter with them! ”
“Yes, sir,"Jeff said.
He tried to remember Mary Graham’s face, but he couldn’t. It had been too long ago that he inspected the Makassar party. She’s one hell of a lady, Jeff thought. I wouldn’t have got in that gunpowered coffin for an earl’s coronet. Hope she makes it.
He turned and like the others stared at the empty indigo skies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
S.O.S.
The ship rose in fire and thunder.
Mary Graham lay on the leather-strip couch, unable to move, her face drawn into a rictus grin by the acceleration. Despite the couch and its shock mountings, the vibration was fierce. She felt sharp, stabbing pains in her abdomen.
For all that, she felt better than she had while she was waiting for the launch. That had been a time of real terror, an hour stretched into years of waiting and wondering and remembering.
You wanted to be important, she told herself. Well, lassie, you’ve managed that, if you haven’t got yourself killed. But I wish it didn’t hurt so.
The noise gradually died away as the ship rose above the atmosphere. The vibration was no better, and the acceleration continued to increase. With the cannon’s roar muted she heard other sounds. The clatter of the feed mechanism pushing an endless stream of heavy shells into the rotary feed hopper. The steady whirr of the big gyros. Clicking sounds as punched steel ribbons fed through the clockwork mechanism. The ribbons controlled the gear mechanism that controlled the gyros; they might call her a pilot, but she knew better. Those steel ribbons were the actual pilot, and she was no more than a passenger.
How long does this go on? I can’t stand a lot more of it. What am I doing here?
Finishing a job.
Maybe. And maybe not. Even if I live through this, there’s no guarantee the Empire will accept this thing as a real spaceship. But it’s all we have, and they certainly
wouldn’t accept it if there were no passengers at all. Somebody had to ride Prince Samual’s Hope, and she was the most logical choice. Young, strong, with experience in space…
It had made a lot of sense at the time she proposed the idea. First to Kleinst, then to Malcolm Dougal. She hadn’t convinced Nathan, but there hadn’t been much he could do to stop her. She wasn’t married to him yet.
Would she ever be? Did he want her? He’d been furious, and could he live with someone he couldn’t control? That’s silly, he’s known since Makassar, and he’s always wanted me as much as I wanted him, and O God, do I want him now.
She felt dizzy, and the acceleration and vibration increased constantly. She couldn’t open her eyes.
O God, make it stop!
She woke to silence and the sensation of falling. The silence wasn’t complete. The gyros continued to whirr, but the cannon was silent. She unbuckled the straps holding her to the couch.