And again: "Here are later and better figures, Salamander—hurry!"
And finally, only a few minutes ‘before: "Salamander, why the delay in light-off? Is your computer broken down? Shall we compute a ballistic for you?"
The idea that anyone but a torcher could work a torch ballistic did not sink in. He tried to work fast, but his hands bothered him—he punched wrong numbers and had to correct them. It took him a half hour to realize that the trouble was not just his fingers. Ballistics, a subject as easy for him as checkers, was confused in his mind.
He could not work the ballistic.
"Salamander to Proserpino—Request ballistic for approach into parking orbit around Pluto."
The answer came so quickly that he knew that they had not waited for his okay. With ponderous care he cut the tape and fed it into the autopilot. It was then that he noticed the boost... four point oh three.
Four gravities for the approach— He had assumed that the approach would be a normal one—and so it might have been if he had not wasted three hours. But it wasn't fair! It was too much to expect. He cursed childishly as he settled himself, fitted the collar, and squeezed the button that turned control to the autopilot. He had a few minutes of waiting time; he spent it muttering peevishly. They could have figured him a better ballistic—hell, he should have figured it. They were always pushing him around. Good old Joe, anybody's punching bag! That so-and-so Kleuger over there, grinning like a fool and leaving the work for him—if Kleuger hadn't been so confounded eager— Acceleration hit him and he blacked out.
When the shuttle came up to meet him, they found one man dead, one nearly dead, and the cargo of whole blood.
The supply ship brought pilots for the Salamander and fetched Appleby home. He stayed in sick bay until ordered to Luna for treatment; on being detached he reported to Berrio, escorted by the flight surgeon. The Commodore let him know brusquely that he had done a fine job, a damn' fine job! The interview ended and the surgeon helped Joe to stand; instead of leaving Joe said, "Uh, Commodore?"
"Yes, son?"
"Oh, there's one thing I don't understand, uh, what I don't understand is, uh, this: why do I have to go, uh, to the geriatrics clinic at Luna City? That's for old people, uh? That's what I've always understood—the way I understand it. Sir?"
The surgeon cut in, "I told you, Joe. They have the very best physiotherapy. We got special permission for you."
Joe looked perplexed. "Is that right, sir? I feel funny, going to an old folks', uh, hospital?"
"That's right, son."
Joe grinned sheepishly. "Okay, sir, uh, if you say so."
They started to leave. "Doctor—stay a moment. Messenger, help Mr. Appleby."
"Joe, can you make it?"
"Uh, sure! My legs are lots better—see?" He went out, leaning on the messenger.
Berrio said, "Doctor, tell me straight: will Joe get well?"
"No, sir."
"Will he get better?'
"Some, perhaps. Lunar gravity makes it easy to get the most out of what a man has left."
"But will his mind clear up?"
The doctor hesitated. "It's this way, sir. Heavy acceleration is a speeded-up aging process. Tissues break down, capillaries rupture, the heart does many times its proper work. And there is hypoxia, from failure to deliver enough oxygen to the brain."
The Commodore struck his desk an angry blow. The surgeon said gently, "Don't take it so hard, sir."
"Damn it, man—think of the way he was. Just a kid, all bounce and vinegar—now look at him! He's an old man-senile."
"Look at it this way," urged the surgeon, "you expended one man, but you saved two hundred and seventy."
"‘Expended one man'? If you mean Kleuger, he gets a medal and his wife gets a pension. That's the best, any of us can expect. I wasn't thinking of Kleuger."
"Neither was I," answered the surgeon.
Goldfish Bowl
On the horizon lay the immobile cloud which capped the incredible waterspouts known as the Pillars of Hawaii.
Captain Blake lowered his binoculars. "There they stand, gentlemen."
In addition to the naval personnel of the watch, the bridge of the hydrographic survey ship U. S. S. Mahan held two civilians; the captain's words were addressed to them. The elder and smaller of the pair peered intently through a spyglass he had borrowed from the quartermaster. "I can't make them out," he complained.
"Here—try my glasses, doctor," Blake suggested, passing over his binoculars. He turned to the officer of the deck and added, "Have the forward range finder manned, if you please, Mr. Mott." Lieutenant Mott caught the eye of the bos'n's mate of the watch, listening from a discreet distance, and jerked a thumb upward. The petty officer stepped to the microphone, piped a shrill stand-by, and the metallic voice of the loud-speaker filled the ship, drowning out the next words of the captain: "Raaaaange one! Maaaaaaaan and cast loose!"
"I asked," the captain repeated, "if that was any better."
"I think I see them," Jacobson Graves acknowledged. "Two dark vertical stripes, from the cloud to the horizon."
"That's it."
The other civilian, Bill Eisenberg, had taken the telescope when Graves had surrendered it for the binoculars. "I got 'em too," he announced. "There's nothing wrong with this 'scope, Doc. But they don't look as big as I had expected," he admitted.
"They are still beyond the horizon," Blake explained. "You see only the upper segments. But they stand just under eleven thousand feet from water line to cloud-if they are still running true to form."
Graves looked up quickly. "Why the mental reservation? Haven't they been?"
Captain Blake shrugged. "Sure. Right on the nose. But they ought not to be there at all-four months ago they did not exist. How do I know what they will be doing today-or tomorrow?"
Graves nodded. "I see your point-and agree with it. Can we estimate their height from the distance?"
"I'll see." Blake stuck his head into the charthouse. "Any reading, Archie?"
"Just a second, captain." The navigator stuck his face against a voice tube and called out, "Range!"
A muffled voice replied, "Range one-no reading."
"Something greater than twenty miles," Blake told Graves cheerfully. "You'll have to wait, doctor."
Lieutenant Mott directed the quartermaster to make three bells; the captain left the bridge, leaving word that he was to be informed when the ship approached the critical limit of three miles from the Pillars. Somewhat reluctantly, Graves and Eisenberg followed him down; they had barely time enough to dress before dining with the captain.
Captain Blake's manners were old-fashioned; he did not permit the conversation to turn to shop talk until the dinner had reached the coffee and cigars stage. "Well, gentlemen," he began, as he lit up, "just what is it you propose to do?
"Didn't the Navy Department tell you?" Graves asked with a quick look.
"Not much. I have had one letter, directing me to place my ship and command at your disposal for research concerning the Pillars, and a dispatch two days ago telling me to take you aboard this morning. No details."
Graves looked nervously at Eisenberg, then back to the captain. He cleared his throat. "Uh-we propose, captain, to go up the Kanaka column and down the Wahini."
Blake gave him a sharp look, started to speak, reconsidered, and started again. "Doctor-you'll forgive me, I hope; I don't mean to be rude-but that sounds utterly crazy. A fancy way to commit suicide."