"Where's his medicine?"
"In his vest pocket."
They eased him over to a couch, broke a small glass capsule in a handkerchisf, and held it under his nose. The volatile released by the capsule seemed to bring a little color into his face. They did what little they could for him, then waited for him to regain consciousness.
Charlie broke the uneasy silence. "Mac, we ain't going through with this."
"Why not?"
"It's murder. He'll never stand up under the initial acceleration."
"Maybe not, but it's what he wants to do. You heard him."
"But we oughtn't to let him."
"Why not? It's neither your business, nor the business of this damn paternalistic government, to tell a man not to risk his life doing what he really wants to do."
"All the same, I don't feel right about it. He's such a swell old duck."
"Then what d'yuh want to do with him -- send him back to Kansas City so those old harpies can shut him up in a laughing academy till he dies of a broken heart?"
"N-no-o-o -- not that."
"Get out there, and make your set-up for those test runs. I'll be along."
A wide-tired desert runabout rolled in the ranch yard gate the next morning and stopped in front of the house. A heavy-set man with a firm, but kindly, face climbed out and spoke to McIntyre, who approached to meet him.
"You James Mcintyre?"
"What about it?"
"I'm the deputy federal marshal hereabouts. I got a warrant for your arrest."
"What's the charge?"
"Conspiracy to violate the Space Precautionary Act."
Charlie joined the pair. "What's up, Mac?"
The deputy answered. "You'd be Charles Cummings, I guess. Warrant here for you. Got one for a man named Harriman, too, and a court order to put seals on your space ship."
"We've no space ship."
"What d'yuh keep in that big shed?"
"Strato yacht."
"So? Well, I'll put seals on her until a space ship comes along. Where's Harriman?"
"Right in there." Charlie obliged by pointing, ignoring McIntyre's scowl.
The deputy turned his head. Charlie couldn't have missed the button by a fraction of an inch for the deputy collapsed quietly to the ground. Charlie stood over him, rubbing his knuckles and mourning.
"Damn it to hell -- that's the finger I broke playing shortstop. I'm always hurting that finger."
"Get Pop into the cabin," Mac cut him short, "and strap him into his hammock."
"Aye aye, Skipper."
They dragged the ship by tractor out of the hangar, turned, and went out the desert plain to find elbow room for the take-off. They climbed in. McIntyre saw the deputy from his starboard conning port. He was staring disconsolately after them.
Mcintyre fastened his safety belt, settled his corset, and spoke into the engineroom speaking tube. "All set, Charlie?"
"All set, Skipper. But you can't raise ship yet, Mac -- _She ain't named!_"
"No time for your superstitions!"
Harriman's thin voice reached them. "Call her the _Lunatic_ -- It's the only appropriate name!"
McIntyre settled his head into the pads, punched two keys, then three more in rapid succession, and the _Lunatic_ raised ground.
"How are you, Pop?"
Charlie searched the old man's face anxiously. Harriman licked his lips and managed to speak. "Doing fine, son. Couldn't be better."
"The acceleration is over; it won't be so bad from here on. I'll unstrap you so you can wiggle around a little. But I think you'd better stay in the hammock." He tugged at buckles. Harriman partially repressed a groan.
"What is it, Pop?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just go easy on that side."
Charlie ran his fingers over the old man's side with the sure, delicate touch of a mechanic. "You ain't foolin' me none, Pop. But there isn't much I can do until we ground."
"Charlie--"
"Yes, Pop?"
"Can't I move to a port? I want to watch the Earth."
"Ain't nothin' to see yet; the ship hides it. As soon as we turn ship, I'll move you. Tell you what; I'll give you a sleepy pill, and then wake you when we do."
"No!"
"Huh?"
"I'll stay awake."
"Just as you say, Pop."
Charlie clambered monkey fashion to the nose of the ship, and anchored to the gymbals of the pilot's chair. McIntyre questioned him with his eyes.
"Yeah, he's alive all right," Charlie told him, "but he's in bad shape."
"How bad?"
"Couple of cracked ribs anyhow. I don't know what else. I don't know whether he'll last out the trip, Mac. His heart was pounding something awful."
"He'll last, Charlie. He's tough."
"Tough? He's delicate as a canary."
"I don't mean that. He's tough way down inside where it counts."
"Just the same you'd better set her down awful easy if you want to ground with a full complement aboard."
"I will. I'll make one full swing around the Moon and ease her in on an involute approach curve. We've got enough fuel, I think."
They were now in a free orbit; after McIntyre turned ship, Charlie went back, unslung the hammock, and moved Harriman, hammock and all, to a side port. Mcliityre steadied the ship about a transverse axis so that the tail pointed toward the sun, then gave a short blast on two tangential jets opposed in couple to cause the ship to spin slowly about her longitudinal axis, and thereby create a slight artificial gravity. The initial weightlessness when coasting commenced had knotted the old man with the characteristic nausea of free flight, and the pilot wished to save his passenger as much discomfort as possible.
But Harriman was not concerned with the condition of his stomach. There it was, all as he had imagined it so many times.
The Moon swung majestically past the view port, wider than he had ever seen it before, all of her familiar features cameo clear. She gave way to the Earth as the ship continued its slow swing, the Earth itself as he had envisioned her, appearing like a noble moon, many times as wide as the Moon appears to the Earthbound, and more luscious, more sensuously beautiful than the silver Moon could be. It was sunset near the Atlantic seaboard -- the line of shadow cut down the coast line of North America, slashed through Cuba, and obscured all but the west coast of South America. He savored the mellow blue of the Pacific Ocean, felt the texture of the soft green and brown of the continents, admired the blue-white cold of the polar caps. Canada and the northern states were obscured by cloud, a vast low pressure area that spread across the continent. It shone with an even more satisfactory dazzling white than the polar caps.
As the ship swung slowly, around, Earth would pass from view, and the stars would march across the port the same stars he had always known, but steady, brighter, and unwinking against a screen of perfect, live black. Then the Moon would swim into view again to claim his thoughts.
He was serenely happy in a fashion not given to most men, even in a long lifetime. He felt as if he were every man who has ever lived, looked up at the stars, and longed.
As the long hours came and went he watched and dozed and dreamed. At least once he must have fallen into deep sleep, or possibly delirium, for he came to with a start, thinking that his wife, Charlotte, was calling to him. "Delos!" the voice had said. "Delos! Come in from there! You'll catch your death of cold in that night air."
Poor Charlotte! She had been a good wife to him, a good wife. He was quite sure that her only regret in dying had been her fear that he could not take proper care of himself. It had not been her fault that she had not shared his dream, and his need.
Charlie rigged the hammock in such a fashion that Harriman could watch from the starboard port when they swung around the far face of the Moon. He picked out the landmarks made familiar to him by a thousand photographs with nostalgic pleasure, as if he were returning to his own country. Mcintyre brought her slowly down as they came back around to the Earthward face, and prepared to land east of Mare Fecunditatis, about ten miles from Luna City.