Part 13 (1/2)

”D'you know if anybody ever made a weld with it?” asked Mike.

Joe chewed. Then he said:

”I think so. Yes. At the plant they did. They had trouble getting the surfaces properly cleaned for welding. But they managed it. Why?”

”One more question,” said Mike tensely. ”How much Portland cement is used to make a cubic yard of concrete?”

”I wouldn't know,” admitted Joe. ”Why? What's all this about?”

”Haney and the Chief. Those two big apes have been kidding me--as long as they could stay awake--for what happened to me when I landed. Those infernal savages--” Mike seethed. ”They got my clothes off and they had me smeared all over with b.u.t.ter and forty-'leven necklaces around my neck and flowers in my hair! They thought I was some kind of heathen G.o.d! Hanuman, somebody told me. The Hindu monkey-G.o.d!” He raged. ”And those two big apes think it's funny! Joe, I never knew I _knew_ all the words for the cussings I gave those heathen before our fellas found me!

And Haney and the Chief will drive me crazy if I can't slap 'em down!

Powder metallurgy does the trick, from what you told me. That's okay, then.”

He stood up and stalked toward the front of the plane. Joe roused himself with an effort. He turned to look about him. Haney lay slumped in a reclining chair, on the other side of the plane cabin. His eyes were closed. The Chief lay limply in another chair. He smiled faintly at Joe, but he didn't try to talk. He was too tired. The return to normal gravity bothered him, as it did Joe.

Joe looked out the window. In neat, geometric s.p.a.cing on either side of the transport there were fighter jets. There was another flight above and farther away. Joe saw, suddenly, a peeling-off of planes from the farther formation. They dived down through the clouds. He never knew what they went to look for or what they found. He went groggily back to his bunk in a strange and embarra.s.sing weakness.

He woke when the plane landed. He didn't know where it might be. It was, he knew, an island. He could see the wide, sun-baked white of the runways. He could see sea-birds in clouds over at the edge. The plane trundled and lurched slowly to a stop. A service-truck came growling up, and somebody led cables from it up into the engines. Somebody watched dials, and waved a hand.

There was silence. There was stillness. Joe heard voices and footsteps.

Presently he heard the dull booming of surf.

The plane seemed to wait for a very long time. Then there was a faint, faint distant whine of jets, and a plane came from the east. It was first a dot and then a vague shape, and then an infinitely graceful dark object which swooped down and landed at the other end of the strip. It came taxiing up alongside the transport s.h.i.+p and stopped.

An officer in uniform climbed out, waved his hand, and walked over to the transport. He climbed up the ladder and the pilot and co-pilot followed him. They took their places. The door closed. One by one, the jets chugged, then roared to life.

The officer talked to the pilot and co-pilot for a moment. He came down the aisle toward Joe. Mike the midget regarded him suspiciously.

The plane stirred. The newly arrived officer said pleasantly, ”The Navy Department's sent me out here, Kenmore, to be briefed on what you know and to do a little briefing in turn.”

The transport plane turned clumsily and began to taxi down the runway.

It jolted and b.u.mped over the tarmac, then lifted, and Joe saw that the island was nearly all airfield. There were a few small buildings and distance-dwarfed hangars. Beyond the field proper there was a ring of white surf. That was all. The rest was ocean.

”I haven't much briefing to do,” admitted Joe.

Then he looked at the briefcase the other man opened. It had sheets and sheets of paper in it--hundreds, it seemed. They were filled with questions. He'd be called on to find answers for most of them, and to admit he didn't know the answers to the rest. When he was through with this questioning, every possible useful fact he knew would be on file for future use. And now he wrily recognized that this was part payment for the efficiency and speed with which the Navy had trailed them on their landing, and for the use of a transport plane to take them back to the United States.

”I'll try to answer what I can,” he said cautiously. ”But what're you to brief me about?”

”That you're not back on Earth yet,” said the officer curtly, pulling out the first sheaf of questions. ”Officially you haven't even started back. Ostensibly you're still on the Platform.”

Joe blinked at him.

”If your return were known,” continued the lieutenant, ”the public would want to make heroes of you. First s.p.a.ce travelers, and so on. They'd want you on television--all of you--telling about your adventures and your return. Inevitably, what happened to your s.h.i.+p would leak out. And if the public knew you'd been waylaid and shot down there'd be demands that the government take violent action to avenge the attack. It'd be something like the tumult over the sinking of the _Maine_, or the _Lusitania_--or even Pearl Harbor. It's much better for your return to be a secret for now.”

Joe said wrily: ”I don't think any of us want to be ridden around to have ticker-tape dumped on us. That part's all right. I'm sure the others will agree.”

”Good! One more difficulty. We had two s.p.a.ce s.h.i.+ps. Now we have none.

Our most likely enemies haven't only been building rockets, they've got a s.p.a.ce fleet coming along. Intelligence just found out they're nearly ready for trial trips. They've been yelling to high heaven that we were building a s.p.a.ce fleet to conquer the world. We weren't. They were. And it looks very much as if they may have beaten us.”