Part 18 (1/2)

The radar operators had been prepared to forward details of the speed and course of a single s.h.i.+p to waiting rocket-launching submarines half-way across the Pacific. But they reported to Very High Authority instead.

He received the report of an armada--an incredible fleet--in s.p.a.ce. He didn't believe it. But he didn't dare disbelieve it.

So the fleet swam peacefully through the darkness that was Earth's shadow, and no attempt at attack was made. They came out into sunlight to look down at the western sh.o.r.e of America itself. With seven s.h.i.+ps to get on an exact course, at an exact speed, at an exact moment, time was needed. So the fleet made almost a complete circuit of the Earth before reaching the height of the Platform's...o...b..t.

They joined it. A single man in a s.p.a.ce suit, anch.o.r.ed to its outer plates, directed a plastic hose which stretched out impossibly far and clamped to one drone with a magnetic grapple. He maneuvered it to the hull and made it fast. He captured a second, which was worked delicately within reach by coy puffs of steering-rocket vapor.

One by one, the drones were made fast. Then the manned s.h.i.+p went in the lock and the great outer door closed, and the plastic-fabric walls collapsed behind their nets, and air came in.

Lieutenant Commander Brown was the one to come into the lock to greet them. He shook hands all around--and it again seemed strange to all the four from Earth to find themselves with their feet more or less firmly planted on a solid floor, but their bodies wavering erratically to right and left and before and back, because there was no up or down.

”Just had reports from Earth,” Brown told Joe comfortably. ”The news of your take-off was released to avoid panic in Europe. But everybody who doesn't like us is yelling blue murder. Somebody--you may guess who--is announcing that a fleet of ninety-one war rockets took off from the United States and now hangs poised in s.p.a.ce while the decadent American war-mongers prepare an ultimatum to all the world. Everybody's frightened.”

”If they'll only stay scared until we get unloaded,” said Joe in some satisfaction, ”the government back home can tell them how many we were and what we came up for. But we'll probably make out all right, anyhow.”

”My crew will unload,” said Brown, in conscious thoughtfulness. ”You must have gotten pretty well exhausted by that acceleration.”

Joe shook his head. ”I think we can handle the freight faster. We found out a few things by going back to Earth.”

A section of plating at the top of the lock--at least it had been the top when the Platform was built on Earth--opened up as on the first journey here. A face grinned down. But from this point on, the procedure was changed. Haney and Joe went into the cargo-section of the rockets.h.i.+p and heaved its contents smoothly through weightlessness to the storage chamber above. The Chief and Mike stowed it there. The speed and precision of their work was out of all reason. Brown stared incredulously.

The fact was simply that on their first trip to the Platform, Joe and his crew didn't know how to use their strength where there was no weight. By the time they'd learned, their muscles had lost all tone. Now they were fresh from Earth, with Earth-strength muscles--and they knew how to use them.

”When we got back,” Joe told Brown, ”we were practically invalids. No exercise up here. This time we've brought some harness to wear. We've some for you, too.”

They moved out of the airlock, and the s.h.i.+p was maneuvered to a mooring outside, and a drone took its place. Brown's eyes blinked at the unloading of the drone. But he said, ”Navy style work, that!”

”Out here,” said Joe, ”you take no more exercise than an invalid on Earth--in fact, not as much. By now the original crew would have trouble standing up on a trip back to Earth. You'd feel pretty heavy, yourself.”

Brown frowned.

”Hm. I--ah--I shall ask for instructions on the matter.”

He stood erect. He didn't waver on his feet as the others did. But he wore the same magnetic-soled shoes. Joe knew, with private amus.e.m.e.nt, that Brown must have worked hard to get a dignified stance in weightlessness.

”Mr. Kenmore,” said Brown suddenly. ”Have you been a.s.signed a definite rank as yet?”

”Not that I know of,” said Joe without interest. ”I skipper the s.h.i.+p I just brought up. But----”

”Your s.h.i.+p has no rating!” protested Brown irritably. ”The skipper of a Navy s.h.i.+p may be anything from a lieutenant junior grade to a captain, depending on the size and rating of the s.h.i.+p. In certain circ.u.mstances even a noncommissioned officer. Are you an enlisted man?”

”Again, not that I know of,” Joe told him. ”Nor my crew, either.”

Brown looked at once annoyed and distressed.

”It isn't regular!” he objected. ”It isn't s.h.i.+pshape! I should know whether you are under my command or not! For discipline! For organization! It should be cleared up! I shall put through an urgent inquiry.”

Joe looked at him incredulously. Lieutenant Commander Brown was a perfectly amiable man, but he had to have things in a certain pattern for him to recognize that they were in a pattern at all. He was more excited over the fact that he didn't know whether he ranked Joe, than over the much more important matter of physical deterioration in the absence of gravity. Yet he surely understood their relative importance.

The fact was, of course, that he could confidently expect exact instructions about the last, while he had to settle matters of discipline and routine for himself.

”I shall ask for clarification of your status,” he said worriedly. ”It shouldn't have been left unclear. I'd better attend to it at once.”