Part 1 (2/2)
”The Scots are a queer race.”
”Aye, lad--the salt o' the earth. We remain constant in a changing world. All the rest of you have forgotten race and breed and tradition, till ye've become as alike as peas in the same pod all over the Earth.
We of Scotland take pride in being the exception.”
”And in talking like some wild and kilted highlander of the twentieth century! You're out of date, Angus!”
”If you two are going to argue about that all the way to Venus,” Gerry said grimly, ”I'll toss you both out and let you drift around in s.p.a.ce forever.”
”Speaking of the Twentieth Century,” Steve said, ”one of the ancient folk who lived in that long ago and primitive time would be surprised if they could see the New York of today. Why, they made more fuss about one of their funny old winged air-s.h.i.+ps flying the Atlantic than we do about a voyage to Mars or the Moon.”
The s.h.i.+p from Mars settled gently down on the concrete landing platform, and her helicopters ceased to turn. From a hundred nozzles along the edge of the platform came hissing streams of water, playing upon the hull that had been heated by its swift pa.s.sage through the outer layers of the Earth's atmosphere. Then, as the hull cooled, the streams of water died away and the doors opened. The pa.s.sengers began to emerge.
A platoon of police, their steel helmets gleaming in the glow of the lights, cleared a path through the crowd for a small group that hurried across to the waiting _Viking_. A few minutes later three newcomers came aboard. All wore the blue and gold uniform of the Interplanetary Fleet.
The two men were Martians, thin and sharp featured, with the reddish skin of their race. The other was an Earth woman. Olga Stark stood nearly as tall as Gerry Norton's own six feet. She had a pale skin, and a ma.s.s of dark hair that was coiled low on her neck.
”Pilot-Lieutenant Stark and Flight-Ensigns Tanda and Portok reporting aboard, sir,” she said quietly.
”You'll find the officers' quarters aft on B-deck. I'm calling a conference in the chart room as soon as we get clear of the stratosphere.”
Gerry Norton stood on the little platform at the top of the control room, under a curved dome of transparent duralite that gave him a clear view along the whole length of the _Viking's_ super-structure. The last member of the expedition was aboard, the airport attendants had all stepped back. The time of departure had come at last!
”Close all ports!” he snapped.
”Close ports it is, sir,” droned Chester Sand, the Safety Officer.
Warning bells rang throughout the s.h.i.+p. Tiny green lights came winking into view on one of the many indicator panels.
”All ports closed, sir!” the Safety Officer sang out a minute later. For a moment Gerry bent over the rail of the platform and himself glanced down at the solid bank of green lights on the board.
”Start helicopters!” he ordered.
There was a low humming. The s.h.i.+p began to vibrate gently. From his place in the dome, Gerry could see the _Viking's_ dozen big helicopters begin to spin. Faster and faster they moved as Angus McTavish gave his engines full power. Then the s.h.i.+p rose straight up into the air.
”Here we go, boys--Venus or bust!” Steve Brent muttered under his breath, and a low chuckle swept across the control room.
The lighted surface of the airport fell swiftly away beneath them. The myriad lights of New York were spread out like a jeweled carpet in the night, dwindling and seeming to slide together as the drive of the _Viking's_ powerful motors carried her steadily upward. At the three thousand-foot level they pa.s.sed a traffic balloon with its circle of blue lights, and the signal blinker spelled out a hasty ”Good Luck!”
At the thirty thousand-foot level they pa.s.sed an inbound Oriental & Western liner, bringing the night mail from China. She hung motionless on her helicopters to let the _Viking_ pa.s.s, her siren giving a salute of three long blasts while her pa.s.sengers crowded the decks to cheer the s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p. After another ten thousand feet they were above ordinary traffic lanes. The gla.s.s windows of the control room were beginning to show a film of condensing moisture, and Steve Brent brought the heavy duralite panes up into place.
”Stand by rocket motors!” Gerry commanded. ”Stand by to fold helicopters. Ready? _Contact!_”
There was a m.u.f.fled roar. The _Viking's_ nose tilted sharply upward.
Momentarily the s.p.a.ce-s.h.i.+p trembled like a living thing. Then she shot ahead, while the helicopters dropped down into recesses within the hull and duralite covers slid into place over them. Gerry climbed down from the dome into the main control room. Momentarily he glanced at the huge bra.s.s and steel speed indicators.
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