_He held the future of the world
in his numbed hands. And from 22,500
miles out, he made the gamble._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories February 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Tom woke slowly, his mind groping back through the hypnosis. He found
himself looking toward the observation port, staring at stars and
blackness.
_The first man in space_, he thought bitterly.
He unstrapped himself from the acceleration seat, feeling a little
wobbly in free fall.
_The hypnotic trance idea worked, all right._
The last thing Tom remembered was Arnoldsson putting him under, here
in the rocket's compartment, the old man's sad soft eyes and quiet
voice. Now 22,500 miles out, Tom was alone except for what Arnoldsson
had planted in his mind for post-hypnotic suggestion to recall. The
hypnosis had helped him pull through the blastoff unhurt and even
protected him against the vertigo of weightlessness.
_Yeah, it's a wonderful world_, Tom muttered acidly.
He got up from the seat cautiously, testing his coordination against
zero gravity. His magnetic boots held to the deck satisfactorily.
He was lean and wiry, in his early forties, with a sharp angular face
and dark, somber eyes. His hair had gone dead white years ago. He was
encased up to his neck in a semi-flexible space suit; they had squirmed
him into it Earth-side because there was no room in the cramped cabin
to put it on.
Tom glanced at the tiers of instrument consoles surrounding his
seat--no blinking red lights, everything operating normally. _As if I
could do anything about it if they went wrong._ Then he leaned toward
the observation port, straining for a glimpse of the satellite.
The satellite.
Five sealed packages floating within a three-hundred foot radius of
emptiness, circling the Earth like a cluster of moonlets. Five pieces
sent up in five robot rockets and placed in the same orbit, to wait for
a human intelligence to assemble them into a power-beaming satellite.
Five pieces orbiting Earth for almost eighteen years; waiting for
nearly eighteen years while down below men blasted themselves and their
cities and their machines into atoms and forgot the satellite endlessly
circling, waiting for its creators to breathe life into it.
_The hope of the world_, Tom thought. _And little Tommy Morris is
supposed to make it work ... and then fly home again._ He pushed
himself back into the seat. _Jason picked the wrong man._
* * * * *
"Tom! Tom, can you hear me?"
He turned away from the port and flicked a switch on the radio console.
"Hello Ruth. I can hear you."
A hubbub of excitement crackled through the radio receiver, then the
girl's voice: "Are you all right? Is everything...."
"Everything's fine," Tom said flatly. He could picture the scene back
at the station--dozens of people clustered around the jury-rigged
radio, Ruth working the controls, trying hard to stay calm when it was
impossible to, brushing back that permanently displaced wisp of brown
hair that stubbornly fell over her forehead.
"Jason will be here in a minute," she said. "He's in the tracking
shack, helping to calculate your orbit."
* * * * *
_Of course Jason will be here_, Tom thought. Aloud he said, "He needn't
bother. I can see the satellite packages; they're only a couple of
hundred yards from the ship."
Even through the radio he could sense the stir that went through them.
_Don't get your hopes up_, he warned silently. _Remember, I'm no
engineer. Engineers are too valuable to risk on this job. I'm just
a tool, a mindless screwdriver sent here to assemble this glorified
tinkertoy. I'm the muscle, Arnoldsson is the nerve link, and Jason is
the brain._
Abruptly, Jason's voice surged through the radio speaker, "We did it,
Tom! We did it!"
_No_, Tom thought, _you did it, Jason. This is all your show._
"You should be able to see the satellite components," Jason said. His
voice was excited yet controlled, and his comment had a ring of command
in it.
"I've already looked," Tom answered. "I can see them."
"Are they damaged?"
"Not as far as I can see. Of course, from this distance...."
"Yes, of course," Jason said. "You'd better get right outside and start
working on them. You've only got forty-eight hours worth of oxygen."
"Don't worry about me," Tom said into the radio. "Just remember your
end of the bargain."
"You'd better forget that until you get back here."
"I'm not forgetting anything."
"I mean you must concentrate on what you're doing up there if you
expect to get back alive."
"When I get back we're going to explore the bombed-out cities. You
promised that. It's the only reason I agreed to this."
Jason's voice stiffened. "My memory is quite as good as yours. We'll
discuss the expedition after you return. Now you're using up valuable
time ... and oxygen."
"Okay. I'm going outside."
Ruth's voice came back on: "Tom, remember to keep the ship's radio
open, or else your suit radio won't be able to reach us. And we're all
here ... Dr. Arnoldsson, Jason, the engineers ... if anything comes up,
we'll be right here to help you."
* * * * *