He was right. The timing had been as bad as possible. The blob of light
on the screen was obviously being buffeted about. Something seemed to
hit the top and jerk it.
The screen went blank, then lighted again. Collins had shifted his
connections, to patch into the signal Control was watching. The blip of
the _Jennilee_ was now dead center, trying to tilt into a normal
synergy curve. "Take it up, damn it!" Murdock swore hotly. This was
no time to swing around the Earth until after the ship was above the
storm. The tape for the automatic pilot should have been cut for a
high first ascension. If Hennings was panicking and overriding it back
to the familiar orbit....
As if the pilot heard him, the blip began rising again. It twisted and
bucked. Something seemed to separate from it. There was a scattering
of tiny white dots on the screen, drifting behind the ship. Murdock
couldn't figure them. Then he forgot them as the first stage let go and
began falling backward from the ship, heading on its great arc toward
the ocean. Recovery would be rough. Now the second stage blasted out.
And finally, the ship was above the storm and could begin to track
toward its goal.
Abruptly the speaker in the corner snapped into life, and Hennings'
voice sounded from it. "_Jennilee_ to Base. Cancel the harps and
haloes! We're in the clear!"
Collins snapped his hand down against a switch, killing the speaker.
"Hotshot!" he said thickly, and yet there was a touch of admiration in
his voice. "Ten years ago, they couldn't build ships to take what he
gave it. So that makes him a tin god on wheels. Got a cigarette, Tommy?"
Murdock handed him the package and picked up the slicker again. He'd
seen enough. The ship should have no further trouble, except for minor
orbital corrections, well within the pilot's ability. For that matter,
while Collins' statement was true enough, Hennings deserved a lot of
the credit. And if he had to boast a little--well, maybe he deserved
credit for the ability to snap back to normal after the pounding his
body and nerves must have taken.
* * * * *
In the recreation hall, some of the pilots were busy exaggerating the
dangers of the take-off for the newsmen, making it sound as if no
parallel feat had been performed in all history. Murdock found a phone
where he had some privacy and put through a call to let Pete and Sheila
know when he'd be back--and that he was returning without a load.
They'd already heard the news, however. He cut the call short and went
out across the soggy field, cursing as his shoes filled with water.
From the auditorium of the school, he could hear the band practicing;
he wondered for a moment whether the drumbeat could make the cadets
feel like heroes as they moved through mud with shoes that squished at
every step. It had no such lifting effect on him.
The parking lot beyond the drill grounds was almost deserted, and
his big truck seemed to huddle into the wind like a lonely old bull
buffalo. He started the turbine and opened the cab heater, kicking off
his sodden shoes. The dampness in the air brought out the smell of
refuse and pigs from the rear, but he was used to it; anyhow, it was
better than the machine-human-chemical stench of the space station.
Driving took most of his attention. The truck showed little wind-sway
and the roads were nearly deserted, but vision was limited and the
windshield kept steaming up, in spite of the silicone coating. He
crawled along, grumbling to himself at the allocation of money for
tourist superhighways at the expense of the back roads.
A little ways beyond the base, he was in farm country. It was totally
unlike the picture of things he'd had originally. He'd expected only
palm trees and citrus groves in Florida, though he'd known vaguely
that it was one of the major cattle-producing states. This part wasn't
exactly like the Iowa section where he'd grown up, but it wasn't so
different, either.
Pete Crane had introduced him to it. At the time, Pete was retiring
after twenty years of service and looking for something to do. He'd
found a small farm twenty miles from Base and had approached Murdock
with the hope of getting the station garbage for food for the hogs
he planned to buy. The contractor who took care of the Base garbage
wouldn't touch the dehydrated, slightly scorched refuse, and disposal
had always been a problem.
They ended up as partners, with permanent rights to all the station
wastes. Pete's sister, Sheila, joined them to keep house for them. It
beat living in hotels and offered the first hope for the future Murdock
had. Unless his application for Moon service was accepted--which seemed
unlikely, since he was already at the age limit of thirty-five--he had
no other plans for his own compulsory twenty-year retirement. The farm
also gave some purpose to his job as garbage collector for the station.
For two years, everything went well. Maybe they grew over-confident
then. They sank everything into new buildings and more livestock. When
the neighboring farm suddenly became available, they used all their
credit in swinging the mortgage, leaving no margin for trouble. And
trouble came when Pete was caught in front of a tractor that somehow
slipped into gear; he was hospitalized for five weeks, and his medical
insurance was only enough for a fraction of the cost. Now, with Hulda
cancelling the critically necessary trip to the station....
* * * * *
The truck bumped over the last half mile and into the farm-yard.
Murdock parked it near the front door and jumped out. He let out a yell
and made a bee-line for the kerosene heater, trying to get his feet
warm on the floor near it. The house was better built than many in
Florida, but that wasn't saying much. Even with the heater going, it
was probably warmer in their new pig sty.
Sheila came through the dining room from the kitchen, spotted his wet
feet, and darted for his bedroom. In a second she was back with dry
clothes. "Change in here where it's warm. I'll have lunch ready in a
couple of minutes," she told him, holding her face up for a kiss.
Sheila wasn't a beautiful woman and apparently didn't care. Murdock's
mother would probably have called her plain good looks "wholesome," and
referred to her slightly overweight body as "healthy." He only knew
that she looked good to him, enough shorter to be comfortable, eyes
pleasantly blue, and hair some shade of brown that seemed to fit her.
He pulled her to him snugly, but she wriggled away after a brief kiss.
"Pete's in town, trying to get help. He'll be back any minute," she
warned him.
He grinned and let her go. They'd gone through the romantic binge of
discovering each other long enough ago to be comfortable with each
other now, except for the occasional arguments when she didn't want to
wait. Mostly, though, she had accepted their agreement. In eight more
months he'd be thirty-six and too old for assignment on the Moon; if
he didn't make that, they'd get married. But he had no intention of
leaving her tied to him if he did leave, since the chance of taking her
along was almost nil. Pete had backed him up on his decision, too.
He slipped into coveralls and dry boots and went out to the dining
room, where a hot meal was waiting. At least their credit was good
at the local grocery between paydays. He filled her in on what
had happened while they ate. At the hour mark, he switched on the
television to the news. It was filled with the station emergency and
rescue, of course. Most of it seemed to be devoted to pictures of
Hennings entering the ship and a highly colored account of the flight.
But at least he learned that the flight had been completed. It made
good publicity for the service. A sound track of a band playing the
_Heroes' March_ had been spliced into the movies. Maybe that was
good publicity, too. He had to admit that Hennings fitted the music
better than he could have done.
For a moment, the racket of the wind outside died, and another sound
reached his ears. The hogs knew it was past feeding time and were
kicking up a fuss. Murdock grimaced. He shoved away from the table,
feeling almost guilty at having stuffed himself, and dug rain clothes
out of the back closet. He hated going out in the weather again, but
the animals had to be pacified.
They heard him coming and set up more of a racket. He bent against the
wind and made a dash for it, getting his feet wet again in a puddle.
But the inside of the building was warmer than the house, as he had
expected. He lifted the cover of the mash cooker and began ladling out
the food into the troughs. His pail was scraping the bottom of the
cooker, while the sleek Poland China hogs fought and shoved toward
the spot where he was emptying it. They'd been on half rations since
yesterday, and they were obviously hungry.
He stopped when he had used half of what was in the cooker and headed
for the next building. On the way, he paused for a futile look in the
big storage shed, but he knew the answer. Pete had used the last bag
of grain in cooking the day's food. They'd exhausted the last of the
waste from the station earlier and had to fall back on the precious
commercial feed usually only used as a supplement. Damn Greta and
double damn Hulda! If the weekly predictions had been right, he could
have wangled clearance for a flight ahead of schedule, before the
storms, and they wouldn't be in this mess.
It was worse in the brooder house. The sows seemed to know that milk
for their sucklings depended on their feeding. They received a somewhat
larger portion, but it disappeared from the troughs as he watched.
The animals fought for the last scraps and then began rushing about
looking for more. They were smart enough to know he was the source of
it, and they stared at him, expressing their demands in eloquent hog
language. They weren't like other animals. Cows were too stupid to
realize they'd been gypped, sheep were always yelling even when things
went well. But hogs could pretty nearly swear in English when they felt
robbed, as these did. Even the sucklings were squealing unhappily in
sympathy with their mothers.
* * * * *
Murdock heard the door open behind him and turned to see Pete coming
in, drenched to the skin. He looked worn out, and his back was still
stiff from the accident, though he'd made a fine recovery. "Hi, Tom.
Sis told me what happened at the field. Good thing, too. This stuff's
no good for flights. How long till it clears?"
"Five days!" Murdock told him, and saw the older man flinch. The hogs
might not starve to death in that time, but they'd suffer, as well as
losing weight that would be hard to put back. He had no idea of how it
would affect the milk supply for the little pigs, and he didn't want to
guess.
They left the squealing hogs and slogged back to the house to change
before Pete would report on his luck in town. It seemed to be all bad.
They could get a loan against the mature hogs or they could sell some,
but with the week-end coming up they would have to wait for money until
they would no longer need it. Their credit at the only feed and grain
store was used up.
Murdock frowned at that. "You mean Barr wouldn't let us have enough to
carry us over in an emergency like this? After all our business with
him?"
"Barr's gone north on some business," Pete reported. "His
brother-in-law's running things. Claims he can't take the
responsibility. Offered to lend me twenty bucks himself if I needed it,
but no credit from the store. And he can't locate Barr. Darn it, if I
hadn't had to get in front of that tractor--"
"If!" Sheila snorted. "If I hadn't insisted you two pay the hospital in
full, or if I hadn't splurged on spring clothes.... How much can we get
for my car?"
Pete shrugged. "About half enough, but not till maybe Tuesday or
Wednesday, after title transfer. I already asked at Circle Chevy. How
about getting the weather reports, Sheila? With our luck, the center of
Hulda might pass right here!"
There seemed no immediate danger of that, though. Hulda was following
Greta, due to swing out to sea, and they'd miss the worst of her.
Anyhow, Murdock knew that Bill Collins would call them if the farm
was in danger. But with predictions gone sour from the station, they
couldn't be sure. The new buildings were supposed to be hurricane
proof, but....
They spent the afternoon trying to play canasta and listening to the
rain and wind, until Pete slapped the cards back in the drawer in
disgust. They ate early, dawdling over the food to kill time. Finally,
the two men went out reluctantly. This time they scraped the bottom of
the cookers dry. There was no sense in trying to spread the little food
further and thinner.
How would a hero feel when a hog looked at him with hungry eyes? Or
would the band playing destiny in his head drown out the frantic
squealing of the animals? Murdock sighed and turned sickly back toward
the house, with Pete at his heels.
Sheila met them at the door, motioning for silence and pointing to the
television set. More news was finally coming through on the rescue
flight by Hennings. And there was a picture on the screen showing the
little third-stage rocket as seen from the station. It was obvious
without the announcer's comment that the wings had been nearly
wrenched from it and that it was in no condition for the return flight.
Murdock's respect for Hennings' courage went up another notch. After a
buffeting like that, it was a wonder he'd been able to make the effort
of speaking to Base at all.
Then the rest of the news began to penetrate, and even the carefully
chosen words couldn't make it sound too good. "... loss of filters when
the airlock was sprung open on take-off was considerable, but it is
believed that the replacements will be adequate until another flight
can be made. Dr. Shapiro on the station reports that the men seem to be
bearing up well, except for the two children. Plans are being made to
isolate them in a special room, with extra filtration...."
Commander Phillips' kids, Murdock thought. The man had no business
keeping them up there, anyhow. But the business about the sprung
airlock....
Then he remembered the smaller blips on the radar screen that had
separated from the _Jennilee_, before the first stage broke away.
He frowned, trying to figure things more carefully. Just a few filters
couldn't have made that much trace on the radar! But with the hasty
packing, as he'd seen it, and the ship beginning to turn so the airlock
was down, enough could have spilled to account for the trace--nearly
the whole cargo, in fact!
He started for the phone, then shook his head. This would be better in
person. He grabbed for the zipper on his coveralls and headed for his
bedroom, while Pete frowned in slow comprehension.
"Tom, you can't do it!"
"I can try," he called back. "Warm up the truck, Sheila."
The zipper stuck. He swore at it, then forgot it. He wasn't dressing
for parade drill. He dragged on his uniform cap, slipped into boots
that might give some protection from the mud on the field, and stuffed
his necessary papers and cards into the pockets of the coveralls.
The service slicker was dry now, and he used it to hide most of his
appearance.
"Any word of another flight planned?" he called out. It would be a
sorry mess to reach the field just as some young pilot was taking off,
ending any chance he had.
"None." Pete had the door open, and one of his big hands slapped
against Murdock's shoulder. "Luck, you idiot!"