The big multi-tube affair into which the station had grown looked
normal enough in the sunlight. But the men who came out in the little
space ferry showed the hell of slow poisoning they'd been through,
even over their jubilation at the sight of the filters. When they made
seal-to-seal contact and he released the lock, the smell of their air
was positively foul. They must have been reporting their plight as a
lot better than it really was.
Commander Phillips came through first, almost crying as he grabbed
Murdock's hand. He seemed at a complete loss for words.
"Hello, Red," Murdock greeted him. Phillips had been part of his own
class, fifteen years before. "How are the kids?"
"Shapiro says they'll be okay, once we get some filters that aren't
plated with contaminants. Tommy, I'd invite you over for champagne
right now, but our air would ruin it. Just figure that anything I've
got...."
Murdock cut him off. "I'll call it quits if you'll get this cargo out
and my usual load in here on the double, along with some fuel. And
you might have one of your engineers look over my wings for signs of
strain. I've got to ride the next orbit back, two hours from now."
"Go back into that! You're crazy!" Phillips' shock drove everything
else from the man's face. "You can't do it! I won't clear you!"
"I thought you were just offering me anything you had," Murdock pointed
out.
It took five minutes more of heavy arguing to arrange it, and he might
not have succeeded even then if he'd waited until the commander had
recovered from his first burst of gratitude, or if the man hadn't been
worn down by the poisons in the air and the fatigue of their desperate
fight for survival. Phillips was hoarse and sick when he finally gave
in and stumbled back to the loaded ferry. He croaked something about
idiocy and grateful humanity and took off. Murdock tried, idly, to
untangle it in his mind, but at the moment he was again more concerned
with hungry pigs.
It was too busy a stretch for him to have time to worry. The square
magnesium cans of dehydrated garbage began to come out, along with
fuel. Sick men were somehow driving themselves to a final burst of
energy as they stowed things carefully to preserve the trim of the
ship. From outside, there was a steady tapping and hammering as others
went over the skin of the controls with their instruments.
At the end, there was another visit from Phillips, with more arguing.
But finally the man gave in again. "All right, damn it. Maybe you can
make it. I certainly hope so. But you're not going it alone. You'll
take Hennings along as co-pilot. He volunteered."
"Send him over, then," Murdock said wearily. He should have expected
something like that. Hennings apparently reacted to the smell of glory
like a warhorse to gunpowder.
He took a final look at the cargo, nodding in satisfaction. There was
enough waste there to keep the farm going until they were over the
hump. If Barr got back and they could enrich it with commercial food
on temporary credit, Pete and he would be in clover. He pulled himself
about and up to the control cabin, to see the ferry coming out on its
last trip.
A minute later, Hennings came through the connecting seal and dogged it
closed. "Hi, Tommy," he called out. "Ah, air again. How about letting
me run her down for you? You look beat."
"The automatic pilot's disconnected," Murdock told him curtly. It had
begun misfunctioning some twenty trips back, and he'd simply cut it
out of the circuits, since he seldom used it.
Some of the starch seemed to run out of the younger man. He halted his
march toward the controls and stared down at them doubtfully. Actually,
little automatic piloting could be done on the down leg of a flight,
but pilots were conditioned into thinking of the automatics almost
reverently, ahead of anything else on the ship. It dated from the days
when the ascension would have been physically impossible without such
aid, and Murdock had felt the same for the first five years of piloting.
"Better strap in," he suggested.
Hennings dropped into the co-pilot couch while Murdock ran through the
final check. The ship began swinging slowly about as the gyroscopes
hummed, lining up for the return blast. "Ten seconds," Murdock
announced. He ran a count in his head, then hit the blast lever gently.
They began losing speed and dropping back toward Earth, while the
station sailed on and away.
Then, with power off, there was nothing to do but stare at what was
coming. It would still be night at Base, and even the sodium flares
and radar beacons wouldn't be as much help as they should be in the
storm. This time, they'd have to depend on lift, like a normal plane
landing. It would be tough for any plane, for that matter, though
possible enough in fully powered flight. But they had to come down like
a glider. If there were any undetected strains in the wings....
"You came up _without_ a tape?" Hennings asked suddenly.
Murdock grimaced, resenting the interruption to his brooding. He liked
Hennings better as a cocky hero than as a worried young man. "A tape's
no good for unpredictable conditions."
"Okay, if you say so," the younger man said doubtfully at last.
He sat staring at the controls with an odd look on his face. Then
surprisingly, he laughed and settled back loosely in his seat. "I guess
maybe you don't need me, then."
He was snoring five minutes later. Murdock scowled at him, suspecting
it was an act at first. Finally he shrugged and turned back to his
worrying. He knew there'd been a good measure of luck to his take-off,
in spite of all his careful efforts. He couldn't count on luck for the
landing.
* * * * *
He could still put in an emergency call and ask to land at some large
airfield out of the storm, in theory. But it would do no good. Hulda
was blanketing too great an area; any other field would be so far from
the farm that trucking the garbage back would be out of the question.
He might as well have remained at the station. Besides, he was already
on a braking orbit that would bring him near Base, and changes now
would involve risks of their own.
He watched the thin haze of the upper atmospheric levels approach,
trying to force his muscles to relax and his nerves to steady. The
worst part of the return was the chance for nervousness to build up.
Hennings went on snoring quietly, floating in the co-pilot's couch. His
relaxation didn't help Murdock any.
It was almost a relief when they finally hit the first layers of
detectable air, where the controls became effective again, and where
he could take over. The ship had to be guided steadily now, its dip
into atmosphere coördinated with its speed to avoid the dangers of
skipping out or of going low enough to overheat. Murdock eased her
down, watching his instruments but depending more on the feel of the
_Mollyann_. A feeling of weight began to return along with noise
from outside, while the hull pyrometer rose to indicate that friction
was working on them, turning their speed into heat. This part of the
descent was almost a conditioned reflex to him by now. Outside, he
knew, the skin of the ship would be rising slowly to red heat, until
they could lose enough speed to drop into the lower layers of air where
they could cool off.
The heat in the cabin rose slowly. The _Mollyann_ was an old model
among the ships; her cabin was less completely insulated and airtight
than most of the others. But for the brief period of high heat, she was
safe enough. Slowly the air picked up a faint odor, that grew stronger
as the hot hull radiated into the cargo space. He hardly noticed it,
until Hennings woke up sniffing.
"Garbage," Murdock told him. "There's still enough water in it to boil
off some. You get used to it."
They were dropping to denser air now, and he could feel perspiration on
his palms. He dried them hastily. His head felt thick, and his stomach
began to knot inside him. "Contact Control and have them shoot me the
weather," he told Hennings.
When the pattern of it snapped onto the screen, he felt sicker. There
was going to be no area of relative calm this time, and he couldn't
wait for one to appear. He tried to get the weather pattern fixed in
his mind while their descent flattened and they came closer to the
storm area. He'd have to turn and follow the course set by the wind,
heading into it; it meant coming down on a twisting curve, since there
was some local disturbance near the field.
Then the first bumpiness registered. The ship seemed to sink and
skid. There was no pressure of acceleration now, but his fingers
felt weighted with lead, almost too slow to adjust the controls. The
_Mollyann_ dipped and tilted, and his stomach came up in his
throat. He heard Hennings gasp, but he had no time to look at the
other. The top of the storm was a boiling riot of pockets.
Things were getting worse by the second now. The last few miles were
going to be hell. Lift wasn't steady, and eddies in the driving storm
shook and twisted the ship. Her wing-loading wasn't bad, but she lacked
the self-correcting design of the light planes he'd flown. The wings
groaned and strained, and the controls seemed frozen. He was on the
weather map now, a white blip that scudded along the edge. It gave him
orientation, but the sight of his course offered little reassurance.
They hit a larger pocket and seemed to drop a hundred feet. The wings
creaked sickeningly, and something whined from the rear controls. The
elevators abruptly bucked back at him, catching him unaware, and he
had to brace himself and fight against them, putting his muscles into
it. Obviously, the servo assist had conked out. Probably something
had happened during take-off. He was left with only his own strength
to buck the currents now, operating on the mechanical cable. If that
couldn't hold...!
He was sweating as he fought the buffeting. In spite of his best
efforts, they were pitching more now. Another violent swoop came, and
was followed by a thump and scraping from the cargo section. The ship
lost trim. Some of the cans had come loose from their fastenings and
were skidding about!
* * * * *
He saw Hennings jerk from his couch and fight his way to the hatch. He
yelled angrily, knowing the fool could get killed by something grinding
into him down there. Then he had no time to worry as the heavy odor
told him the boy had already gone through the hatch. He fought to hold
the ship steady, but there was no predicting its behavior. His muscles
were overworked and unable to handle the controls as smoothly as they
should. Now the field was only a few miles away, and he had to buck
and twist his way through the wind to arrive within the limits of the
landing strip. To make things worse, the wind velocity must have been
higher than he had estimated, and he had lost more speed than he could
afford. It was going to be close, if he made it at all.
Then the ship began steadying as he could feel the trim restored. He
had only time for a single sigh of relief before Hennings was up,
dripping with sweat and garbage odor as he groped his way back to
the couch. Murdock tried to call his thanks, knowing the courage it
had taken to risk the cargo hold. But Hennings' whole attention was
focussed sickly on the weather map.
The field was coming at them, but not soon enough. Too much speed had
been lost to the wind resistance. Murdock tried to flatten the glide,
but gave up at once. They were already as near a stall as he dared risk
in this stuff, and they'd still miss the field by a mile! They'd land
and go crashing into trees, rocks and maybe even houses down there!
Murdock swore and grabbed for the blast lever. There was no time to
warm up properly, but he had to have more speed.
He heard Hennings' voice yell a single shocked word before his hand
moved the lever. Behind them, sound roared out for a split second and
the ship lurched forward. Power such as that wasn't meant for minor
corrections in speed, and there was no way to meter it out properly,
yet it was the only possible answer. He cut the blast, then threw it
on again for a split second. Then he had to snap his hand back to the
elevator controls, fighting against them to regain stability.
He couldn't risk more speed. If they undershot, they were lost. And
if their speed were too high, there would be no second chance to try
a landing. They couldn't turn and circle in the storm. They were only
getting through by heading straight into the wind, jockeying to avoid
cross currents. Beyond the field was the ocean, and these modern ships
weren't designed for water landings--particularly in the seas they'd
find running now.
A glint of yellow caught his eye. The field markers! And he was too
high. He threw his weight against the sloppy controls and felt the ship
beginning to go down. He'd picked up too much speed in the brief burst
of power, but he had to land somehow at once.
He could make out some of the flares now, and he had to aim between
them. He kicked out the landing wheels and fought her down savagely. He
was already past the near edge of the field. Too far!
Suddenly the wheels hit. The ship bounced as the wind caught it from
below and began slewing it around. Then it hit again, while he fought
with brakes and controls to right it. It staggered, skidded, and went
tearing down the runway. Ahead of them, the crash fence loomed up in
the yellow light. Ten feet--another ten--
Murdock felt the ship hit and bounce. He was just feeling his relief
that their speed was too low to crash through when his head struck
against the control panel, and his mind exploded in a shower of hot
sparks that slowly turned black.
* * * * *
He had a vague period of semi-consciousness after that when he realized
Hennings was carrying him out of the ship, with rain pelting on him
and the sound of the gale in his ears. Something bright went off, and
he had a vision of the photo they must have taken: Hennings carrying
a body from the _Mollyann_--Hennings, immune to all accidents,
standing poised and braced against the storm, marching straight toward
the photographers, smiling....
There was another vague period when he seemed to hear the voices of
Sheila and Bailey. The prick of a needle....
He swam up from a cloud of dark fuzz at last. There was a dull ache
in his head and a bump on his scalp. The light hurt his eyes when he
opened them, and he clamped them shut again, but not before he saw
he was on a couch in the recreation hall. At least that must mean no
concussion; it had been just an ordinary bump, on top of the strain and
nervous fatigue.
From outside, there was a confused mixture of sounds and a hammering
that seemed to be against the building. He started to pull himself
up to look for the cause, but it was too much effort for the moment.
He started to drift off into a half doze, until he heard steps, and
Hennings' voice.
"... absolutely magnificent, Miss Crane! I'll never forget it. He
didn't even try to kid around to keep his spirits up. He just sat there
without a sign of worry, as if he was doing a regular milk run. He
didn't bat an eyelash when he had to decide to use power. So help me,
he was like one of the heroes out of the kids' serials I used to watch.
And that lousy reporter writing that _I_ brought the ship down. If
I find him--"
"Forget it, Larry," Sheila's voice said quietly.
"I won't forget it! It was bad enough they cut him down to a quarter
column on the take-off and had to call it a lull in the storm! But this
time I'm going to see they print the facts!"
"That should give them another column on how you're modestly trying to
give credit to someone else," Sheila answered quietly. "Let them print
what they want. It won't change the facts that we all know. And Tom
won't mind too much. He's used to the way things are."
Murdock opened his eyes again and sat up, cutting off their
conversation. He still felt groggy, but after a second his vision
cleared. He smiled at Sheila and pulled her down beside him.
"She's right, Hennings. Let them print what they like. It's good
publicity for the service the way they probably have it. Besides, you
did your share." He reached out a hand for the younger man's arm,
conscious that he couldn't even do that with the right flourish. "It
took guts, trimming the cargo when you did. I meant to thank you for
that."
Hennings muttered something awkwardly, and then straightened into his
old self as he marched out the door to leave them alone. Sheila smiled
after him with a mixture of fondness and amusement.
"What happened to the _Mollyann_ and her cargo? And how's the farm
making out?" Murdock asked her a moment later.
"The farm's safe enough, from the latest reports," she told him. "And
the ship's a little banged up, but nothing serious. General Bailey
sent the cadets out to load the cargo into our truck. He said a little
garbage smell should be good for them." She smiled again, then glanced
at her watch. "He should be back now, for that matter."
Murdock grinned wryly. It was a shame the hogs would never know the
attention their food was getting. It must have been something to see
the cadets practicing being heroes while unloading the smelly cans. He
glanced out the window, but the storm was still too thick for clear
vision. Someone scurried past, just outside, and there was more banging
and a flurry of activity beyond the door, but apparently it had nothing
to do with Bailey's return.
It was five minutes more before the general came in, walking over
to stare at Murdock. "Your truck's outside, Tom. And don't bring it
through the gates again until you're wearing a proper uniform!" He
chuckled. "With eagles on the collar. I've been trying to wrangle them
for you a long time now. Congratulations, Colonel! You earned them!"
Murdock pulled Sheila closer as he accepted Bailey's hand, feeling,
the strength of her against him. There were other strengths, too--the
words he'd heard Hennings saying, the recognition and security the new
rank offered, the awareness that he hadn't failed his job. But he still
found himself awkward and unable to rise to the occasion. He didn't
try, but silently let Bailey guide them toward the door.
Then he turned. "There's one other thing. That application for Moon
service--"
He felt Sheila stiffen briefly and relax against him again, but his
words brought the general to a complete standstill.
Bailey's head nodded, reluctantly. "All right," he said at last. "I
hate to let you go, Tom, but I'll put it through with a recommendation."
"Don't!" Murdock told him. "Tear it up! I've got a lot of hogs
depending on the garbage run."
He threw the door open and saw the loaded truck waiting outside. He
started toward it, drawing Sheila with him. Then he stopped, his mouth
open in surprise, seeing what had caused all the banging he had heard.
There was a wide, clumsy plywood canopy built over the doorway now,
running out to the truck. Lined up under it were all the pilots, with
Hennings at the front, moving forward to open the door of the truck
with a flourish. Precisely as Murdock's foot touched the ground, the
band struck up the notes of _Heroes' March_.
Feeling like a fool, Murdock stumbled forward, awkwardly helping Sheila
in and getting into the driver's seat, while fifty pairs of eyes
remained zeroed in on him. Hennings shut the door with another flourish
and stepped back into the ranks.
And suddenly Murdock knew what to do. He leaned from the window of the
truck as Sheila settled into position beside him. He grinned at the
pilots, raised his hand, placed his thumb against his nose and wriggled
his fingers at them.
Hennings' face split into a wide grin and his arm lifted in the same
salute, with fifty others following him in the gesture by a split
second.
Murdock rolled up the window, and the big trick began moving across the
field, heading toward home and the hogs.
Behind him, the band played on, but he wasn't listening.