Scott shrugged. Palmer was a little drunk and very bitter. He'd watched
them go too long. His nerves were wearing out.
* * * * *
Stars shone like hard, bright jewels in the African sky. A sharp
wind blew over the summit of Mt. Kenya, a wind that whined among the
ice-bound rocks and bit deep into the flesh. Far below blazed the
lights of the base camp, hundreds of feet down the slope from the main
rocket camp here atop the mountain set squarely on the Earth's equator.
The rasping voice of a radio newscaster came from the open door of the
machine shop.
"New York," shrieked the announcer. "Austin Gordon, famous African
explorer, announced this afternoon he will leave soon for the Congo
valley, where he will investigate reports of a strange metallic city
deep in the interior. Natives, bringing reports of the discovery out of
the jungle, claim the city is inhabited by strange metallic insects."
Someone slammed the door and the voice was cut off.
Scott hunched into the wind to light a cigarette.
"The explorers are going crazy, too," he said.
Probably, later on in the program the announcer would have mentioned
Scott Nixon and Jack Riley would blast off in a few minutes in another
attempt to reach Mars. But it would be well along in the program and it
wouldn't take much time. Ten years ago Mars had been big news. Today it
rated small heads in the press, slight mention on the air.
But the newscaster would have been wrong about Jack Riley. Jack Riley
lay in the base camp hospital with an attack of ptomaine. Only an hour
before Jack had clasped Scott's hand and grinned at him and wished him
luck.
He needed luck. For in this business a man didn't have even an inside
chance.
* * * * *
Scott walked toward the tilted rocket. He could hear the crunch of
Alexander's feet as the man moved with him.
"It won't be new to you," Alexander was saying, "you've been to the
Moon before."
Yes, he had been to the Moon three times and he was still alive. But,
then, he had been lucky. Your luck just simply didn't hold forever.
There was too much to gamble on in space. Fuel, for one thing. Men had
experimented with fuel for ten years now and still the only thing they
had was a combination of liquid oxygen and gasoline. They had tried
liquid hydrogen but that had proved too cold, too difficult to confine,
treacherous to handle, too bulky because of its low density. Liquid
oxygen could be put under pressure, condensed into little space. It was
safe to handle, safe until it combined with gasoline and then it was
sheer death to anything that got within its reach.
Of course, there had been some improvements. Better handling of the
fuel, for instance. Combustion chambers stood up better now because
they were designed better. Feed lines didn't freeze so readily now
as when the first coffins took to space. Rocket motors were more
efficient, but still cranky.
But there were other things. Meteors, for one, and you couldn't do
much about them. Not until someone designed a screen, and no one had.
Radiations were another. Space was full of radiations and, despite the
insulating jacket of ozone some of them seeped through.
Scott climbed through the rocket valve and turned to close it. He
hesitated for a moment, drinking in the smell and sight of Earth. There
wasn't much that one could see. The anxious face of Alexander, the
huddled shadows that were watching men, the twinkling base camp lights.
With a curse at his own weakness, Scott slammed the valve lock, twirled
it home.
Fitting himself into the shock absorbent chair, he fastened the straps
that held him. His right foot reached out and found the trip that would
fire the rockets. Then he lifted his wrist in front of his eyes and
watched the second hand of the watch.
Ten seconds. Eight. Now five. The hand was creeping up, ticking off
the time. It rested on the zero mark and he slammed down his foot.
Cruel weight smashed down upon him, driving his body back into the
padded chair. His lungs were flattened, the air driven from them. His
heart thumped. Nausea seized him, and black mists swam before his
eyes. He seemed to be slipping into a midnight chasm and he cried out
weakly. His body went limp, sagging in the chair. Twin streams of blood
trickled from his nose and down his lip.
He was far out in space when he struggled back to consciousness. For
a time he did not stir. Lying in the chair, it took long minutes to
realize where he was. Gradually his brain cleared and his eyes focused
and made impressions on his senses. Slowly he became aware of the
lighted instrument board, of the rectangle of quartz that formed the
vision panel. His ears registered the silence that steeped the ship,
the weird, deathly silence of outer space.
Weakly he stirred and sat upright, his eyes automatically studying
the panel. The fuel pressure was all right, atmospheric pressure was
holding, speed was satisfactory.
He leaned back in the chair and waited, resting, storing his strength.
Automatically his hand reached up and wiped the blood from his lips and
chin.