Mel Cramer stared at him. "This isn't a Japanese kamikaze pilot you're
talking to! This is Mel Cramer. I was an ace as a kid in Korea, and
nobody ever accused me of being yellow, but I didn't sign up for _this_
job to commit suicide. That isn't the way we do it. That's why I'm
carrying rockets instead of a warhead full of tetryl. And it's why
we win wars; we don't sacrifice the men we've got; we give 'em every
chance."
Walter Stanton said: "It's not my prerogative to ask you to sacrifice
yourself. It's just that.... This project...."
"Everybody on this project is a volunteer."
"It isn't _us_; it's the Platform."
"Everybody on the Platform is a volunteer," Mel Cramer repeated
doggedly. "Everyone knew the chances he was taking. And there isn't a
one of them who loves his wife and kid anymore than I do."
Through the sickness of his disappointment, Walter Stanton forced a
grin. "OK, Mel. My love to Marge when you get to Sandia; and tell
Lynne ... tell her...."
"I'll tell her you'll be back on Cargo One by tomorrow," Mel Cramer
said. "If," he added softly, "I make it to Sandia Base, and if Sandia
Base is still there...."
Cramer glanced through the port at the mechanic waiting to help him
into the tiny fighter, shivered a little, snapped on his helmet and
stepped out to the catwalk. Walter Stanton watched through the port
as the huge air-lock opened and Mel Cramer eased the _Mistress_ out.
She nestled next to the Platform like a small, angry wasp near a hive,
power off, waiting for intercept data from Goldstein in Control. Walter
Stanton felt a chill race up his back. He started up the ladder.
* * * * *
Goldstein had flicked on the remote telescreen and was watching it,
with one eye on the PPI scope. The screen came to life, and Walter
Stanton saw a clear picture of Space One as Mel Cramer pointed the
_Mistress_ at the platform to aid in focussing.
"OK, Colonel," Goldstein said. "Screen controls locked."
"Screen controls locked," Mel Cramer's voice repeated. The image of
Space One disappeared from the screen as the _Mistress_ swung to the
East, paralleling the motion of the platform in space, ready to add its
speed to that of the artificial satellite. "Heading zero-nine-zero,"
said Cramer. "Ready to launch."
"Blast for ten seconds," said Goldstein, "and stand by for intercept
information."
"Blasting." Cramer's voice seemed strained. Then: "Power off! Swinging!"
Walter Stanton stared at the telescreen, a duplicate of Mel's screen,
and the very eyes of the _Mistress_, since her windshield would be
covered against the sandblasting meteoric dust until the last seconds
of the firing run. The time seemed to press on the back of his neck,
and he felt his head ache with the strain. The ventilators moaned.
Goldstein spoke suddenly.
"Missile eight hundred miles earthward, rate of closure 480 knots,
twelve o'clock from you." His voice rose slightly. "Have you got it,
Colonel? Is it on your screen?"
There was an aching void of silence, then "Affirm! I have it.
Commencing first pass!"
Walter Stanton became suddenly aware that Radar Control was crowded. He
heard Peters' voice: "How many runs can he make?"
"Two runs; he'll fire two proximity rockets per pass. They ought to
track the missile."
"Yeah," said Lang dryly. "It's all doped out. This science is
wonderful...."
Walter Stanton jumped as an image of the missile appeared on the
telescreen. From a tiny flash it grew quickly more bright until it was
a circle on the screen. "Locked!" grated Cramer's voice. "Firing!"
Two streaks appeared at the bottom of the screen and darted for the
circle. Walter Stanton heard a gasp of relief in the compartment as
they sped true, straight for the center. Then, amazingly, the streaks
wobbled erratically and streaked away. The circle of light moved slowly
downward off the screen as Mel Cramer pulled up.
"Missed," breathed Goldstein. "Brother...."
Mel Cramer's voice cut into the silence. It was strained and uncertain.
"I think it's jamming my control heads.... Putting out strips, maybe.
I'm making another pass."
"Thanks, Colonel," whispered Lang from the plotting board. "This is
what Uncle pays you for.... Let's earn it...."
For an eternity they waited, and again the circles appeared in the
center of the screen. "Locked," Mel Cramer said. Closer and closer
moved the light, and for a moment Walter Stanton had a wild burst of
hope. The target seemed too close to miss; the two rockets streaked for
it, reaching hungrily. Then they wobbled again and disappeared from the
screen as Mel Cramer pulled up. There was a chilling silence in the
room.
"Well," said Goldstein, "that does it. We've got ... let's see ... 176
seconds, if anyone cares to know."
Mel Cramer's voice came into the room as if from the grave. "It.... It
was jamming ... I was right on!"
"Excuses, Colonel," muttered Lang. "Always excuses...."
Goldstein talked into the mike. "Colonel, I suggest you commence your
braking ellipse immediately. I don't know what effect the explosion
will have in this orbit, but I think you'd better leave it."
Walter Stanton turned desperately to Goldstein. "Goldie, is it certain?
We've _got_ to save the platform! Suppose I use full reactors, shorten
our orbit even faster?"
"It won't matter, sir." He jammed his thumb at the PPI scope. "That
thing's tailing us like a flying cadet after a WAF. It'd follow us all
the way back to Sandia if we could get there."
Walter Stanton felt the Platform, his dream, pulsing around him. For
a moment he felt an affection even for the maddening wail of the
ventilators. Behind him, he knew, were some of the best brains in
science; men whose concepts cut across the lines of nationalism; who by
their presence on the Platform showed that they disregarded the very
instinct of self-preservation in the search for Truth. And he felt the
presence too of the thousands below who had helped make the Platform
a reality. He took a deep breath. Then he picked up the microphone and
spoke to his friend.
"Mel, this is Walt. I've just received a dispatch. Do not--repeat--do
_not_ land at Sandia. Suggest you try to use White Sands."