The Unyielding Ground
Prince Machiavelli began to cry. He let Rick know he didn't like the
heat in a series of sobbing yelps.
Rick glanced up, surprised at the sudden noise, and flashed his light on
the monk. The little animal was suffering from the heat, the fur of his
head matted and his eyes staring. Dangling from his little chest was the
stethoscope Rick had ripped away to get the tape.
Rick stared at it. If only ...
He fought his body's tendency to fly to the top of the rocket and got a
firm grip with one leg around the channel under the spacemonk, then he
took the stethoscope bell and began to tap in Morse code:
T-A-K-E C-O-N-T-R-O-L T-A-K-E C-O-N-T-R-O-L.
* * * * *
In the blockhouse, Charlie Kassick was watching the display with an
anxious eye. Suddenly the straight line--a reading of zero--that had
begun when the stethoscope quit functioning began to break up into a
regular pattern.
Charlie couldn't read Morse code. He only knew there was something
strange going on. He let out a yell that brought John Gordon jumping to
his side.
Gordon studied the strange pattern, a square wave shape, a blank, then a
peak followed by a square wave shape, a blank, then a square wave, peak,
and square ...
* * * * *
Rick was still tapping when he heard the sudden whine of servomotors.
The rocket tilted but continued its fall, rushing toward earth while its
nose swung slightly upward. Then the airfoils took hold and Pegasus
began to climb once more.
Rick was flat on the floor, thrown there for a few seconds when gravity
became normal. He climbed to his feet again, fighting pain and weakness.
Jerry Lipton was flying Pegasus. It was a reprieve. The boy and the
marmoset had a chance after all, if the heat didn't get them. Rick could
feel his skin tighten, feel the moisture baking out of him.
He held on to the channel with one hand and found the stethoscope with
the other. Concentrating, he tapped out a message.
E-R-T-H-M-A-N I-N E-L-E-C-T-R-O-N-C G-R-P H-E O-N-E O-F L-S-T T-O
E-N-T-R R-O-C-K-T.
He signed his initials.
The rocket was dipping toward earth again, in accordance with the
landing flight plan. It was traveling nearly ten thousand miles an hour.
The speed had to be lost, and the only way to lose it was by friction
against the air. But uncontrolled friction would turn it into a meteor,
so Jerry was letting the heat build up by diving the rocket, then
turning it upward again in a long glide, where it could cool in the
outer fringes of atmosphere. Little by little it was losing its excess
of kinetic energy.
Pegasus went into the atmosphere again in a long, shallow, turning
glide. The heat built up until Rick's tense, weakened condition couldn't
tolerate it any longer. He slid to the floor, unconscious.
* * * * *
Jerry Lipton had flown everything from small private planes to the
latest jet. He had directed drone planes into atomic clouds and on trial
bomb runs. But never in his career had he been faced with a piloting job
like Pegasus.
It had been difficult enough, with just the rocket to worry about. But
with Rick's life in his hands . . .
John Gordon and Gee-Gee Gould were standing by, relaying information to
the pilot. Jerry watched the shape on the radar screen climb to higher
altitude and asked, "What's his velocity?"
Dr. Bond was doing the calculations, based on the rocket's travel
through the radar beam.
"Just above five thousand miles an hour."
Jerry shook his head. "I can't keep him up there all day. How's the
temperature?"
Gee-Gee Gould consulted the temperature trace on the display.
"Cabin temperature is 105 Fahrenheit. The monk is in trouble, too. Skin
temperature is just about the same as the cabin. That means Rick is
running about the same."
"I'm going to cool 'em off." Jerry worked the controls and the angle of
ascent steepened. He asked, without taking his eyes from the scope, "How
much can he stand?"
The base physician was standing by. He had been summoned hurriedly. "It
depends on the time of exposure. He could take quite high temperatures
for a very short time."
"I'm worried," Gordon said bluntly. "He hasn't sent a signal since the
last one. He must be badly hurt. According to Cliff's calculations, he
pulled nearly thirteen G's on the ascent."
"He can't be in very good shape," the doctor agreed. "Can't you bring
him down any faster?"
Jerry Lipton shook his head. "The faster the descent, the higher the
heat. If the boy's already badly hurt, running his temperature up won't
help his condition any. I'm no doctor, all I can do is try to bring him
down in one piece, and that's tough enough for me. Decide, and I'll try
to follow your plan."
The doctor went into a consultation with John Gordon, Dr. Bond, and
Gee-Gee Gould.
"I see what Lipton means about bringing him down as slowly and smoothly
as possible," the doctor said. "True, he's probably in bad shape, both
physically and mentally, but we've no reason to assume any condition
that might be more dangerous than the high temperature."
John Gordon nodded. The Spindrift scientist wanted to assure himself
that the boy was all right. But that wasn't reason for taking a chance.
"I agree," he said.
Bond and Gould nodded agreement, and John Gordon passed on their
decision to Jerry Lipton.
"I think you're being wise," the pilot said. "Okay. Stand by, and I'll
do the best I can."
* * * * *
Rick returned to consciousness slowly. He shook his head to clear it,
but the grogginess persisted. It was light inside the cabin. He could
see reasonably clearly, and he thought dimly that something was wrong.
Then he realized what it was. He was plastered against the side of the
cabin!
He realized that Pegasus was no longer a rocket, but a glider, traveling
in a horizontal position. One part of the wall had become the deck when
the rocket changed from vertical to normal flight. He saw the marmoset,
still upright, riding smoothly. The channel supporting the spacemonk's
little chair had moved as it was supposed to, changing position as the
rocket's aspect changed.
The port window nearest Rick was within reach. He hauled himself up. It
was like being in a plane. He looked down at the earth from an altitude
of about thirty thousand feet. He was almost there, and the rocket was
under control!
A wave of relief swept through him, and he sat down. He was going to
make it! The cabin was hot, like a closed attic on a hot July day, but
it was bearable. He got back to the port again and watched as Pegasus
turned in lazy circles many miles in diameter. The earth was coming
closer at a pretty good clip. He was almost comfortable now, knowing
that Jerry Lipton had the rocket under control.
Rick closed his eyes, for just a moment. But the moment stretched ahead
as his weakened body betrayed him. He didn't realize how much time had
passed until he opened his eyes again just as Pegasus pulled up into a
bank that sent the blood from his head and almost caused him to black
out again. But in that instant he knew he was on the landing approach,
and that his speed was far too great for comfort.
He had just enough sense left to take the proper precautions. He
stretched out on his stomach, feet to the nose of the rocket, and
cushioned his head in his hands.
* * * * *
Pegasus flashed low over the hills at the end of Scarlet Lake and
touched earth at twelve hundred miles an hour. It bounced, then hit
again on the tricycle landing gear. The brakes were applied, gently at
first, then with all the strength of the servomotors. The deadly
velocity dropped off, but not fast enough. The runway was miles long,
but the rocket went over it and into the desert beyond. There was
nothing anyone could do.
Rick vaguely felt the smooth runway change to rougher terrain. He felt
the impact when Pegasus struck a hummock and tore off the landing gear.
He felt the rocket slow. Then it stopped--too fast! He went flying
forward, and he brought his arms up to cushion his head. He smashed with
stunning impact into the bottom of the nose radar set, and dropped into
infinite blackness.