Ten minutes went by. The receiver was silent save for a constant
crackle of cosmic static.
Fifteen minutes passed.
"Nuts," said Channing. "Could it be that we aren't quite hitting them?"
"Could be," admitted Franks. "Jim, waggle that beam a bit, and slowly.
When we hit 'em, we'll know it because we'll hear 'em a half-hour
later. Take it easy and slowly. We've used up thirteen of our fifty-odd
hours. We can use another thirty or so just in being sure."
Jim began to make the beam roam around the invisible spot in the sky.
He swept the beam in microscopic scans, up and down, and advancing the
beam by one-half of its apparent width at the receiver for each sweep.
Two more hours went by. The receiver was still silent of reflected
signals.
It was a terrific strain, this necessary wait of approximately a
half-hour between each minor adjustment and the subsequent knowledge of
failure. Jim gave up the 'scope because of eyestrain, and though Don
and Walt had confidence that the beam-control man was competent to use
the cross-ruled screen to keep Mars on the beam, Jim was none too sure
of himself, and so he kept checking the screen against the 'scope.
At the end of the next hour of abject failure, Walt Franks began
to scribble on a pad of paper. Don came over to peer over Franks'
shoulder, and because he couldn't read Walt's mind, he was forced to
ask what the engineer was calculating.
"I've been thinking," said Franks.
"Beginner's luck?" asked Don with a wry smile.
"I hope not. Look, Don, we're moving on the orbit of Venus, at Venus'
orbital velocity. Oh, all right, say it scientifical: We are circling
Sol at twenty-one point seven five miles per second. The reflected wave
starts back right through the beam, remember?"
"I get it," shouted Channing in glee. "Thirty-two minutes' transmission
time at twenty-one point seven five miles per second gives us--ah--"
Walt looked up from his slide rule. "Fifty-two thousand, two hundred
and twenty-four miles," he said.
"Just what I was about to say," grinned Don.
"But why do you always get there second with your genius?" complained
Walt with a pseudo-hurt whine. "So how to establish it?"
"Can't use space radar for range," grunted Channing. "That would louse
up the receiver. We've got everything shut off tight, you know. How
about some visual loran?"
"Yipe!" exploded Walt. "How?"
"I'd suggest an optical range finder excepting that the base-line of
three miles--the length of Venus Equilateral--isn't long enough to
triangulate for that fifty-two thousand--"
"Two hundred and twenty-four miles," finished Walt with a grin.
"Proceed, genius, with caution."
"So we mount a couple of mirrors at either end of the station, and key
a beam of light from the center, heading each way. When the pulses
arrive at the space flitter at the same time, he's in position.
We'll establish original range by radar, of course, but once the
proper interval or range is established, the pilot can maintain his
own position by watching the pulsed-arrival of the twin-flickers of
light. Just like loran, excepting that we'll use light, and we can
key it so it will run alternately, top and bottom. To maintain the
proper angle, all the pilot will have to do is to keep the light
alternating--fluently. Any overlapping will show him that he's drifted."
"Fine!" glowed Walt. "Now, how the devil long will it take?"
"Ask the boys, Walt," suggested Don.
Walt made a canvass of the machine shop gang, and came back, saying:
"Couple of hours, God willing."
The mounting of the mirrors at either end of the station took little
time. It was the amount of detailed work that took time; the devising
of the interrupting mechanism; and the truing-up of the mirrors that
took the time.
Then it became evident that there was more. There were several hundred
doorways centered on the axis of Venus Equilateral that must be opened,
the space cleared of packing cases, supplies, and in a few cases
machinery had to be partially dismantled to clear the way. A good
portion of Venus Equilateral's personnel of three thousand were taken
off their jobs, haled out of bed for the emergency, or made to work
through their play period, depending upon which shift they worked.
The machinery could be replaced, the central storage places could
be refilled, and the many doors closed again. But the central room
containing the air plant was no small matter. Channing took a sad
look at the lush growth of Martian saw grass and sighed. It was
growing nicely now, they had nurtured it into lusty growth from mere
sprouts in trays and it was as valuable--precisely--as the lives of
the three thousand-odd that lived, loved, and pursued happiness on
Venus Equilateral. It was a youthful plant, a replacement brought in a
tearing hurry from Mars to replace the former plant that was heaved out
by the well-meaning Burbank.
Channing closed his eyes and shuddered in mock horror. "Chop out the
center," he said.
The "center" meant the topmost fronds of the long blades; their roots
were embedded in the trays that filled the cylindrical floor. Some
of the blades would die--Martian saw grass is tender in spite of the
wicked spines that line the edge--but this was an emergency with a
capital E.
Cleaning the centermost channel out of the station was no small job.
The men who put up Venus Equilateral had no idea that someone would
be using the station for a sighting tube some day. The many additions
to the station through the years made the layout as regular and as
well-planned as the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky.
So for hour upon hour, men swarmed in the central, weightless channel
and wielded acetylene torches, cutting steel. Not in all cases, but
there were many. In three miles of storage rooms, a lot of doors and
bulkheads can be thrown up without crowding the size of the individual
rooms.
Channing spoke into the microphone at the north end of Venus
Equilateral, and said: "Walt? We've got a sight. Can you see?"
"Yop," said Walt. "And say, what happens to me after that bum guess?"
"That was quite a stretch, Walt. That 'hour, God willing,' worked
itself into four hours, God help us."
"O.K., so I was optimistic. I thought that those doors were all on the
center line."
"They are supposed to be, but they aren't huge and a little
misalignment can do a lot of light-stopping. Can we juggle mirrors now?"
"Sure as shooting. Freddie in the flitter?"
"Yup. He thinks he's at the right distance now. But he's got a
light outfit, and this radar can be calibrated to the foot. Is the
mirror-dingbat running?"
"We're cooking with glass right now."
"Brother," groaned Channing, "if I had one of those death rays that
the boys were crowing about back in the days before space-hopping
became anything but a bit of fiction, I'd scorch your ears--or burn
'em off--or blow holes in you--or disintegrate you--depending on
what stories you read. I haven't heard such a lousy pun in seventeen
years--Hey, Freddie, you're a little close. Run out a couple of miles,
huh?--and, Walt, I've heard some doozies."
There was a click in the phones and a cheerful voice chimed in with:
"Good morning, fellows. What's with the Great Quest?"