Hammond smiled wryly. "That's a long, sad tale. We've been trying to
increase the efficiency of the drive, you know. We've been hunting up
and down the electrogravitic spectrum for a more efficient operating
point. We found what we knew already; that we were using the most
efficient part of the E-grav range. We went all the way from down
low, where the stuff is just beginning to make itself detectable
to up high where the equipment is slightly fragile and extremely
experimental in construction. Then we took a run at the mec-grav,
with absolutely no success other than to ruin a whole bank of relays;
the mechanogravitic warp extended farther than we anticipated when we
hit the mechanogravitic resonance of the drive bar, and hell sort of
flew all over in great hunks. One of the interesting items was the
closing of the E-grav field controls, and the resulting power drain
over-loaded the alphatron. We limped in using a jury-rigged line from
the lifeship's alphatron and made a something-slightly-less than a
crash landing here on Pluto.
"So now we're either stuck here until we get the new alphatron we
ordered, or you can give us a few hints on household repairs."
"What's your lifeship's output?" asked McBride, following Hammond into
the spacelock.
"About eleven hundred alphons."
"You'll need about fourteen hundred to take off from Pluto," said John.
"How's the big one?"
"Deader than the proverbial dodo, whatever that was."
"Dodo?" laughed McBride. "That was a mythical critter that went around
dead, I think. It was so dead, even when alive, that when it really
died, it was really dead."
"You'd better stick to alphatrons," laughed Hammond.
"Speaking of the equipment, have you tried to get a replacement on
Pluto?"
"Nothing didding. About our only chance is to haywire something
together. But remember, we still have to make a landing, somewhere,
and that means a safety factor is somewhat to be desired."
"Not at all. If we can take off safely, we're in!"
"Explain. As I was taught in school, anyone can fly a spaceship, but it
takes a pilot to land one."
"Sure, but remember you'll be stopping off at the Lens. We've got
replacements there that will enable you to make space repairs and go on
from there in safety."
"Didn't think of that. Well, here's the mess!"
McBride needed no close inspection to see that the alphatron was
definitely defunct. A foul smell, faint, ephemerally pungent,
permeated the room. It was the smell of burned synthetic coil dope and
field-winding varnish which has been described as smelling something
like a frying toupee.
"Not only dead," was his cryptic remark, "but dead and sutteed!"
"Fricasseed," corrected Hammond. "Anything we can do?"
"Is the winding intact?"
"We thought of that, too. Nope. Electrical inspection indicates that
the winding is melted together in several places. You couldn't unwind
the coil, let alone rewind it with fresh insulation. We've got a couple
of gallons of insulation handy, if you get a good idea."
"Not yet. But look, Hammond, have you tried the magnetogravitic
spectrum yet?"
"No. That was our next program."
"I'd have tried that first," mused McBride. "Knowing that the drive
depends upon the action of a cupralum bar under high magnetic
density plus an electrogravitic warp, I should think that the close
relationship between the magnetic and electronic phenomena would lead
you to try the mag-grav first."
"I didn't want to start at the top," said Hammond dryly. "In spite of
the fact that Dr. Ellson claimed to have discovered a region in the
mag-grav spectrum that produced a faint success."
"Well, what I'm thinking is that we can rip up the E-grav generator and
use the field coil for the alphatron. It'll carry electrons as well as
it carries alphons, you know."
"Better," said Hammond. "But what do we use for an E-grav?"
"First we'll hunt up through the spectrum of the magnetogravitic
spectrum. If that doesn't work, we can add the warp produced by your
mech-grav, run from the lifeship's little alphatron. Right?"
"It's an idea. Seems to me that I've heard somewhere that the combined
warps of magneto- and mechanogravitic produces some vectors in the
electrogravitic spectrum."
"Mind if I brag?" asked McBride. "That was in a paper I scribbled for
the Interplanetary Gravitic Engineers. Purely a matter of making a
few dimes, at the time there was nothing practical about it, since
we had E-grav generators before we discovered the mechano- and
magnetogravitics."
"We?" grinned Hammond. "You were still three generations in the future
at the time, grandpa. But it's worth a try."
"Never thought that my effort was going to be worth a hoot," smiled
John McBride. "Let's give it a whirl."
"O.K. I'll call the gang." Steve Hammond stepped to the communicator
and spoke. "Jimmy, Pete, Larry! Come a-running and bring your cutting
pliers!"
* * * * *
From what was obviously three different parts of the ship, three voices
answered.
Pete arrived first. "Meet John McBride of the Plutonian Lens,"
introduced Hammond. "This is Pete, whose whole name is Peter Thurman,
and who is the guy who knows all about drive equipment."
Pete grinned. "You see us hitting sky at two hundred feet per," he
said, shaking McBride's hand.
Jimmy arrived, with Larry not far behind. "These are James Wilson and
Lawrence Timkins, respectively. Jimmy is the alphatron expert, and
Larry knows all there is to know about electrical circuits and wiring."
"He's ribbing me about those relays," laughed Larry, while Jimmy was
saying: "Y'smell that smell? That was my pride and joy."
"Tell me," asked McBride, "what does _he_ do?"
"Who, Steve? Oh he's just the bird that wanted the things done that
resulted in this mess. He's primarily responsible."
"Hm-m-m. That puts the fix on the whole thing," said McBride. "Well,
fellow, you've heard about Enid. I've got to get home. If we can fake
up something so that the _Haywire Queen_ will cut loose with a couple
of hundred feet per for long enough to get me to Station 1, I'll see
that your ruined equipment is replaced so that you can make a safe
landing. Say! How come you do not carry a spare alphatron?"
"Why doesn't man come with two hearts?" asked Jimmy. "That's because
they're usually dependable. No one ever tried to run two brains off of
one heart--that's why one heart stands up pretty well. I can imagine
the trouble that would result if two involuntary control centers were
running the same heart--it would be something like what happened when
the mech-grav made the E-grav cut in--something would blow a fuse."
They laughed, and then Hammond explained about the program. "Right away
quick we'll try the mech-grav along with the mag-grav. That sounds like
our best bet for something that works. Also breach the lifeship and
sabotage the little alphatron for the mech-grav. Might as well have it
down here where it's needed." In an aside to McBride, he added: "Is
this like your place? No fuses, no safety devices, no spare equipment
because some screwball is always filching something off of a bit of
standard equipment to make an experimental set-up?"
"Anything but the running and operating gear of the Lens stations,"
said McBride, "is subject to change without notice. I've even
seen a spare mech-grav generator used to counterbalance Jim Lear's
teeter-totter. Jim's dad is on Station 3 and there isn't any kid of
that size and age on Three. Did a good job, too, since Bob Lear fixed
the mech-grav density control with a switch that urged the far end of
the plank so that Jim was lifted and dropped at the right speed."
"Sort of expensive counterbalance, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so, but Bob said it was better than having to crank his son
up and down by hand. Besides, we have lots of power out at the Lens."
McBride paused. "Say. Do you run the _Haywire Queen_ with this crew?
Who's pilot?"
"Hannigan. But he got hurt when the works blew up. He ran us in all
right, though any of us can take a trick at landing. But he's taking
a rest cure to soothe his nerves; they got a scrambling from too much
electricity."
"Too bad."
"Not so bad. Just made him jittery. He'll be all right in a week. But
we won't have to run home without a pilot. I've got one coming out in a
couple of hours. Drake. Ever heard of a pilot named Drake?"
"Seems to me that the name is familiar," said McBride slowly. "But not
too clear, I'll know him when I see him."
"I won't. Conducted the hiring by mail, and then gave him a call when
the need came--your need, I mean. They told me that Drake was out of
the building, but that he'd be at Hellsport as soon as they could find
him. Has a pretty good record, too, save for one thing--"
"Steve," said one of the men, "can you give us a lift? The _Beetle's_
alphatron is somewhat heavier than we can handle around this corner."
"Sure. And the next time we're at Terra, have 'em fix the hoist rail,
huh?"
* * * * *
Wires, bunched cables, and scraps were a tangled mess on the floor.
Tools were strewn about in profusion. A box of nuts and bolts had
overturned and cascaded the small parts across the floor below the
workbench. But the work was progressing in fine shape in spite of the
seeming confusion and messiness. To someone who knew these men, it was
obvious that they knew their business and how to use their tools even
though the place was ankle deep in junk. To someone who knew them not,
the place looked like a junk shop.
"Is this the place where the finest brains in space work out the
intricate problems?" asked a cool contralto with a cynical tone.
McBride, who had just finished welding a small angle bracket on the
bottom of the mech-grav generator, looked up, blinked, did a double
take, and then stood up. The torch burned the air in his limp fingers,
wasting the canned gas.
"You! Drake! _Sandra_ Drake!"
"Is there another?" asked the saucy voice.
"I thought that Sandy was a nickname," snapped Hammond.
"It's Sandra," said she, "and it looks to me that your friend McBride
is always up to his ears in junk!"
John extinguished the torch and advanced upon the picturesque red-head.
"Have you still got your license?" he asked. "After that stunt you
pulled--"
"Your political pals took away my private license, but I'm still
registered as a pilot. This, I've been told, is an emergency, and,
therefore, I am compelled to run your junk-heap for you. I'm willing
for no other reason than the fact that my assistance to you in your
so-called time of need will be instrumental in getting my private
license back. Are you ready to go--and where?"
"We're about ready to try," said Steve.
"Try?" scorned Sandra. The perfect features twisted in a sneer. "Aren't
the best brains working today?"
"Look, Pilot Drake, this is an experimental crate from way back,"
snapped Hammond. "You're likely to find yourself drinking coffee out
of a relay-shield. We blew out the only alphatron this side of Jupiter
by mishap, and John and we have been trying to gain the same effect by
trusting to an experiment made several years ago but abandoned."
"I think I'll have none of it," snorted Drake. "I'd like to see a
little more of the solar system before I die. You can get some other
fool to run your patched-up ash can."
"Drake," said Steve Hammond, "if you do not run this crate for us--or
at least try as hard as we are trying--I'll personally see that you
are mentioned whenever skunks, lizards, and butyl mercaptan are talked
about. This is an emergency."
"Mind telling me just what type of life-and-death run you're going
for?" asked Sandra, loftily.
"Enid McBride is hurt and needs him," said Hammond, pointing at John.
"There's a small matter involved--a small matter of a baby's life,
possibly. If John can get there in time, his presence will give Enid
the amount of lift she needs. Get me?"
"Baby?" sneered Sandra. "What woman in her right mind would have--"
"Your mother," snapped Hammond, "and she made a mistake. Now will you
rectify her error and do something of value for once in your ill-used
twenty-four years?"
"I've no choice," said Drake. "I'll do it. But--"
"No buts. You're under suspension right now, and how you handle the
_Haywire Queen_ marks your card. Take it--or take it!"
"Where's the pilot room?" asked Sandra in a cool tone.
"Below--where it usually is in a ship of this type. Your orders will be
coming soon enough, I hope."
"And our destination will probably be Station 1?"
"Right. Will you need navigational details?"
"I can work them out."
Drake left, and the men put the finishing touches on the double-warp
set-up. Hammond turned the equipment on, running them at test power
while Jimmy and McBride adjusted the generators for maximum output.
Pete inspected the myriad of little glowing lights on the informer
panel and said that the ship was working properly from dome to foot.
"Grab a rolling chair," said Hammond to McBride. Then he snapped the
communicator and said: "Drake. Up at twenty feet per."
"Up at twenty feet per second per second acceleration," responded
Sandra in that flat, personless voice.
"We hope," said Steve with a short laugh.
* * * * *
An alarm gong sounded through the open communicator, and directly
afterward, the men in the power room could hear the relays closing. In
the room above them, an oil switch closed with a crashing sound, its
racket hardly muffled by the steel-grating floor. A rheostat whirred
as it followed the impulses sent from the control board in the pilot's
room; it whisked over a dozen contacts and came to rest. Four big pilot
lights winked into brilliance above the informer panel, indicating
that the ship was, 1.: Air-tight; 2.: Properly air-conditioned; 3.:
Possessed of sufficient power for flight; and 4.: Ready to lift. Behind
a two-foot dial, a diffused light glowed, illuminating the face which
would indicate the acceleration in feet per second. A small dynamotor
whined up the scale and into the region of inaudibility, and a series
of safe lights went on; lights that would be on all the time regardless
of what happened to the rest of the operating equipment. The meters
of the alphatron moved slightly, and then leaped toward the top peg,
stopping before they hit as the meter-sensitivity was cut accordingly.
The mag-grav generator meters followed suit, and then the mech-grav
meters went through the same dance. Then, far above them in the larger
part of the ship, a remotely controlled tap on a bank of high-powered
resistors made two steps forward, and an oil switch that connected the
drive's electronic requirements to the closed-system turbine went home.
Energy charged the gravitic equipment with operating power--
And the _Haywire Queen_ lifted upward!
The accelerometer moved quickly up the scale toward twenty.
"We made it!" yelled Jimmy Wilson.
"We're in!" shouted Pete Thurman.
"Thank God!" breathed McBride. "I'm going to call the Lens and tell Doc
Caldwell that I'm on the way--Hammond, what is that woman doing?"
The accelerometer had passed twenty, and was approaching twenty-five.
"Probably bunged the accelerometers out of sync when we crash-landed,"
said Hammond. "They're the standard Hooke Accelerometers, you know, and
we may have stretched the spring a bit. She'll stop soon."
"It's all right," said McBride. "It just makes us get there sooner, but
she shouldn't be playing with the drive this close to Pluto. If we've
missed something, we'll smack."
The meter passed thirty and headed for forty feet per second per second.
"Little over one Terran G," mentioned Pete. "She probably has the usual
Pilot's Fever."
"I know," agreed Hammond, "but her inherent desire to grab sky
shouldn't make her play foolish with a brand-new drive."
The meter touched fifty for an instant and then went on up toward
sixty. It did not stop at the green line that indicated two Terran G,
but passed it and proceeded on toward seventy feet per. It climbed to
eighty, passed, approached ninety, passed, and still climbed with a
precise linearity that made the men admire the steady hand on the main
power lever in spite of whose hand it was.
At one hundred feet per second per second, Hammond said: "When is that
dame going to stop?"
"Call her down," suggested Larry.
"Better wait. No use making her nervous this close to Pluto. Bawl her
out and she's likely to make the wrong move--and one move would be too
much!"
The pressure of 4-G held them to their padded seats, and their heads
were fixed immobile in the head braces, all watching the dial climb.
It passed one-thirty, went on up the dial to one-forty, and then the
voice of Sandra Drake said, weakly:
"When are you fools going to stop?"