"Robert Emmet O'Brien Moseley," said Pop.
"Occupation?"
"Research physicist, formerly. Now about to become a land-grant
settler."
"Age of self and party ... former residence...."
Overhead, the sky was blue and thin--clear as a bowl of skimmed milk;
its vastness limned in sharp relief, to the west and north, the mighty
spans and arches, the faery domes and flying buttresses of Great New
York. The spacedrome fed a hundred ducts of flight; from one field
lifted air locals, giddy, colored motes with gyroscopes aspin. From
another, a West Coast stratoliner surged upward to lose itself in thin,
dim heights.
Vast cradles by the Sound were the nests to which a flock of
interplanetary craft made homeward flight. Luggers and barges and
cruisers. Bobby saw, with sudden excitement, the sharp, starred prow of
the Solar Space Patrol man-o'-war.
Here, in this field, the GSC's--the General Spacecraft Cradles. From
one of which, as soon as Pop got clearance, their ship would take off.
Their ship! Bobby felt an eager quickening of his pulse; his stomach
was aswarm with a host of butterflies. _Their ship!_
The space officer said, "I think that takes care of everything, Dr.
Moseley. I presume you understand the land-grant laws and obligations?"
"Yes, Lieutenant."
"Very well, then--" Space-red hands made official motions with a
hand-stamp and pen. "Your clearance. And my very best wishes, Sir."
"Thank you," said Pop quietly. He turned. "That's all. Ready, Mother?
Eleanor? Moira?"
Bobby bounded forward. "Can I push the button, can I, Pop? When we
start, can I?"
* * * * *
Dick was waiting before the open lock of the _Cuchulainn_. Dick could
do anything, everything at once. He took The Pooch into the circle of
his left arm, helped his mother aboard, said, "Shut up, kid, you're
enough to wake the dead. Watch that guard-panel, Elly. Papers all set,
Pop?" And he tickled The Pooch's dimpled cheek with an oily finger.
"You act just like your mama," he said irrelevantly, and the baby
gurgled. Eleanor cried, "Dick--those dirty hands!"
"Everything is in order, Richard," said Pop.
"Good. You folks go in and strap down. I'll seal. Here comes the
cradle-monkey now."
Pop said, "Come along, Robert," and the others went inside. Bobby
waited, though, to see the cradle-monkey, the man under whose orders
spacecraft lifted gravs. The cradle-monkey was a dour man with gnarled
legs and arms and temper. He looked at the _Cuchulainn_ and sniffed;
then at Dick.
"Family crate, huh?"
"That's right."
"Well, f'r goddlemighty' sakes, don't try to blast off with y'r side
jets burnin'. Take a seven-point-nineteen readin' on y'r Akka gauge,
stern rockets only--"
"Comets to you, butt-hoister!" grinned Dick. "I've had eight years on
the spider run. I can lift this can."
"Oh, a rocketeer?" There was new, grudging respect in the groundman's
tone. "Well, how was I t' know? Y'ought t' see what some o' them
jaloupi-jockeys do to my cradles--burn 'em black! Oh, well--" He backed
away from the ship.
"Clean ether!" said Dick. He closed the lock. Its seal-brace slid into
place, wheezing asthmatically. Bobby's ears rang suddenly with the mild
compression of air; when he swallowed, they were all right again. Dick
saw him. "What are you doing here, kid? Didn't I hear Pop tell you to
come below?"