Jordan's eyes rolled upward. "We're dead!" he said, buzzing for Gerry.
"Dead as mackeral."
Gerry answered, and Jordan asked for General Criswell.
* * * * *
A fine seabreeze was whipping ashore at Canaveral Space Port; not strong
enough to be a nuisance, but strong enough to blow Senator Darius'
emerald green tie persistently around behind his neck. He was still
puffing a little from his climb up the steps to the balcony on top of
the Space Control Center. As soon as he caught his breath he tugged at
Jordan's elbow and said, "Mr. Jordan, I have the great honor to
introduce to you Mr. Patrick McGuire, president of the Ancient Order of
Hibernians."
Jordan shook hands, noticing as he did so that Mr. McGuire was carrying
something that closely resembled a hip flask. It had a bright green silk
ribbon tied around the neck.
"It's a pleasure," he said. "What's in the bottle?"
Mr. McGuire laughed a rich bellow.
"That, me friend," he said in a brogue so carefully cultivated that
Jordan winced almost visibly, "is a bottle o' wather from the River
Shannon, fer the christening', b'dad 'n' bejabers."
"The christening?" Jordan echoed hollowly.
"Indade, the christenin' ... with the Senator's kind permission I'll now
step down and officiate. One piddlin' smash at the nose of yonder rocket
is all I ask. One smash and a Hail Mary, and she's off to Glory!"
"Jordan ..." began the Senator.
"Now, Senator ..." began Jordan.
But the bullhorn above them drowned out everything and effectively
stalled the plans of the Hibernians by announcing in deafening syllables
that everyone was to clear the launch area.
In the distance Jordan observed dozens of tiny figures scuttling from
the gleaming Vanguard toward something that looked vaguely like a turtle
but which he had heard was called a blockhouse.
"I think," he said in unutterable relief, "that we're about ready to
launch."
Jordan finally found Clements in the milling throng. They stood at the
balcony rail staring fixedly at the Vanguard as the count progressed
downward with what seemed dreadful slowness.
"How long _is_ a second, anyway?" growled Jordan peevishly.
The countdown proceeded to minus twenty minutes ... minus fifteen
minutes. Then came the quick announcement, "The count is T minus twelve
minutes and holding."
"Twelve minutes and holding?" repeated Jordan jumpily. "What does that
mean?"
"It means," answered Clements with just a touch of superiority, "that
they have stopped the count at T minus twelve minutes because something
is wrong. It will delay the launch."
* * * * *
Jordan wrung his hands fretfully.
"Something wrong? I never heard of such a thing. What could possibly go
wrong?"
"Oh," ventured Clements, "I suppose there are a few things about this
rocket that could fail to function under unusual circumstances." He
snubbed out his cigarette. "After all, your watch stops sometimes,
doesn't it?"
"Sometimes," Jordan admitted sourly, "but never at T minus twelve
minutes."
After a short time the bullhorn shook the area with the news that the
count had resumed. Jordan borrowed Clements' binoculars and stared
fixedly at the abandoned Vanguard. Suddenly he started violently. "My
God, Clem," he yelled, "it's on fire! There's smoke flying out right
there in the middle. Look!"
Clements took a quick glance.
"Relax, chief," he said reassuringly. "It's oxygen coming from a vent.
They can't seal the oxygen tank till just before launch, or it'll blow
up."
"Oh, it can't blow up," quavered Jordan, going to pieces. "But it will.
I feel it in my bones. It's going to blow up ... ker BOOM!"
Clements patted him on the back.
"Stop worrying, chief. It's going to work just fine. You wait and see."
Jordan shook his head in disbelief. "kerBOOM!" he said faintly.
The bullhorn announced T minus four minutes. To divert Jordan's
attention Clements suggested that he watch the pilots of the photography
ships who were about to board. With some difficulty Jordan focussed the
instrument and observed the two pilots walk across the apron in front of
the main operations building and climb into their small ships. A blue
halo formed softly around the stern of each as they cut on the engines
and brought them up to idle.
Then suddenly the count was a T minus ten seconds. 9 ... 8 ... 7 ... 6
Jordan thought he was going to faint ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 Zero!
There was a dazzling flash of igniting kerosene and lox which caused
Jordan to jump into the air, a terrible burst of smoke and dust and then
an overwhelming, harsh shattering roar such as had not disturbed
Canaveral Space Port in more than a hundred years.
Deafened Clements looked at Jordan; saw his lips form the work "ker
BOOM."
But in spite of all the evidence to the contrary the Vanguard was off
the launcher, balancing with unbelievable, rocklike steadiness on that
flickering, fiery column. Slowly, almost painfully the thing rose,
gathered speed, pitched slowly eastward and bored triumphantly into the
sky. Beside it, a thousand yards to the north and south, sped the photo
ships, their drive haloes still scarcely brighter than when idling on
the ground. With cameras whirring they escorted '58 Beta into space for
the second time.
There was considerable confusion, some hoarse cheering and a great deal
of milling around. Clements got a grip on Jordan and steered him to the
AstroBar where two quick ones put him back together again.
"Now, what we should do," Clements suggested, "is to go down to the
trajectory section and find out the latest word on the launch analysis."
Jordan hiccupped.
"Why?" he said, a little belligerently. "What's to analyze? We got it
launched, didn't we? What more d'they want? Besides, I like it here."
* * * * *
Forty five minutes later the reports clattered in from Cairo and
Woomera. In the Port Commander's private briefing room a young woman
brought a sheaf of papers to the Commander. He began to read aloud. The
audience leaned forward in strained attention.
"Preliminary flash report on the re-launch of satellite '58 Beta. The
launch phase was eminently successful. The hold at T minus twelve
minutes was not due to any malfunction in the missile itself, but rather
to a disorder of another kind ... the engineer who was functioning as
Launch Monitor had fainted in the blockhouse. The count was picked up
under the direction of the Assistant Launch Monitor. After launch the
three stages of the rocket separated properly, and injection into orbit
occurred at the predicted altitude."
He paused and shuffled the papers.
"Now I have here," he continued, dropping a sheet and picking it up,
"the description of the orbit now occupied by '58 Beta. We have a
perigee of six hundred twenty five miles and an apogee of twenty nine
hundred miles, and ... oh, my word; this _is_ a tough break! Well,
gentlemen, we can't win 'em all. As you know, we had hoped for a
permanent orbit. However, according to our computers, while '58 Beta is
now in an orbit, it is a degenerative one. She will unfortunately suffer
a progressive perigee drop on each resolution and after three hundred
forty eight years, seven months and approximately nineteen or twenty
days she will re-enter the atmosphere and burn up. I am heartily sorry,
gentlemen."
* * * * *
They returned to the AstroBar, and Clements began trying to catch up
with Jordan.
"You know," said Jordan, his head wobbling a little with the emphasis he
put into the words, "this is the damnedest farce in the history of the
world."
"You're absolutely right, chief," agreed Clements, taking another slug.
"And what are we going to do about it?"
Over his empty glass Jordan gave Clements a slow, confidential wink.
Then he fished some papers out of his pocket. He folded them carefully
and slipped them into an envelope. Meticulously drying a spot on the bar
with his coatsleeve he put down the envelope and began writing on it.
Finally he finished. Sealing it he waved it in the air in front of
Clements.
"These," he said solemnly "are the resignation forms you got for me that
day. Do you remember those resignation forms, Clements, you old
appointee, you?"
Clements set his glass down indignantly.
"Certainly I remember, old chiefie. I remember because I got a set for
myself while I was at it."
"Well, good for you, old appointee. Now, you take this envelope, and
when we get back to Washington you put it in the office archives file,
O.K.? Safest place this side of Fort Knox."
"Depend on me, chief," he said, taking the envelope and reading the
instructions Jordan had written.
_To be held for the use of the Undersecretary for Cislunar Navigation
incumbent in the year 2492._
"Good idea," said Clements. "Let's drink to the jerk ... O.K.?"
* * * * *
_Memo: 92 8574 27 October 2492_
_From: Secretary for Cislunar Navigation_
_To: Undersecretary_
_The oldest item in the archives file was opened today. We are not
certain that it does not constitute some sort of barbaric practical
joke. Note that the forms involved have been superseded several dozen
times over since they were originally printed. Investigate and
report._
_Memo: 92 1751 29 October 2492_
_From: Undersecretary for Cislunar Navigation_
_To: Secretary_
_Due to excessive demands for time caused by the present
Congressional furor regarding our department and its rights and
duties concerning debris collection and disposal we have been unable
to act on your memo 92 8574. Present priority weighting indicates
that the earliest compliance date will be late in December. Please
denote concurrence._