1
As he heard that dread yet telltale _spang_ against the hull of their
spaceboat, young Jon Carver dropped his reelbook and sprang to his
feet. His eyes looked swiftly to help his ears trace the sudden _hiss_
he knew was their precious air escaping.
In the back of his mind he heard the sudden grunt his father made,
the sound of a falling body, his mother's frightened scream, and his
brother's "What's wrong?" But he did not stop his own lanky, gangling
body in its leap toward the outer bulkhead. And as he jumped, he pulled
his handkerchief from his hip pocket.
"Leaping tuna! If that isn't fixed quick, we'll lose our air," was his
near-panicked thought. "We won't be able to get where we're going. Be
lucky if we come out of it alive!"
So, guided by the whistling, escaping air, Jon found the hole, nearly
half an inch in diameter. Into it he wadded the corner of the cloth
as best he could. The outward loss of their precious air slackened,
although there was still some leakage he could not stop this way. He
jumped to the nearest of the many emergency repair kits scattered
about the ship. From it he grabbed a metal patch and an electric torch.
Swiftly he plugged the latter into a wall socket. With it he quickly
welded the patch into place, after pulling--with considerable
difficulty--his handkerchief from the hole. "It'll do for now," he
decided, after carefully examining his work and listening closely to
make sure there was no more whistling-out of air. "But we'll have to
go outside and really fill in and weld-plug that hole in the hull, but
quick."
He re-stowed the torch, then opened a flagon of emergency oxygen-helium
mixture in front of the electric blowers that kept their air
circulating--to replenish what had been lost. Only then--although it
had been less than two minutes, really--did he turn back to the rest
of the family. He had been somewhat surprised that his father had not
come to help him; he had not been at all surprised that his brother had
not. Jak was a grand guy--Jon thought the world of him--but he just
wasn't worth a dead salmon in an emergency like this; he did not have a
mechanical type of mind.
Now, as he turned, Jon saw his mother and brother kneeling beside the
prone body of his father, and noted with astonishment that she was
crying. There was something stiff and unnatural about the man's body,
too, lying there on the deck beside his recline seat.
A sudden fear sent the boy leaping across the room. "What ... what
happened? Pop isn't dead, is he?"
"No. Something made him fall, and he hit his head on the deck and
knocked himself out," Jak said without looking up. "His foot caught in
the footrest, and as he fell over the seat arm his leg broke."
Jon dropped to his knees beside his weeping mother and threw an arm
about her. His eyes were wide and damp with swift tears, for, in spite
of the rapid growth his body had undergone in the past few years, he
was still only sixteen--and he loved this splendid father of his with
genuine devotion.
It just couldn't be that Pop wouldn't live, he thought in panic.
He couldn't make himself believe that he might no longer have the
wonderful companionship and guidance and counsel of this grand man who
had been his world.
His mother, seeming to realize what the boy was undergoing, forced
back her own grief to turn and gather this younger son into her arms,
comforting him as only mothers can.
They watched the elder brother's swift, competent hands as he bathed
with soft cotton, soaked in some kind of medicine taken from the open
first-aid kit beside him, the bruised place on the back of the father's
head. Jak had already shaved away the hair about this bruise. Now he
took an atomizer and sprayed on a clear, plastic bandage.
Mrs. Carver turned anxiously to her younger son. "Jon, you know how to
run the ship. Turn it around and get us back to the nearest hospital as
fast as it will go."
Jon looked at her in astonishment, for it had never before occurred
to him that she did not know at least something about inter-stellar
astrogation. "We can't, Mom. You don't run a ship in space like you do
a ground car. We're on negative acceleration now, but it'll be close to
two days before we've slowed enough for any kind of maneuvering."
"That's right, Mother," Jak came unexpectedly to his brother's aid.
"You can't stop or turn a spaceship at will. But I don't think we
need worry too much. Father's head wound is not serious, although
there's a slight concussion. And we can set his leg so it will heal
straight--it's a clean break."
"Besides, it would take at least a month to get back to the nearest
colonized planet," Jon took up the explanation. "You know we're almost
six weeks out of Terra."
Mrs. Carver still looked doubtful, but responded, as did Jon, when Jak
began issuing instructions to them to help him in setting the broken
leg. He had cut away the trousers and removed the boot and sock. Now he
asked his mother to grasp his father's shoulders and hold tightly. He
then showed Jon how to hold the toes and heel of the injured leg, and
pull steadily downward while he manipulated the bone ends into place.
When the break had been adjusted, Jak dissolved certain plastics into
a heavy, viscous liquid which he sprayed onto the leg. This mixture
hardened almost instantly, forming a cast that was far stiffer and
yet less weighty than either the ancient plaster casts or cumbersome
splints.
When it was finished, they all rose, and while their mother hurried
ahead to prepare the bunk, the boys stooped and lifted their father's
inert body. Staggering a bit under the load, yet handling him tenderly,
they carried him to his wall bunk and lowered him onto the sheeted
mattress. After their mother had tucked in the top sheet and blankets,
the boys buckled the acceleration straps about the bunk, and Jak made
an extra binder with a folded blanket about the broken leg. Now, if
their father regained consciousness, or moved about restlessly in
partial awakening, he could not fall out and perhaps hurt himself more.
When all had been done to make the wounded man as comfortable as
possible, Mrs. Carver turned to Jon questioningly.
"What happened, Son? Do you know?"
"Meteoroid broached the hull, then must have gone on and almost hit
Pop. If it was a close miss, the force of its passage must have made
him duck and fall."
"But I don't feel any air escaping."
"There isn't now. I patched the hole, inside. Temporary job, though.
Pop'll--" He stopped in sudden realization, then straightened
resolutely and his voice was calmer, more sure, as he went on. "I mean,
_I_'ll have to go outside and make a permanent weld. Might as well do
it now."
His mother's face showed the pride she felt in this young son who could
plan and do the things that had to be done, even while she knew he was
upset by his father's accident.
"Yes, it should be done at once." But she gripped his arm
convulsively. "Be sure your lifeline is fastened securely, Jon."
He patted her hand awkwardly. "I will, Mom. I've been outside a lot,
you know, and understand just what to do."
He broke away and ran toward the airlock. From the closet just inside
the inner lockdoor he took his spacesuit, and put it on as quickly as
he could. He was still working on the zippered seam down the front,
smearing on the quickly-drying plastic that made it doubly airtight,
when his brother came in.
"Can I help, Chubby?"
"Sure, give me a hand with my helmet. Say, Owl, will Pop really be all
OK?"
"I ... I think so. He got a bad smack when he fell. But his heart seems
to be beating strongly, and I think the concussion'll wear off soon.
The leg'll heal, but he'll be out of commission about six weeks."
He picked up the quartzite "fishbowl" and slipped it over Jon's head.
They settled it firmly in place on the suit-ring, and screwed tight the
lugs that held it in place. As Jon turned on his oxygen he motioned to
the plastic, and Jak smeared it carefully all around the seam.
When he had finished, Jon increased the oxygen flow until the suit
bulged, while Jak minutely inspected every point for any possible
leakage. Finding none, he made the OK sign with thumb and bent
forefinger, and Jon reduced his air-flow and opened the escape valve
until the suit deflated enough so he could move about easily.
From a chest of repair supplies the younger boy took a can of
metal-seal and a self-contained acetylene torch. These he fastened to
his belt while Jak was getting, from a wall hook, a coil of thin but
terrifically strong, light, plastic rope that would neither freeze nor
lose its pliability in the utter cold of space. While spacesuits had
magnetic shoe soles to keep their wearers in contact with the hull,
a lifeline was a safety factor in case they happened to break that
contact and drift away from the ship.
Jon checked his suit and equipment again, making sure he had all the
tools he might need, and that they were firmly in place. He snapped one
end of his lifeline into a ring at his belt, tugging strongly on it
several times.
Then he turned and grinned through the helmet at his elder brother.
He waved him away from the inner lockdoor, then pressed a button. The
inner door swung open and air rushed in to fill the vacuum between the
inner and outer lockdoors.
Jon stepped into the narrow space, skirted the handling mechanism
there, then pressed another button to actuate the motor that closed
and locked the inner door. When the red signal light told him it was
airtight, he switched on the pump that returned the air to the body of
the ship. The lock empty, he twisted the knob that opened the outer
lockdoor, then snapped the other end of his lifeline to a ring just
beside the opening doorway. He switched on his suit-heater as he felt
the chill of space.
Slowly, ponderously, the mechanism swung the great eighteen-inch-thick
outer door partially open, and Jon was facing deep space. Although he
had spent nearly a third of his life out here, it was a sight that
never tired the boy's active, imaginative mind, and even now he stood
for a long minute, eagerly looking outward.
The awesome blackness of the void seemed alive with millions upon
countless millions of tiny, distant, pinpointed lights he knew were
giant suns. On and on they stretched, as far as the eye could see--and
beyond. In the far, far distance were blotches of light Jon knew were
the incredibly distant nebulae--other uncounted billions of suns that
made up the far-off galaxies and universes.
He looked overhead, picking out against the backdrop of the nearer suns
of our own galaxy--the Milky Way--some of the larger giant suns ...
Canopus, Rigel, Deneb, Betelgeuse, Antares and others he knew by sight.
The patterns familiar on Terra were somewhat distorted here because of
the difference in distance and his line of sight, but those suns could
not be mistaken.
He only stood there for a moment, then he reached out carefully and
grasped the rung of the metal ladder welded onto the hull, and which
ran completely around the ship. He pulled himself onto this, and held
there while he estimated where that hole should be.
"About twenty-four feet to the left, and one or two lower than the
doortop, I think," he muttered to himself. He climbed several rungs,
then half-straightened and set first one foot and then the other firmly
and flatly onto the hull beside the ladder rungs. He tried each of his
shoes, making sure their magnetic soles were gripping tightly against
the hull surface. Then he let loose the ladder and stood upright.
Compared to the decks inside, he was at right angles, but there is no
up, down or sideways in space--except that your feet always seem "down."
Assured that his shoes were holding firmly, he slid first one foot and
then the other along the hull. In this way he walked ahead, always in
full contact, yet able to progress almost at a normal pace. He counted
his steps, and when he felt he was near the hole for which he was
looking, stooped and began searching about the surface more minutely.
His estimate had been close, and it took him only a moment to find the
place where the meteoroid had struck. He drew his lifeline taut and
tied the loop to his belt, leaving the end of the line still snapped
in place. Now, even though his knot might come loose, he was still
fastened to the ship.
He took the can of metal-seal from his belt pouch, fumbling a bit
because it was difficult working with such heavy gloves as those
attached to his spacesuit. There was plenty of light from the billions
of stars, nor did it matter what hour the ship's chronoms might
indicate inside, it was always the same out here.
He squatted down, still keeping both feet flat against the outer skin
of the ship. Carefully he poured some of the sluggish, viscous liquid
metal into the funnel-shaped hole, which was over an inch wide at the
hull surface. Then he unslung his torch. He snapped the lighter and
adjusted the flame to a narrow, pencil beam.
With the beam he melted the metal-seal he had poured into the hole.
In the cold depths of space, where the temperature was about absolute
zero, the metal cooled almost instantly as he turned his torch away.
He then added more seal, melted that, then more seal, and so on, a bit
at a time, until the hole was completely filled, and the hull surface
once again smooth and even.
Satisfied at last that the damage to the ship was completely repaired,
he hooked his torch to his belt once more, recapped the can of
remaining metal-seal and stored it in his belt pouch. He rose and stood
again for a few short moments, looking at the glory of the universe as
it can only be seen from a spaceship. Then he made his way back to the
lock and entered the ship.
He touched the stud and the motor slowly closed the great outer door.
When the red signal light showed it was airtight, he punched the other
button, air filled the entry, and then the inner door opened. He went
through into the ship, closed the inner door, and when that was tight,
started the motor that pumped the precious air from the lock back into
the ship.
His brother had not stayed around to help him, so Jon had to strip the
plastic from his zipper and around the base of his helmet by himself.
It was an awkward job, as was trying to unscrew the lugs at the back of
his shoulders, and he growled a bit beneath his breath because Jak had
not waited, nor come back to help him.
But his irritation quickly passed and he grinned to himself. He knew
his brother so well--Jak simply had not thought to stay and help, or he
would willingly have done so.
Jak's tastes and desires ran more to other things, Jon knew. To
medicine, and to all growing things, whether plant, animal or human.
Jak had always been far more interested in what made _life_ grow and
perform its miracles, than he had in how and why _machines_ operated.
And, Jon acknowledged honestly, it was a good thing for them all in
this present emergency. If good old Jak wasn't half a doctor already,
Pop would really be in a bad way ... and so would all of them, if
they lost that steady and competent prop on whom they all leaned so
confidently.
"I sure wouldn't have known what to do," Jon admitted to himself, as
the thought of his father made him hurry the removing of his suit. "I
probably would have run for my tool kit, not the first-aid one."
He finally got the suit off and hung it back in the closet. He gathered
up the scraps of used plastic and stuffed them into the near-by trash
disposal chute. Then he ran into the living room and on to the side of
his father's bunk, where his mother and brother were standing, watching.
"How is he?"
"Just the same."
"You're sure he ... he isn't...?"
"No, he's still alive, and I'm sure he'll pull out in time. Only
question is, how long it'll take?"
Jon's mind began churning with problems. What would they do while Pop
was "out"? Who was to run the ship; make the calculations on orbits and
trajectories? Who's to handle the controls of landing when we reach our
destination, which won't be very long now? Who'll do the thousand and
one things Pop has always done? Who'll make the decisions?
Again the sense and knowledge of his personal loss came home--and young
Jon Carver sank onto the deck of the bunkroom. Again he was just a boy
who had lost his dearest pal, his ideal. Pop just couldn't die! Who'd
help him with his problems; teach him the many things he was always
wanting to know?
It just couldn't be that there would be no more of those tussles of
friendly play; those boxing matches or wrestling bouts by which his
growing body adjusted to swift action and hard knocks. He could not
make himself believe that there would be no more of those hours of
practical instruction, or the long, pleasant evenings when the big man
would talk of the places where he had been, the things he had seen and
done in his travels about the galaxy.
For Tad Carver was one of the real pioneers of deep space. He had been
an officer of the first ship to reach the stars--the planets of Sirius.
Deep-space travel was not yet a commonplace thing, although it was
becoming so more swiftly with each passing year. Jon knew that there
were now regular trips to the planets and some of the moons of his home
solar system. One could have a two weeks' vacation trip from Terra to
Luna for a thousand credits, or a month's cruise to Mars or Venus for
forty hundred.
Merchant ships made fairly regular voyages to the planets of Sirius
and Vega and, less often, to one or two other even more distant worlds
which had been found to contain friendly and civilized beings--not all
of them humanoid--who were glad to engage in inter-stellar commerce.
Other spaceships plied between Terra and the many newly discovered
worlds that were being colonized by Earth people.
But it had been men like Tad Carver who, co-operatively, had bought
ships and surveyed the spaceways. It was they who had opened up those
parts of the galaxy so far charted and who, incidentally, had made
fortunes for themselves from the metals, strange jewels and other rare
objects they had discovered and brought back, and for which the rich of
Terra had paid so willingly and so handsomely.
That was why, after a number of years and many such trips, Carver had
been able to buy his own small ship, outfit it for deep space travel,
and take his family with him on his further voyages of exploration and
survey. They were now en route to a new portion of the galaxy, one
never--so far as they knew--visited by human beings.
"But what'll we do without Pop?" Jon's mind went back to his problem.
"Who would be in command of their ship now? Mom didn't know a thing
about the navigation of space. Look how she'd demanded he turn around
'right now'!" She was wonderful, and Jon loved her dearly. But he
also knew she would be absolutely out of place trying to make their
decisions about where to go, how to get there, how to run the ship, and
so on. She had always seemed content to "keep house" on the ship, just
as she had on Terra, and paid but little attention to what else was
going on.
And Jak was just about as bad. The older boy was quick-and-logical
thinking, and knew a lot--but not about such things. Jon had been
the one who was always tagging their father around, forever asking
questions about how to do this, why was that done, what did this
machine do and what was the theory behind it, and so on? He had always
been working with machines, almost since he could toddle. He took
them apart, not destructively but questioningly, and was very soon
able to put back together again correctly an endless succession of
ever-more-complicated mechanisms.
Recently he had begun the study of astrogation--he had also long been a
"math shark"--and now knew enough to realize how little he really did
know about this complicated subject--although actually it was a great
deal.
Sobered, and suddenly aware of a growing maturity brought on by the
terrific problems they faced, Jon sat up. He rose and went over to his
mother's side. He touched her softly on the shoulder, and she looked up
at him. At sight of his anxious face she threw her arms about him.
"Jon, boy, what will we do now? How will we ever manage without Mr. C?"
At this echo of his own questionings and doubts, the boy straightened.
"We'll make out all right, Mom," he said with a bravado he certainly
did not feel, but which he hoped she would think was genuine. "We'll
have to make up our minds what we're going to do, then do it. We'll
keep on with Pop's plans, of course." This was a statement rather than
a question.
"Why ... why...." She seemed startled by the realization that she had
to make a decision. "I hadn't thought about that yet." She was silent
a moment, then turned to her elder son, who had also risen and was
listening intently. "What do you think, Jak? You're older, so you'll
have to take charge now and be the man of the family."
The slender, studious eighteen-year-old looked startled. "I ... I don't
know," he stammered, his eyes suddenly filled with strange fears.
"I ... I suppose we might as well go home. We don't know where we're
going, or what we were to do when we got there...." He suddenly looked
like a little boy who has lost everything and everyone in whom he had
looked for and found comfort and security. "Don't ask me, Mother. I
don't know what we're going to do. We're apt to die, without Father to
keep us going safely!"
Jon stared at him, this brother he had always loved and to whom he had
looked up as a strong, elder companion ... in spite of their almost
continuous, although friendly, bickerings, which never disturbed the
warm affection underneath.
Now he just couldn't believe his eyes and ears. This couldn't be
Jak--the strong, reliable Jak!
Suddenly he felt a surge of anger and distrust. Yet immediately he
was ashamed of himself for such feelings. This wasn't any minnow of
a predicament they were in--it was a very whale of a mess. He was
scared, himself, and could understand just how Jak must feel. But, by
the great horned catfish, he wasn't going to let himself cry about it
any more--especially in front of Mom! Something had to be done, and it
would be done!
A thought flashed through his mind, and he straightened with resolve.
"_Shut up!_" he yelled at his brother ... and when Jak and their
mother stared at him in amazement Jon grinned calmly and said, half
apologetically, "Just trying to snap you out of the dumps. I say we've
got to think this out carefully, and not make any snap decisions--or
give up like this. The ship's on automatic drive and decelerating, so
we don't have to worry about running it for some time. But Pop wouldn't
like it if we didn't keep on. You know how important this trip is to
him. Besides, he'll be waking up soon, and even if he has to stay in
his bunk, he can tell us what to do."
"Do you know where we're going, and why?" Jak was still upset.
"Sure. Pop talked with me a lot about it."
Their mother looked from one to the other doubtfully, then smiled in
a constrained manner. "You ... you're probably right, Jon. Mr. C. did
say this would make or break us. I leave it up to my two big boys to
discuss and suggest plans until your father is able to take charge
again."
With an effort she pulled herself together, and now her smile was
firmer, brighter. "Meanwhile, I think we'd better have something to
eat. We have to keep up our strength for whatever is coming, you know."
2
When the boys woke up the next morning, their mother reported that
their father had apparently had a restful night, coming out of his coma
briefly a couple of times.
After breakfast the two boys went into the control room and began
examining the various instruments and recorders on the panel, to see if
they could figure out how much longer it would take them to reach the
system their father was seeking. Through the visiplates they could now
see not only the sun toward which Jon said they were heading, but even
its nearer planets were beginning to show appreciable discs.
As they were studying these, Jak suddenly asked, "How do you suppose we
happened to run into a meteor way out here in space like that?"
Jon shook his head helplessly. "Darned if I can figure it out. I always
supposed such stuff was only found inside a planetary system. Must be
there's some in deep space, though, since we sure as perch got hit by
one." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small marble-sized
stone. "Here it is. I hunted around and found it last night. It dented
the farther bulkhead, but must have lost so much momentum it couldn't
penetrate."
"Just one of those billions-to-one chances, eh?" Jak looked up from his
examination of the stone.
"Yes, there's still so much about space nobody knows yet."
Jak thought silently for a moment, then asked, "Well, what do you think
we should do next?"
"Keep going, natch." Jon's voice was earnest. "We can't be more than a
couple of days away from the nearest planets--and we're over six weeks
out of Terra. Pop said this system we're heading for has four or five
planets, at least, and that probably Two and Three, and maybe Four,
would be fairly Earthlike and habitable. So long as we're so close, it
would be wrong if we didn't at least take a close-up looksee at them."
"Yes," slowly, "Father'd want us to do that."
"You know darned well he would. He's sunk almost everything he's got
into this ship and this trip, and if we miss now, the government
probably wouldn't give us another exclusive crack at it, even if we
could scrape up the credits to come out here again."
"Didn't Father say something the other day about his
spectro-analyzer--you know, 'Annie'--showing there was...?"
"Yes, 'Annie' popped up strong on that, and that's another reason we've
got to keep going--especially since you think Pop'll snap out of it in
a few days. You're sure of that, aren't you?" He peered intently into
his brother's eyes.
"Yes, as far as I can tell. There's a concussion where his head hit the
floor, but I don't think it's too bad, and it should wear off soon."
Jon sighed with relief. "If ... if he was dead, or dying, it would be
different, and I'd say go home. But there's another thing. Before we
left Terra we heard a rumor Slik Bogin was chasing around out in this
sector, and we don't want to let him beat us to this system."
"Bogin? That's the notorious pirate, isn't it? No, if he's out here, we
don't want to let him beat us--though what we could do if he did try, I
don't know."
"We'll figure that out if he tries to hijack us."
"You hope!" There was a long silence while the boys studied their
instruments again. Then, "What about landing, Chubby? Can you do it?"
"I've been studying up on it--put on the sleep-instructor last night."
Jon was suddenly half-frightened with the prospect, but determined
to keep his voice level. "I've helped Pop land the crate several
times--even handled the controls under his instructions--so I think I
can do it, with you reading off the manual to me. Anyway, if--if Pop
gets worse, we've got to land some time, so we might as well try it
here as any time or anywhere."
Jak stood silent a long moment, rubbing his hand through his hair as
he did when concentrating. Then he looked up with determination. "Jon,
you and I have got ourselves a job to do." And now his voice was steady
and earnest. "It's up to us to take care of Mother and keep her from
worrying. So, whenever we're where she can hear us, we've got to act
brave and sure of ourselves, no matter how we feel inside."
"Yes, she's all broken up about Pop. We ought to do most of the work,
too, so she...."
"No," Jak shook his head, "that'd be the worst thing we could do. She
isn't sick, physically, and if she keeps busy, she won't have time to
worry so much. So we must keep her from having too much idle time."
"Oh ... maybe you're right, Owl ... yes, guess you are, at that--that's
more your dish. But we can act like everything's going to jet fair.
It's a deal." He held out his hand, and the two brothers clasped in
agreement.
They went into the living quarters. "Hi, Mom, lunch ready yet? I'm
starved."
"As usual," Jak bantered.
Mrs. Carver looked up apathetically from the recline seat where she had
been sitting, worrying, during the several hours the boys had been in
the control room. She looked as though she were almost shocked at their
seemingly heartless question, forgetting that she, herself, had used
the same excuse the night before.
But in a moment she smiled tremulously. "I guess I let myself forget
my job, and that we have to go through the motions of living." She
rose slowly, and the boys came and put their arms about her. "Mr. C.
wouldn't want me to break down like this. I'll try to do better."
She gave her sons a quick hug and went into the little galley, where
they heard her moving about from the deep-freeze to cupboards to
induction-cooker. Soon the smells of appetizing food spread throughout
the ship.
Jon had gone back into the control room and picked up the reelbook on
astrogation, opening it to the chart of the pilot panel. He was still
studying this and tracing, from the diagrams in the book, the controls,
switches and recorders on the panel itself. He memorized each one as he
went along, and made sure he knew its functions.
When Jak called him to lunch, Jon carried the reel with him and
continued studying it as he absentmindedly ate. His preoccupation with
it raised his mother's fears again. "Can you make anything out of it,
Son?"
"Huh?" He roused himself then, and grinned at her. "Sure, Mom, it's
easy. Pop taught me most of it already, and I'm just refreshing my
mind. I'll set us down in one piece, don't you fear."
"How soon will we arrive?"
"About tomorrow noon, I think, by our clocks. No telling what time
it'll be there. I'll take measurements again and make sure, right after
I'm through eating. We must be about ready to step up our deceleration."
He looked at his mother more intently, and his voice was so earnest
it broke from baritone to a childish treble in places. "Mom, I'm not
questioning your authority or anything, but you said yesterday that Jak
was to be in charge until Pop wakes up. Now, Jak doesn't know anything
at all about astrogation, and while I don't know it all, I do know more
than he does, and I'll have to handle it. So what about me being in
charge of the ship when we're in flight or on landings and take-offs,
and Jak in charge other times? Though whatever you say goes, of
course," he added hastily.
Somewhat to his surprise, his brother sided with him. The elder seemed
to realize this was no time for one of their friendly squabbles about
which was to be "top man"; that their very safety depended on the fact
that whichever knew the most about any one thing should be the one to
have the say about it.
Their mother looked from one to the other helplessly. "I ... I guess
that will be all right. You two figure out things between you. You're
all the men I have now until your father...." She almost broke into
tears then, but pulled herself together. "Yes, you do whatever you
think is best about such things."
"We'll handle it," Jak assured her. "But you'll still be boss in chief."
"You say 'when' and 'what,' and Jak and I'll figure out 'how.'" Jon
grinned.
She stretched out her arms and grasped each by a hand. "My big boys!
I'm sure we'll come through safely. You're getting to be real men."
Then she changed her tone and asked, "You're going to land on one of
those planets, then, as Mr. C. planned?"
"Being so close, it seems best," Jak answered. "How long we stay will
depend on what we do or don't find there."
"Yes, we need a few days' rest on firm ground before we start back to
Terra, at least. We want to freshen our air, if we can, and maybe get
some fresh food. Besides, we ought to try to get all the necessary data
to prove Pop's discovery, if the planets are uninhabited but worth
colonizing."
"I agree," seconded Jak, "even if we have to land in some secluded spot
and just rest."
"I'll leave it up to you, then." Their mother appeared more like her
usual happy self than the boys had seen her since the accident. "I'll
keep house like I always have, and you boys do whatever else you think
best."
Jak laughed. "We'll be like those Musketeers in that old book I read
some time ago. 'All for one and one for all.'" He held out his hand
dramatically. "Put your hands on mine, and we'll all swear to it."
Laughing, they did as he suggested, although their mother pretended
severity. "You know I don't like swearing, Boys."
Jak grinned. "But I meant this in the sense of 'taking an oath,' not of
'cussing.'"
"Oh," she krinkled her nose at him, grinning with her old-time
impishness, "that's different."