Wick went into the kitchen, pulled a half chicken out of the
refrigerator, brought back.
"Southern fried," he said. "It'll hold you together."
Joe bit off a chunk and carried the rest in one hand as he balanced the
tub of fruit and vegetable juices on one shoulder and strode from the
room.
* * * * *
Black Tom was putting the finishing touches on a metal cylinder he had
salvaged from some of the shattered tanks.
As Joe came in the power room door, Black Tom asked: "How does it look?
Been a long time since I did any welding, but it'll hold water."
Black Tom and Herd, the assistant pilot, had bolted the jury rigged
tank to the floor, and had, through some amateur plumbing work, hooked
up a pipe system to the atomic motor.
Joe jerked his chicken-filled hand at the tub on his shoulder.
"Where does this juice go?"
Morrissey apparently had just realized that Joe was free. He looked at
him blankly for a moment.
"Dump it in the tank," he said, pointing to the metal ladder leaning
against the tank. "But keep your distance," he added. "We don't want to
catch the plague."
Joe grinned, stuffed the remainder of the chicken in his mouth, carried
the tub up the ladder, and dumped the conglomerated juices into the
circular opening at the top of the tank.
Joe came down the ladder.
"Got enough yet?" he questioned.
"Hell, no," exploded Black Tom. "Look at the gauge we rigged up. Here."
Joe looked at the gauge affixed to the side of the tank. It was about
two inches below a chalk line Black Tom had drawn.
"The white line marks the absolute minimum of water we need to get the
ship within gravitational pull of the Earth; from there in it's up to
our extensor vanes."
"How much do you need yet?" Joe asked.
Black Tom grunted. "About twelve gallons--and if those juices run out,
we'll have to do some wholesale lemon and orange squeezing."
Joe started to turn.
Black Tom said: "Thanks, Joe, for the can suggestion. It may pull us
through."
Joe nodded, went up with his tub for another load of juice.
When he had dumped the second load in, he said:
"Wick's got Whitey, Ronnie Guetschow and Keating squeezing lemons. This
is the last of the loose juice." He shook his head to clear his mind,
said briefly, "Excuse me," and hurriedly left the power room.
When he came back, his face pale, his limbs shaking from the retching
stomach, Bairn and Ed Parman were talking to Black Tom.
* * * * *
Bairn looked serious. "Hell," he said. "It would boil down to that.
The motor's okay, Ed says. But I don't know where in blue blazes we're
going to get enough water. Timnson's got the hydraulic press from the
workroom rigged up squeezing out the garbage we didn't dump."
He turned to Black Tom: "You're sure your sand filter will take all the
solids out, so it won't plug up the water jets?"
Black Tom nodded. It was then Bairn noticed Joe.
Bairn said wearily: "Haven't you caused enough grief, Joe? Arden's sick
with the disease because of you. You've been a jinx ever since the trip
started. Why don't you crawl in a hole and die?"
"I'm trying to help," Joe said.
"Nuts," said Bairn tiredly. Then he turned to Black Tom. "We've got
gasoline galore for operating the electrical units. Think gas'll work?"
"No," Tom said briefly. Joe's stomach was beginning to quiver again,
and the figures of Tom, Bairn and Parman were weaving. He could feel
his pulses pounding raggedly, as if a million drummers were anxious to
keep out of tempo.
He forced himself to walk slowly from the room, but the dizziness
caught him at the door and he had to hang on to the lever to keep from
keeling over.
His thoughts were kaleidoscoping, but one finally broke through
clearly. It was the answer.
He pulled himself erect, said through feverish lips:
"Bairn...."
Bairn said, without turning his head:
"Beat it, Joe!"
"Please, John," Joe said, "I know where to get more water." He
staggered toward the three men, the floor rocking under him. He felt
his mind shouting the words, but his desperate mind couldn't make his
lips move. His eyes wouldn't focus; his legs wouldn't work.
He only half-felt the hurt as his head struck the power room floor.
"Good," said Bairn, almost pleased. "That's taking care of him. Parman,
shove him over in the corner. Better put these rubber gloves on."
It was a good three hours later when Bairn and Black Tom stood at the
gauge measuring the height of the water in the tank.
"Not good enough," Black Tom said. "If we don't crash on the moon,
we'll end up as a satellite. That's all the water we can squeeze out of
it."
"Damn," breathed Bairn, "another gallon would take us home. But there
isn't another lick of water on the ship." He checked off on his
fingers: "The lav, the connecting pipes, the canned food, the garbage,
the storage batteries, that does it, guys, I guess."
The others stood quietly. Bairn went on: "We might as well get going.
Maybe, the fruit juice has got more umph to it than the water, and we
might coast in. But Black Tom says we've got enough to reach the moon's
orbit track, but not enough to reach the gravity pull of the Earth.
"We've done all we can," he said. "Now it's up to whatever providence
watches over people like us." He licked dry lips and smiled.
* * * * *
The muted thrumming of the atomic motor gradually worked its way
into Joe's consciousness. He moved wearily, and then his mind,
short-circuited by the ravages of the fever, cleared itself and he
became aware of his surroundings.
How long he'd lain there, Joe couldn't tell as he staggered to his feet
and toward the door. He had the answer, if he could make Bairn listen.
His glazed eyes stared around the power room. There was no one there.
He weaved toward the water gauge, stared at it for a long time before
it registered.
Why, his mind said dully, the tank's almost empty. Joe staggered for
the door. The door was a ton weight that fought against him to open it.
When it finally opened, he left it that way.
He got outside in the passageway, and his stomach rebelled. He was
very sick for many moments. He crawled and staggered up the circular
stairway toward the pilot's cubicle.
His body was bruised and hurting from the many times his weak legs had
betrayed him before he reached the door to the cubicle. He couldn't
move the lever to the door.
He tried to shout, but his voice was hoarse, weak. He pounded with both
hands against the thick metal. But there was no answer. Once again, he
was sick.
Then wearily he retraced his footsteps, pounded lengthily on each door
with his weakened muscles. They couldn't hear him, a bitter voice
nagged at him. He had the answer, and they wouldn't listen.
He didn't feel the pain as he rolled down the circular steps and lay at
the bottom in a heap. Somehow he moved on, crawling.
If they couldn't listen, he'd have to do it. He reached the door to the
power room, lifted his body across the threshold, and then weakness
held him motionless.
Was this it, his heart questioned. This was what he had to do before
the radio disease got him, wasn't it. He couldn't see, he couldn't
hear, he couldn't feel. Oh, God, he couldn't even think.
Was this it? his heart asked again. Whatever the answer, it was somehow
adequate ... for Joe's body, weakened by the life-sucking plague moved
slowly ... so very slowly....
* * * * *
"We've nearly reached the last of the catalyst, if Black Tom's figures
are right," Bairn said to the men crowded into the pilot's cubby.
"There's Earth," Parman said, and his voice was a caress.
The whole crew was there in the cubby, save for Arden and Burnet and
the medical Guetschow twin. Doc Guetschow was down in sick bay with the
other two, Burnet's head having started to act up again after three
days without water.
"Tom, you're sure your figures are right?" the other Guetschow twin
asked.
"Much as I hate to say it, yes. Only a few hundred miles and we're
finished." Tom licked his puffed lips.
It was quiet there in the cubby as the atomic motor drove the ship at
tremendous speed through the void.
"Can't we coast in?" Parman asked. "We've got tremendous acceleration."
"But not enough," Bairn said, "with the moon's gravitation field to
reckon with."
All their hearts must have stopped then, when the steady thrum became
a staccato beat. "This is it," Bairn said. The staccato turned to a
broken rhythm, hesitated, and finally halted.
"God," said Herd, the co-pilot apologetically, "if the moon weren't
around to hold us back."
But it was there, looming huge and ugly off the starboard side.