up for emptiness.
But the making of these pushpots and all the other multitudinous
activities of the Shed would have no meaning if the contents of four
crates in the wreckage of a burned-out plane could not be salvaged and
put to use again.
Joe said restlessly: "I want to see all this, Sally, and maybe anything
else I do is useless, but I've got to find out what happened to the
gyros I was bringing here!"
Sally said nothing. She turned, and they moved across the long, long
space of wood-block flooring toward the doorway by which they had
entered. And now that he had seen the Space Platform, all of Joe's
feeling of guilt and despondency came back. It seemed unbearable. They
went out through the guarded door, Sally surrendered the pass, and Joe
was again checked carefully before he was free to go.
Then Sally said: "You don't want me tagging around, do you?"
Joe said honestly: "It isn't exactly that, Sally, but if the stuff is
really smashed, I'd—rather not have anybody see me. Please don't be
angry, but—"
Sally said quietly: "I know. I'll get somebody to drive you over."
She vanished. She came back with the uniformed man who'd driven Major
Holt. She put her hand momentarily on Joe's arm.
"If it's really bad, Joe, tell me. You won't let yourself cry, but I'll
cry for you." She searched his eyes. "Really, Joe!"
He grinned feebly and went out to the car.
The feeling on the way to the airfield was not a good one. It was
twenty-odd miles from the Shed, but Joe dreaded what he was going to
see. The black car burned up the road. It turned to the right off the
white highway, onto the curved short cut—and there was the field.
And there was the wreck of the transport plane, still where it had
crashed and burned. There were still armed guards about it, but men were
working on the wreck, cutting it apart with torches. Already some of it
was dissected.
Joe went to the remains of the four crates.
The largest was bent askew by the force of the crash or an explosion,
Joe didn't know which. The smallest was a twisted mass of charcoal. Joe
gulped, and dug into them with borrowed tools.
The pilot gyros of the Space Platform would apply the torque that would
make the main gyros shift it to any desired position, or else hold it
absolutely still. They were to act, in a sense, as a sort of steering
engine on the take-off and keep a useful function out in space. If a
star photograph was to be made, it was essential that the Platform hold
absolutely still while the exposure lasted. If a guided missile was to
be launched, it must be started right, and the pilot gyros were needed.
To turn to receive an arriving rocket from Earth....
The pilot gyros were the steering apparatus of the Space Platform. They
had to be more than adequate. They had to be perfect! On the take-off
alone, they were starkly necessary. The Platform couldn't hope to reach
its orbit without them.
Joe chipped away charred planks. He pulled off flame-eaten timbers. He
peeled off carbonized wrappings—but some did not need to be peeled:
they crumbled at a touch—and in twenty minutes he knew the whole story.
The rotor motors were ruined. The couplers—pilot-to-main-gyro
connections—had been heated red hot and were no longer hardened steel;
their dimensions had changed and they would no longer fit. But these
were not disastrous items. They were serious, but not tragic.
The tragedy was the gyros themselves. On their absolute precision and
utterly perfect balance the whole working of the Platform would depend.
And the rotors were gashed in one place, and the shafts were bent. Being
bent and nicked, the precision of the apparatus was destroyed. Its
precision lost, the whole device was useless. And it had taken four
months' work merely to get it perfectly balanced!
It had been the most accurate piece of machine work ever done on Earth.
It was balanced to a microgram—to a millionth of the combined weight of
three aspirin tablets. It would revolve at 40,000
But the making of these pushpots and all the other multitudinous
activities of the Shed would have no meaning if the contents of four
crates in the wreckage of a burned-out plane could not be salvaged and
put to use again.
Joe said restlessly: "I want to see all this, Sally, and maybe anything
else I do is useless, but I've got to find out what happened to the
gyros I was bringing here!"
Sally said nothing. She turned, and they moved across the long, long
space of wood-block flooring toward the doorway by which they had
entered. And now that he had seen the Space Platform, all of Joe's
feeling of guilt and despondency came back. It seemed unbearable. They
went out through the guarded door, Sally surrendered the pass, and Joe
was again checked carefully before he was free to go.
Then Sally said: "You don't want me tagging around, do you?"
Joe said honestly: "It isn't exactly that, Sally, but if the stuff is
really smashed, I'd—rather not have anybody see me. Please don't be
angry, but—"
Sally said quietly: "I know. I'll get somebody to drive you over."
She vanished. She came back with the uniformed man who'd driven Major
Holt. She put her hand momentarily on Joe's arm.
"If it's really bad, Joe, tell me. You won't let yourself cry, but I'll
cry for you." She searched his eyes. "Really, Joe!"
He grinned feebly and went out to the car.
The feeling on the way to the airfield was not a good one. It was
twenty-odd miles from the Shed, but Joe dreaded what he was going to
see. The black car burned up the road. It turned to the right off the
white highway, onto the curved short cut—and there was the field.
And there was the wreck of the transport plane, still where it had
crashed and burned. There were still armed guards about it, but men were
working on the wreck, cutting it apart with torches. Already some of it
was dissected.
Joe went to the remains of the four crates.
The largest was bent askew by the force of the crash or an explosion,
Joe didn't know which. The smallest was a twisted mass of charcoal. Joe
gulped, and dug into them with borrowed tools.
The pilot gyros of the Space Platform would apply the torque that would
make the main gyros shift it to any desired position, or else hold it
absolutely still. They were to act, in a sense, as a sort of steering
engine on the take-off and keep a useful function out in space. If a
star photograph was to be made, it was essential that the Platform hold
absolutely still while the exposure lasted. If a guided missile was to
be launched, it must be started right, and the pilot gyros were needed.
To turn to receive an arriving rocket from Earth....
The pilot gyros were the steering apparatus of the Space Platform. They
had to be more than adequate. They had to be perfect! On the take-off
alone, they were starkly necessary. The Platform couldn't hope to reach
its orbit without them.
Joe chipped away charred planks. He pulled off flame-eaten timbers. He
peeled off carbonized wrappings—but some did not need to be peeled:
they crumbled at a touch—and in twenty minutes he knew the whole story.
The rotor motors were ruined. The couplers—pilot-to-main-gyro
connections—had been heated red hot and were no longer hardened steel;
their dimensions had changed and they would no longer fit. But these
were not disastrous items. They were serious, but not tragic.
The tragedy was the gyros themselves. On their absolute precision and
utterly perfect balance the whole working of the Platform would depend.
And the rotors were gashed in one place, and the shafts were bent. Being
bent and nicked, the precision of the apparatus was destroyed. Its
precision lost, the whole device was useless. And it had taken four
months' work merely to get it perfectly balanced!
It had been the most accurate piece of machine work ever done on Earth.
It was balanced to a microgram—to a millionth of the combined weight of
three aspirin tablets. It would revolve at 40,000
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