lunch.” The cabin was suitable, although dirty. It had a drilled well; the water was good, although it had a strange taste. There were six rough bunks needing only bedding rolls. The kitchen was the end of the room, the dining room a large pine table, but there were shelves, hooks on the walls, windows, a tight roof overhead. The stove worked well, even though it was smelly; Ross produced scrambled eggs, coffee, bread and butter, German-fried potatoes, and a bakery apple pie with only minor burns and mishaps.
It took all day to clean the cabin, unload the car, and uncrate what they needed at once. By the time they finished supper, prepared this time by Art, they were glad to crawl into their sacks. Ross was snoring gently before Art closed his eyes. Between Ross’s snores and the mournful howls of distant coyotes Art was considering putting plugs in his ears, when the morning sun woke him up.
“Get up, Ross!”
“Huh? What? Wassamatter?”
“Show a leg. We’re burning daylight.”
“I’m tired,” Ross answered as he snuggled back into the bedding. “I think I’ll have breakfast in bed.”
“You and your six brothers. Up you come—today we pour the foundation for the shop.”
“That’s right.” Ross crawled regretfully out of bed. “Wonderful weather—I think I’ll take a sun bath.”
“I think you’ll get breakfast, while I mark out the job.”
“Okay, Simon Legree.”
The machine shop was a sheet metal and stringer affair, to be assembled. They mixed the cement with the sandy soil of the desert, which gave them a concrete good enough for a temporary building. It was necessary to uncrate the power tools and measure them before the fastening bolts could be imbedded in the concrete. Ross watched as Art placed the last bolt. “You sure we got ’em all?”
“Sure. Grinder, mill, lathe—” He ticked them off. “Drill press, both saws—” They had the basic tools needed for almost any work. Then they placed bolts for the structure itself, matching the holes in the metal sills to the bolts as they set them in the wet concrete. By nightfall they had sections of the building laid out, each opposite its place, ready for assembly.
“Do you think the power line will carry the load?” Art said anxiously, as they knocked off.
Ross shrugged. “We won’t be running all the tools at once. Quit worrying, or we’ll never get to the moon. We’ve got to wash dishes before we can get supper.”
By Saturday the tools had been hooked up and tested, and Art had rewound one of the motors. The small mountain of gear had been stowed and the cabin was clean and reasonably orderly. They discovered in unpacking cases that several had been broken open, but nothing seemed to have been hurt. Ross was inclined to dismiss the matter, but Art was worried. His precious radio and electronic equipment had been gotten at.
“Quit fretting,” Ross advised him. “Tell Doc about it when he comes. The stuff was insured.”
“It was insured in transit ,” Art pointed out. “By the way, when do you think they will get here?”
“I can’t say,” Ross answered. “If they come by train, it might be Tuesday or later. If they fly to Albuquerque and take the bus, it might be tomorrow—what was that?” He glanced up.
“Where?” asked Art.
“There. Over there, to your left. Rocket.”
“So it is! It must be a military job; we’re off the commercial routes. Hey, he’s turned on his nose jets!”
“He’s going to land. He’s going to land here! ”
“You don’t suppose?”
“I don’t know. I thought—there he comes! It can’t—” His words were smothered when the thunderous, express-train roar reached them, as the rocket decelerated. Before the braking jets had been applied, it was traveling ahead of its own din, and had been, for them, as silent as thought. The pilot put it down smoothly not more than five hundred yards from them, with a last blast of the nose and belly jets which killed it
It took all day to clean the cabin, unload the car, and uncrate what they needed at once. By the time they finished supper, prepared this time by Art, they were glad to crawl into their sacks. Ross was snoring gently before Art closed his eyes. Between Ross’s snores and the mournful howls of distant coyotes Art was considering putting plugs in his ears, when the morning sun woke him up.
“Get up, Ross!”
“Huh? What? Wassamatter?”
“Show a leg. We’re burning daylight.”
“I’m tired,” Ross answered as he snuggled back into the bedding. “I think I’ll have breakfast in bed.”
“You and your six brothers. Up you come—today we pour the foundation for the shop.”
“That’s right.” Ross crawled regretfully out of bed. “Wonderful weather—I think I’ll take a sun bath.”
“I think you’ll get breakfast, while I mark out the job.”
“Okay, Simon Legree.”
The machine shop was a sheet metal and stringer affair, to be assembled. They mixed the cement with the sandy soil of the desert, which gave them a concrete good enough for a temporary building. It was necessary to uncrate the power tools and measure them before the fastening bolts could be imbedded in the concrete. Ross watched as Art placed the last bolt. “You sure we got ’em all?”
“Sure. Grinder, mill, lathe—” He ticked them off. “Drill press, both saws—” They had the basic tools needed for almost any work. Then they placed bolts for the structure itself, matching the holes in the metal sills to the bolts as they set them in the wet concrete. By nightfall they had sections of the building laid out, each opposite its place, ready for assembly.
“Do you think the power line will carry the load?” Art said anxiously, as they knocked off.
Ross shrugged. “We won’t be running all the tools at once. Quit worrying, or we’ll never get to the moon. We’ve got to wash dishes before we can get supper.”
By Saturday the tools had been hooked up and tested, and Art had rewound one of the motors. The small mountain of gear had been stowed and the cabin was clean and reasonably orderly. They discovered in unpacking cases that several had been broken open, but nothing seemed to have been hurt. Ross was inclined to dismiss the matter, but Art was worried. His precious radio and electronic equipment had been gotten at.
“Quit fretting,” Ross advised him. “Tell Doc about it when he comes. The stuff was insured.”
“It was insured in transit ,” Art pointed out. “By the way, when do you think they will get here?”
“I can’t say,” Ross answered. “If they come by train, it might be Tuesday or later. If they fly to Albuquerque and take the bus, it might be tomorrow—what was that?” He glanced up.
“Where?” asked Art.
“There. Over there, to your left. Rocket.”
“So it is! It must be a military job; we’re off the commercial routes. Hey, he’s turned on his nose jets!”
“He’s going to land. He’s going to land here! ”
“You don’t suppose?”
“I don’t know. I thought—there he comes! It can’t—” His words were smothered when the thunderous, express-train roar reached them, as the rocket decelerated. Before the braking jets had been applied, it was traveling ahead of its own din, and had been, for them, as silent as thought. The pilot put it down smoothly not more than five hundred yards from them, with a last blast of the nose and belly jets which killed it
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