neatly.
They began to run.
As they panted up to the sleek, gray sides of the craft, the door forward of the stub wings opened and a tall figure jumped down, followed at once by a smaller man.
“Doc! Morrie!”
“Hi, sports!” Cargraves yelled. “Well, we made it. Is lunch ready?”
Morrie was holding himself straight, almost popping with repressed emotion. “ I made the landing,” he announced.
“You did?” Art seemed incredulous.
“Sure. Why not? I got my license. Want to see it?”
“‘Hot Pilot Abrams,’ it says here,” Ross alleged, as they examined the document. “But why didn’t you put some glide on it? You practically set her down on her jets.”
“Oh, I was practicing for the moon landing.”
“You were, huh? Well, Doc makes the moon landing or I guarantee I don’t go.”
Cargraves interrupted the kidding. “Take it easy. Neither one of us will try an airless landing.”
Morrie looked startled. Ross said, “Then who—”
“Art will make the moon landing.”
Art gulped and said, “Who? Me?”
“In a way. It will have to be a radar landing; we can’t risk a crack-up on anything as hard as an all jet landing when there is no way to walk home. Art will have to modify the circuits to let the robot-pilot do it. But Morrie will be the stand-by,” he went on, seeing the look on Morrie’s face. “Morrie’s reaction time is better than mine. I’m getting old. Now how about lunch? I want to change clothes and get to work.”
Morrie was dressed in a pilot’s coverall, but Cargraves was wearing his best business suit. Art looked him over. “How come the zoot suit, Uncle? You don’t look like you expected to come by rocket. For that matter, I thought the ship was going to be ferried out?”
“Change in plans. I came straight from Washington to the field and Morrie took off as soon as I arrived. The ship was ready, so we brought it out ourselves, and saved about five hundred bucks in ferry pilot charges.”
“Everything on the beam in Washington?” Ross asked anxiously.
“Yes, with the help of the association’s legal department. Got some papers for each of you to sign. Let’s not stand here beating our gums. Ross, you and I start on the shield right away. After we eat.”
“Good enough.”
Ross and the doctor spent three days on the hard, dirty task of tearing out the fuel system to the tail jets. The nose and belly jets, used only in maneuvering and landing, were left unchanged. These operated on aniline-and-nitric fuel; Cargraves wanted them left as they were, to get around one disadvantage of atomic propulsion—the relative difficulty in turning the power off and on when needed.
As they worked, they brought each other up to date. Ross told him about the man who had tangled with a dud land mine. Cargraves paid little attention until Ross told him about the crates that had been opened. Cargraves laid down his tools and wiped sweat from his face. “I want the details on that,” he stated.
“What’s the matter, Doc? Nothing was hurt.”
“You figure the dead man had been breaking into the stuff?”
“Well, I thought so until I remembered that the Ranger had said flatly that this bozo was already buzzard meat before our stuff arrived.”
Cargraves looked worried and stood up. “Where to, Doc?”
“You go ahead with the job,” the scientist answered absently. “I’ve got to see Art.” Ross started to speak, thought better of it, and went back to work.
“Art,” Cargraves started in, “what are you and Morrie doing now?”
“Why, we’re going over his astrogation instruments. I’m tracing out the circuits on the acceleration integrator. The gyro on it seems to be off center, by the way.”
“It has to be. Take a look in the operation manual. But never mind that. Could you rig an electric-eye circuit around this place?”
“I could if I had the gear.”
“Never mind what you might do ‘ if ’—what can you do with the stuff you’ve
They began to run.
As they panted up to the sleek, gray sides of the craft, the door forward of the stub wings opened and a tall figure jumped down, followed at once by a smaller man.
“Doc! Morrie!”
“Hi, sports!” Cargraves yelled. “Well, we made it. Is lunch ready?”
Morrie was holding himself straight, almost popping with repressed emotion. “ I made the landing,” he announced.
“You did?” Art seemed incredulous.
“Sure. Why not? I got my license. Want to see it?”
“‘Hot Pilot Abrams,’ it says here,” Ross alleged, as they examined the document. “But why didn’t you put some glide on it? You practically set her down on her jets.”
“Oh, I was practicing for the moon landing.”
“You were, huh? Well, Doc makes the moon landing or I guarantee I don’t go.”
Cargraves interrupted the kidding. “Take it easy. Neither one of us will try an airless landing.”
Morrie looked startled. Ross said, “Then who—”
“Art will make the moon landing.”
Art gulped and said, “Who? Me?”
“In a way. It will have to be a radar landing; we can’t risk a crack-up on anything as hard as an all jet landing when there is no way to walk home. Art will have to modify the circuits to let the robot-pilot do it. But Morrie will be the stand-by,” he went on, seeing the look on Morrie’s face. “Morrie’s reaction time is better than mine. I’m getting old. Now how about lunch? I want to change clothes and get to work.”
Morrie was dressed in a pilot’s coverall, but Cargraves was wearing his best business suit. Art looked him over. “How come the zoot suit, Uncle? You don’t look like you expected to come by rocket. For that matter, I thought the ship was going to be ferried out?”
“Change in plans. I came straight from Washington to the field and Morrie took off as soon as I arrived. The ship was ready, so we brought it out ourselves, and saved about five hundred bucks in ferry pilot charges.”
“Everything on the beam in Washington?” Ross asked anxiously.
“Yes, with the help of the association’s legal department. Got some papers for each of you to sign. Let’s not stand here beating our gums. Ross, you and I start on the shield right away. After we eat.”
“Good enough.”
Ross and the doctor spent three days on the hard, dirty task of tearing out the fuel system to the tail jets. The nose and belly jets, used only in maneuvering and landing, were left unchanged. These operated on aniline-and-nitric fuel; Cargraves wanted them left as they were, to get around one disadvantage of atomic propulsion—the relative difficulty in turning the power off and on when needed.
As they worked, they brought each other up to date. Ross told him about the man who had tangled with a dud land mine. Cargraves paid little attention until Ross told him about the crates that had been opened. Cargraves laid down his tools and wiped sweat from his face. “I want the details on that,” he stated.
“What’s the matter, Doc? Nothing was hurt.”
“You figure the dead man had been breaking into the stuff?”
“Well, I thought so until I remembered that the Ranger had said flatly that this bozo was already buzzard meat before our stuff arrived.”
Cargraves looked worried and stood up. “Where to, Doc?”
“You go ahead with the job,” the scientist answered absently. “I’ve got to see Art.” Ross started to speak, thought better of it, and went back to work.
“Art,” Cargraves started in, “what are you and Morrie doing now?”
“Why, we’re going over his astrogation instruments. I’m tracing out the circuits on the acceleration integrator. The gyro on it seems to be off center, by the way.”
“It has to be. Take a look in the operation manual. But never mind that. Could you rig an electric-eye circuit around this place?”
“I could if I had the gear.”
“Never mind what you might do ‘ if ’—what can you do with the stuff you’ve
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